by Beth Ciotta
“Late night?”
“Rough morning.” Her leg bounced faster.
He didn’t know what that meant, but he didn’t like the possibility that it involved sex. Jake stood, reached up under his retro bowler’s shirt, and repositioned his gun. “Let’s roll.” He walked past a wide-eyed Afia, trying not to notice how sexy she looked with all that rumpled hair.
“Where are we going?” she called, chasing after him.
“To start your training.”
She let out a musical squeal.
Jake suppressed a wicked grin. She’d be singing a different tune once she got a load of her first assignment. He stopped short, turning to explain the concept of “low profile” at the same time she tripped, stepped out of her strapless green slip-ons, and tumbled forward.
He caught her in his arms, all one-hundred pounds of her, feminine and flustered and smelling of cinnamon. His mouth watered. His pulse raced. “Afia.”
She tilted her face up, moistened her lips, and he thanked God those sunglasses shielded her puppy dog eyes. “Yes?” she whispered.
“Do something with that hair.”
Chapter Nine
“You can’t be serious.”
“Dead serious.”
Afia squinted through her sunglasses to where Jake pointed, her nostrils flaring at the odor of rotting vegetables. “But it’s disgusting, not to mention rude.”
“It’s an old and proven means of gathering valuable information.” Jake tugged down the brim of his baseball cap and glanced over his shoulder. “We’ve got about an hour before the disposal truck comes by. Chop, chop, baby.”
Afia knotted her hair into a low bun and cursed her chosen footwear. The backless slip-ons were pretty but impractical. Not that there was anything practical about “dumpster diving,” as Jake had so eloquently tagged her appointed task. Mental note: Buy a pair of cheap sneakers. “Invading someone’s privacy is a serious offense, you know.”
“It’s part and parcel of being an investigator.” He slid his hand into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a pair of disposable, latex gloves. “So do you have what it takes or don’t you?”
Afia bristled at the challenge and the implication that she considered herself above a little dirty work. She wasn’t a snob, and she certainly wasn’t a wimp. She did, however, have scruples. Fighting her honest nature, she nabbed the gloves and snapped them on, ignoring Jake’s toe-tingling smirk. It was really most annoying being attracted to a jerk. When she’d tripped and fallen into his arms this morning, her knees had gone mushy along with her brain cells. She’d stared up at his scrumptious mouth, hoping for a sizzling kiss, and all she’d gotten was yet another rude remark about her hair. Both of her husbands and almost every other man she’d ever met preferred women with long hair. Sleek, meek “Barbie dolls.” As near as she could tell, Jake liked his women bald, fleshy, and aggressive. Even she wouldn’t go so far as to shave her head to please a man. He’d just have to get over it.
Shooting the infuriating P.I. a sidelong glance, she scrunched her nose while nearing the six-foot, brown-metal dumpster of the ritzy high rise. “What are you going to be doing while I’m breaking the law?”
“Standing guard. If anyone starts down the alley, I’ll distract them.” He grinned as he offered her a leg up. “And for the record, you’re not breaking the law.”
“Then why don’t you want anyone to see us?”
“Because I don’t want to have to explain why we’re scavenging through the trash. We’re on a case, remember?”
“How could I forget?” He’d recited his views on confidentiality and covert surveillance on the short ride over to Anthony Rivelli’s shore getaway. She’d appreciated the industry insight, if not the sarcasm. Inexperience might cause her to bobble, but she’d never purposely bungle a job.
Annoyance gave way to sinful delight when he encircled her bare ankle with one hand and cupped her bottom with the other. Her entire body tingled as her mind raced with a wicked fantasy. She had his pants around his ankles when he called her back to reality saying, “Nothing personal.” Kaching! Another ding in her ego. Next he issued a “One, two, three …” and before she knew it, she was flat on her back amidst an ocean of rippling green garbage bags. How romantic.
“You okay?” he asked with a smile in his voice.
“Fine,” she grumbled, squirming to find her footing. She swatted away a fly and crinkled her nose, trying not to gag on a noxious odor as she unknotted one of the garbage bags. At least it was a cool, cloudy morning. She didn’t even want to know what this dumpster smelled like in the heat of a sunny afternoon. “What am I looking for precisely?”
“Anything with Rivelli’s name on it. A bill, a magazine, an envelope. Even an empty prescription bottle. Anything that tells us that that trash is his trash. Then toss the whole bag down to me. We’ll go through it back at the office.”
“I just don’t see the point,” she grumbled. Picking through strangers’ refuse. It was downright creepy. She quickly abandoned one bag for another.
“A credit card statement would list recent purchases. If he has a girlfriend on the side he might be buying her gifts.” He paused, and she heard the flick of a lighter, smelled smoke, and knew he’d just lit up a cigarette. Mental note: Buy him a nicotine patch. “A phone bill would list phone numbers and frequency of calls,” he continued. “If we’re very lucky he might be hooked up with a woman who’s fond of writing love letters.”
