by Beth Ciotta
Thankfully, he had the Rivelli case as a distraction.
The phone rang and he promptly answered it.
So did Afia.
“Leeds Investigations,” they answered as one.
“Isn’t that cute,” Joni quipped.
“I’m sorry,” Afia said.
“Don’t apologize, girl,” Joni said. “You were doing your job. I think she’s a keeper, Jake. What do you think?”
“I think you’re a pain in my ass.”
“Is that any way to speak to your sister?” Joni asked.
“Did you call for a particular reason or just to bust my balls?”
“I’m hanging up,” Afia said.
“Bye,” Joni said. Click. “Okay, big brother. Spill.”
“You first.” Certain Afia was no longer on the line, Jake leaned back in his chair and massaged his pulsing temples. “What did the doctor say?”
“The same thing he said at my last appointment, that those few weeks of bed rest cured what ailed me and pee-wee. I’m in peak condition, which is more than I can say for you. Have you lost your mind?”
“Not that I know of,” he said, thanking God for his sister’s good health.
“Men who get romantically involved with Afia St. John, die.”
“We’re not romantically involved.”
“Yet.”
“Ever.” Upsetting his pregnant sister by coming clean and admitting that he’d already succumbed to temptation wasn’t an option. He hunched over and rooted in his top drawer for a bottle of aspirin. “She’s not my type.”
Joni snorted into the phone. “She’s a woman. She’s beautiful and she’s in trouble. She is so your type.”
“What makes you think she’s in trouble?”
“Intuition.”
Joni’s intuition was killer. They both knew it, so he didn’t argue the point.
“What are you looking for?” She also had the hearing of a superhero.
“Aspirin.”
“Bottom right drawer next to the multi-vitamins you never take.”
“I get my vitamins the natural way. By eating right.” Today’s boardwalk binge not withstanding. At the time all he could think about was putting some meat on Afia’s bones. “Speaking of food, I’ll have to take a rain check on dinner.”
“Got a hot date?”
Jake grinned at her suspicious tone, and the fact the aspirin bottle was exactly where she’d said. “New case.”
“The mystery client from this morning?”
“She thinks her fiancé is cheating.”
“What do you think?”
“I think you miss the job.” Jake washed down three aspirin with a swallow of cold coffee.
Joni sighed. “To think I’ve been replaced by a slumming socialite.”
“Slumming?” Per his promise to Harmon, he’d been careful not to mention Afia’s financial fiasco.
“She’s loaded, Jake. Why in the hell would she want to work for a small time P.I. other than to get a few cheap thrills?”
“I resent that remark.” Jake’s lips curled upward. “I’m not cheap.”
“Maybe not. But you’re sure as hell easy.” His sister groaned. “You can’t save the world, Jake.”
“I’m not trying to save the world.”
“Yes, you are. One underdog at a time.”
“Very dramatic,” Jake teased. “Feeling hormonal?”
“Asshole.”
He laughed. “What happened to cleaning up your language now that the baby’s almost here?”
“That was clean compared to what almost flew out of my mouth,” she said with a smile in her voice. “Dinner tomorrow night?”
“Sure. Joni?”
“Yeah?”
“No one could ever replace you.”
“Love you, too, Jake.” She smooched into the mouthpiece and then hung up.
He dropped the receiver into the cradle and then sat there staring at the phone, contemplating Joni’s approaching delivery date and forthcoming bills. He thought about diapers, formula, baby furniture, pediatric visits, and other kid essentials. He worried about upcoming school field trips, boy (or girl) scout expenses, and the price of a tuxedo or prom dress. As it was, Joni and Carson just made rent. If only Carson would augment his spotty musician gigs with a steady nine to five. But Joni didn’t want her husband to compromise his art. Compromising, Jake had pointed out, wasn’t the same as abandoning.
It was like talking to a brick wall. If Jake even hinted to Carson that he should get a “real” job, Joni would never forgive him. He’d decided to give his brother-in-law a year to come around or to make it big. If he failed, then, by Christ, Jake would risk his sister’s wrath for the sake of his niece or nephew and provide the jazz pianist with some inspiration by knocking some common sense into his artistic brain.
He was obsessing over college tuition when Afia cracked open his door.
“I finished deep-cleaning the reception area,” she said in a timid voice.
He glanced up to find her standing on his threshold, ponytail disheveled, her cheeks flushed from exertion, the souvenir T-shirt stained with blue scouring powder. She swiped a hunk of hair out of her eyes drawing attention to a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves and a smudge of dirt on her left jaw. She looked rumpled and sexy as hell.
Man, he was in deep shit.
He’d agreed to let her scrub and polish the outer room because he couldn’t find anything else to keep her occupied after they’d returned to the office, and he hadn’t been in the mood to train her on the computer. He didn’t want to be in the same room with her let alone standing over her, breathing in her scent, risking physical contact. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so affected by a kiss.
“You do know that we’re just role-playing here.”
He had definitely underestimated her skills. In addition to being observant, she was one hell of an actress. Both useful talents in the field, not that he intended to utilize them. He’d learned his lesson on that score. He needed to concoct projects, something to keep her busy while he investigated Rivelli. He needed to keep an eye on her while keeping his distance.
This was going to be the longest two weeks of his life.
He watched as Afia tugged at the fingertips of her gloves and glanced around his office. For someone who’d been so flip about that supposedly meaningless kiss, she looked suspiciously embarrassed now. She hadn’t made eye contact with him since returning to the Bizby, not that he’d pressed the point, because quite honestly he wasn’t up to the discussion. He needed to examine his own shocking reaction to that kiss and to get a handle on whatever was brewing between them before addressing the issue. You didn’t need to be a P.I. to detect the sexual tension.
She cleared her throat and pointed to a dust ball peeking out from between the file cabinets. “Are you sure you won’t change your mind about me cleaning up in here?”
And watch you scrubbing nooks and crannies on hands and knees? Subject myself to the sight of your wiggling butt? “It can wait.”
“It looks like it’s been waiting for some time.”
All right, so the place was a little dusty. If he bothered to raise the crusty venetian blinds, he’d probably find windows smeared with two months of film. Probably why he hadn’t raised the blinds of late. Disgust would prompt him to hire a cleaning agency, an added expense he didn’t need just now, or to snatch up a rag and a bottle of all-purpose cleaner himself. Except he’d run out of cleaning supplies two weeks after Joni’s last day, and had yet to replenish them. As far as his four ineffectual temps were concerned, every one had given him the clichéd, “I don’t do windows.”
Between checking up on Joni, keeping up with cases, and playing Mr. Fix-it around his money pit house, he’d easily overlooked a little dust. Hell, a lot of dust. Apparently Afia was less tolerant. So much so she’d toted in her own cleaning products. “Why do I get this feeling I could eat off of your kitchen floors?” he asked.
Jake fought the urge to push out of his chair, to close the distance between them, and to worry that enticing lip for her. Don’t think about that mouth, that kiss. He cleared his throat and glanced at his watch. “Speaking of home. It’s quitting time.”
At last she risked his gaze. “But I haven’t put in a full day.”
“Again, we don’t keep regular hours.” He stood, strapped on his gun, and snagged a thermos and a set of high-powered binoculars. “You’ve done enough today, and I need to head back toward the Carnevale. Rivelli told his fiancée he’d be getting off work between five and six o’clock.”
“Are you going to follow him?”
“That’s the plan.” He crossed the room, trying to ignore the eager look on her face.
“Do you need any help?”
“No.” He shooed her over the threshold, closed the door behind him, and breathed in a lethal dose of lemons and bleach. He surveyed the reception area, adding another skill to Afia’s list of talents. In less than three hours, she’d scrubbed and polished the sparsely furnished reception area until the walls gleamed and the hardwood floor shined. Even the couch looked resurrected.