“That’s if he’s hooked up,” Afia said, leafing through Mrs. Robert Sheffield’s copy of Homes and Gardens. Her heart stuttered when she came across the feature on holiday dinners and renovated Victorian houses. Banking on the power of affirmations, she mentally chanted, “I am open and ready for a family and a home full of warmth, laughter and love.”
“Find anything?”
Startled, she flipped the magazine over her shoulder and promptly lost her footing. She fell backwards, bursting through a bulging bag of discarded food products from a recent barbecue. “Gross,” she mumbled, flinging a leaf of wilted lettuce off of her elbow.
“Someone’s coming,” Jake said. “I’ll take care of it. Just stay low and keep quiet.”
She supposed now wasn’t the time to whine about the barbecue sauce smeared all over her pants. Biting her tongue, she shifted her position and rummaged through a bag to her left.
Bingo.
Two minutes later Jake was back, and Afia had located two bags of trash belonging to one Anthony Rivelli. She tossed them over the side and heaved herself over the edge, ignoring Jake’s command to wait. She’d be darned if she’d spend another minute in this disgusting dumpster. What if something lived in here? Like a rat? She scrambled over the side, nearly kicking him in the head. In her haste she lost her left shoe.
He caught her in his arms, his expression and voice laced with sarcasm. “I suppose you want me to go in after it.”
She glanced down at her right shoe. The pointy-toe of her beautiful tapestry slip-on was stained with catsup and relish and something gooey that she didn’t recognize. The heel had mysteriously disappeared. “Not really.” She kicked its mate off and up into the dumpster. Darn, but she’d loved those shoes.
Frowning, she squirmed out of his arms, peeled off the soiled latex gloves and then tossed them into the dumpster as well. Pushing her Gucci sunglasses (the only thing of class left on her body) firmly up her nose, she gave him her back and then marched barefoot toward his car.
Jake came up behind her and swept her off of her feet. “Are you crazy? With your luck, you’ll step on a piece of glass.” He deposited her in the front seat of his sporty Mustang and then went back to retrieve the bags.
What did he mean, with her luck? He sounded just like her mother. Questioning her judgment. Anticipating the worse.
By the time he’d tossed Rivelli’s trash in the trunk and slid behind the wheel, Afia was fuming. He’d just ruined what was supposed to be the second best day of her life
by reminding her that she was jinxed. A normal person would have gotten in and out of that dumpster without incident. She looked like something the cat dragged in and smelled even worse. Randy and Frank would have been appalled by her appearance. Her confidence plummeted further, and it was all Jake’s fault.
Why did she feel this expedition had been his way of teaching her a lesson? Arms crossed over her chest, she angled her head, and glared at him from behind her sunglasses. “So. Am I forgiven for being late?”
He eyed her bare feet, her stained pants, plucked a watermelon seed from her hair and then leaned forward and crushed his mouth to hers.
Tinder to dying fire. She burst to life under his heated touch, groaning as he coaxed her mouth open, his soft, velvety tongue stroking hers. His large, strong hands cradled the back of her head, holding her captive as he ravaged her mouth, seeking, taking. Her insides melted as desire pooled low in her belly. She turned toward him, channeling all of her frustration and longing into this wildly erotic moment.
Sizzle. Burn.
She grasped his shoulders, clinging for dear life as he nearly drove her to climax with a kiss that would melt steel.
She couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Somehow she ended up straddling him, his rock-hard erection rubbing against her tingling crotch, her back pressed against the steering wheel.
Making out in a car in broad daylight.
She couldn’t remember the last time, if ever, she’d been this turned on.
She knocked off his cap, raked her fingers through his hair, unfastened the top buttons of his shirt, and smoothed her hands over his muscled chest, frantic to feel skin on skin.
He swept off her sunglasses, nipped her jaw, her cheek … and froze. “What happened to your eye?”
“What?” Her hand stilled on his bare shoulder. She felt a muscle in his neck jump against her thumb, and her heart raced even faster. He was angry. Why was he angry? Still dazed from his kiss she tried to focus on his words.
He tenderly brushed his thumb under her left eye.
She winced.
“Rough morning, huh?” Frowning, he lifted her off of his lap and deposited her on her own side of the seat. “Bastard,” he mumbled, keying the ignition, and shifting into reverse.
“It’s not what you think.”
“Don’t you dare stick up for him.”
Him? Him, who? “Oh, my God. Are you talking about Rudy? Do you think he … he … ”
“Well, didn’t he?”
“No!” Her stomach dropped as Jake backed out of the alley and peeled onto Atlantic Avenue. “God, no. It was Billy.”
“Who the hell’s Billy?” He sped through a yellow light, heading back toward Atlantic City. To where? His office? The Inlet? Did he know where she lived?
“He didn’t mean it, Jake. It was an accident.”
He worked his jaw. “Do you know how many times I’ve heard that one, Afia?”
His anger rattled her, and yet she wasn’t scared. Just heartsick. Why did she feel as if she’d just pushed some very old and sensitive buttons? He thought someone had intentionally harmed her. He was outraged on her behalf. She felt suddenly and horribly guilty for not being upfront with him this morning. Why hadn’t she been upfront?