Wait a minute. Hardwood floor? “Where’s my carpet?”
“I can’t imagine why you’d want that ugly shag when you have such beautiful hardwood floors.” She peeled off her gloves, giving him her back as she tossed them into a pail and needlessly rearranged her cleaning products. “Besides it clashed with the walls and the sofa.”
Evasive. Twitchy. Uh-oh. “Where’s my carpet?”
She groaned and pointed toward the hall. “It was an accident.”
Without another word, he walked past her to investigate. His first thought was how did she manage to roll up the good-sized area rug and maneuver it out into the hall all by her skinny little self? His second thought, when he unfurled the first quarter, was what in the hell were those white splotches all over his midnight blue shag?
He leaned down and sniffed. Damn. “How in the—”
“I used bleach to disinfect the toilet bowl. I thought I screwed the cap on tight, but when I came back in I tripped. There was a buckle in the carpet, and the bottle tipped, and—”
“The cap fell off and bleach splattered.”
“I’ll replace the carpet.”
The hell she would. He’d bill Harmon. Sticking it to the old man for sticking him with the “bad-luck-beauty” had warped appeal. He looked over his shoulder and caught her stroking her charm bracelet, a habit he’d noted throughout the day. Given the influence of a superstitious mother, she no doubt considered those charms good luck. He hated to break it to her, but maybe it was time to swap those fourteen-carat gold charms for a cheap pink rabbit’s foot. It sure as hell couldn’t hurt. “Don’t worry about it. Like you said, it was an accident.” Ignoring her look of distress, he straightened and dragged the rolled carpet down the hall. “I’m going to store this in the cargo elevator for now. Grab your purse. I’ll give you a ride.”
“But—”
“Lock the door behind you.” He tossed her the keys and then rounded the corner, carpet in tow. Maybe he could salvage a portion, utilize it somewhere else, or maybe he’d just chuck the damned thing. Joni had been nagging him to replace the seventies shag for months.
By the time he got back to his office, Afia had changed back into her tailored red shirt, knotted a silk scarf around her neck, and twisted her hair into a sophisticated bun. He caught a whiff of expensive perfume and noted the high-quality of her red leather handbag. If he wanted to harden his heart all he had to do was envision her closet, no doubt the size of his living room, stocked with a hundred pairs of shoes and racks of designer clothing.
And then there were people like Joni. People who clipped coupons and shopped at Price Clubs. People who could barely afford decent medical care.
Jake cringed at his unkind thoughts. Afia couldn’t control being born into money anymore than she could choose the day she was born. Rich did not equal selfish and thoughtless. All the same, this moment, he couldn’t wait to pass her off to her friend, the same person who’d probably provided her with this morning’s limo and the chauffeur who looked as though he could double as bodyguard. He needed a breather. Time away from her to collect his normally superb senses.
“I really am sorry about the carpet,” she said, handing him back his keys and gazing up at him with those lost puppy dog eyes.
“Forget it,” he said, resisting the urge to give her hand a reassuring squeeze. Touching was bad. Touching led to stroking, holding, and kissing. “The reception area never looked better. Thanks.”
She smiled. “You’re welcome.”
Don’t focus on her mouth. Don’t think about that kiss. He nudged her toward the stairs. “What’s your address?”
“That’s very kind,” she said, descending the first of four flights. “But I called a friend. I’ll just wait out front.”
“I’ll wait with you.” He wasn’t about to leave her alone. Though not the worst of areas, Afia St. John was an easy target. Pretty, gullible, and jinxed. The urge to play guardian angel, to deliver her to his own doorstep, to cook her supper, and to tuck her away in his bed was overwhelming. She was not, he reminded himself, a stray. She’d lost her fortune, not her friends, most who lived, he assumed, quite comfortably. Tonight she’d be sipping cocktails in a million dollar home with her socialite girlfriend, while he chugged bitter coffee in the front seat of his ‘99 Mustang and endured the tedium of tailing a suspected skirt chaser.
He wouldn’t have to worry about Afia, wouldn’t have to think about her until tomorrow when she showed up for another day at the office. By then he’d have a plan. A way to keep her busy for the next two weeks while keeping her at arm’s length.
In spite of the disturbing sexual attraction simmering between them, in spite of her vulnerable aura, he’d be damned if he’d give in to the temptation to “save her.” She had Harmon, and Harmon had Oscar Kilmore. Between the two of them, they’d track down her money, and she’d go back to doing whatever rich widows do. Then Jake could get back to his real life and to the people who truly needed him.
By the time they hit the street, he’d worked up a decent head of steam. He couldn’t pinpoint his frustration, which made him all the more pissed.
Afia hiked her leather bag higher on her shoulder. “You really don’t need to wait—”
“Yes, I do.”
“I don’t want you to miss Mr. Rivelli—”
“I won’t.” He leaned back against the Bizby’s brick front and lit up a cigarette, hoping to take off the edge. Afia started to say something and then apparently decided better. Smart girl. He was in no mood for a lecture. Besides, he’d already made a pact with Joni. Not wanting to be a bad influence on the baby, she’d agreed to temper her foul language if he gave up smoking. They both had up until the day the kid was born. He’d already cut down from a full pack to five cigs a day. The way he saw it, he was ahead of the game.
Afia copied his stance, settling in and leaning back against the wall, which was fine except that she was standing a little too close for his immediate comfort. “About that kiss,” she said, tweaking his unease. “We haven’t really discussed—”
“It was good. You were good. Rivelli didn’t suspect a thing. Nice cover.” He blew out a stream of smoke and glanced down in time to see her frown. What? Was she disappointed because he’d only rated her good? Had he wounded her pride? Sorry, but no freaking way was he going to own up to what he really thought of that kiss.
“Thank you. But, I have to confess you inspired the action.”
“How so?” For the love of God, he thought, don’t admit you have the hots for me.
“You insulted me.”
His mouth fell open, the cigarette dangling from his lower lip. “When?”
When the hell had he insulted her?
“When you said I don’t have what it takes to be a private investigator.” She straightened her shoulders, and although she didn’t meet his gaze or raise her voice, he could tell she was upset. “I wasn’t going to say anything,” she continued, her voice shaking with each earnest word. “But I thought about it all afternoon, and … I changed my mind. You don’t know me. How could you possibly know what I am or am not capable of? I want to learn the tricks of your trade, and I’d appreciate it if you’d take me seriously.”
Why did he have the feeling that she wasn’t used to speaking up for herself? Again he was shocked by her vulnerability and obvious insecurities. He snuffed his cigarette and nabbed her chin. “Look at me and say that again.” It was a move meant to intimidate.
She met his gaze, and it was then that he saw gold flecks of determination sparking in her big brown eyes. “I want to learn your business.” She steadied her voice, grasped his hand and squeezed. “I want you to take me seriously.”
“Fair enough,” he said, tempering a smile and the wild beating of his heart. Christ, Joni was right. Afia was his type. Although instead of rescuing her from an abusive lover, he needed to rescue her from herself. Afia St. John was the victim of low self-esteem.
Jake was a breath away from kissing some confidence into her when a Harley Davidson roared up curbside and broke the mood. Afia hurried forward. He slowly followed.
A six-foot-something mass of cut muscles, wearing tight black jeans and an even tighter black T-shirt took off his helmet revealing a head of short, equally black hair. The neatly trimmed goatee perpetuated biker boy’s devilish look. The man smiled at Afia then nodded at Jake and offered his big hand in greeting. “Rudy Gallow.”
“Jake Leeds.” He shook the hand of the man he recognized from this morning. The man he’d mistaken for Afia’s chauffeur. The man she called friend. Gallow’s grip was strong and confident, his gaze direct and assessing. Jake tried to size him up in return, but couldn’t get a bead on him outside of the notion: He’s not what he seems.