She laid a calming hand on his forearm and squeezed. “Listen to me, Jake. It was an accident. Honest. Billy is a little boy. I stopped by The Sea Serpent—”
“The what?”
“It’s a daycare center. I wanted to talk to the woman in charge about volunteering, but she was busy and well … There was this little girl, Mya, and she was teasing Billy, and … well, he pounced on her, and I can’t say that I blame him, although it’s that girl’s father that deserved a good smack, but anyway, Billy tackled Mya and clipped me in the process.”
Jake glanced sideways at her, slowed the car to a lawful speed limit. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.” She felt the tension easing in his arm muscles and tried to pacify him further with a teasing jab. “It’s sweet that you care, but you’re not going to punch out a four-year-old boy in my defense, are you?”
He let out a ragged sigh, ran a hand over his face then made a left onto the Blackhorse Pike.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
He glanced at her, an intense, soul-searing gaze that caused her breath to catch in her throat. “My place.”
So you can toss me on your bed and pick up where you left off with that kiss? She rubbed her wishbone charm and gulped. “Why?”
“We need to talk.”
Angela wanted a martini. Instead she ordered a diet soda. Daddy didn’t approve of drinking before noon. God forbid she disrespect Vincent Falcone.
Head of the Falcone “family,” Vinnie, a leathery-skinned, silver-haired man of sixty-nine flashed his capped teeth at their buxom waitress who looked all of twenty. “I’ll have an iced tea, sweetheart.” He dismissed her with a wink and a swat on the butt.
The young woman giggled. “Your father’s such a flirt,” she said to Angela and then skipped away.
Okay, Angela thought, she didn’t skip. But she may as well have. “I swear the waitresses in this restaurant get younger by the day. Next week a sixteen-year-old will probably serve us.”
Vinnie reached for the Italian bread and tore off the end. “I wouldn’t mind being serviced by a sixteen-year-old.” He chuckled at his own joke as he dipped the bread in balsamic vinegar and olive oil.
Angela frowned, worrying that he was only half-kidding. The older her father got, the younger his taste in women. It was disgusting. And yet he wasn’t any different from any number of men leaving their wives, or longtime lovers, for younger, supposedly hotter women. Youth, according to Wall Street and Hollywood, equaled desirability.
Angela’s mind floated to Anthony. He was only thirty-seven. But she was thirty-nine and three-quarters. She didn’t care how well she ate, how much she exercised, or how much “work” she had done, she couldn’t compare to a perky, supple, twenty-something. She just knew Tony was seeing a younger woman. While racking her brain for a list of candidates, she’d considered the various entertainers employed by the Carnevale. Given her fiancé’s obsession with the performing arts, she could well imagine him becoming enamored with a costumed bimbo. Angela knew for a fact that the nine female dancers in the variety show that had opened three weeks ago in the casino’s main room were all under twenty-five. What red-blooded male wouldn’t be hot for a young, flexible dancer? What young, ambitious woman wouldn’t be hot for a vice president of a major casino?
Then again he could be hiking any number of skirts at the Carnevale, a glitzy, Euro-hip casino that appealed to the under-forty crowd.
Her cheeks prickled with heat as she curled her fingers into her lap so as not to slap the waitress when she skipped forward and placed their appetizers on the table. It didn’t matter that the girl hadn’t done anything wrong. She was wrinkle-free. That was enough.
“I’m having a small party Friday night,” Vincent said to Angela, although his eyes were on the waitress’s retreating backside. “I would like for you and Anthony to attend.”
Angela smiled and nodded, knowing it wasn’t a request so much as a summons. “Tony promised he’d be home no later than seven for the next few nights.” He’d been especially attentive since the lipstick incident. Not that she was fooled. “If you don’t mind us being a little late—”
“Just as long as you show. I want to introduce my future-son-in-law to a few old friends.” He swallowed a raw oyster, chucked the shell and picked up another.
“We’ll be there.” Angela stabbed a cucumber with her fork, craving an entire plate of fried calamari, a big bowl of pasta, and two or three cannolis. She’d been eating like a bird for three years. She was starving. But it was worth it. She’d snagged Anthony Rivelli with this body, and by God she intended to keep him.
“Everything okay between you and Anthony?”
Angela’s head jerked up at her daddy’s w
ary tone. The last man who’d broken her heart had ended up at the bottom of the Delaware River. “Everything’s perfect.”
At least it would be as soon as that P.I. discovered the identity of her competition.
Jake nudged Afia to get her moving toward his front door. Any minute now the dark clouds looming above were going to split open and pour rain. He knew the 1890 Victorian wasn’t much to look at just now, but she was standing on his front lawn staring up at the blue and pink house with its broken gables and warped balustrades as though it was the house in Amityville Horror.
“You live here?” she whispered.
“Amazingly.” If she thought this was scary, wait until she got inside. Stripped hardwood floors, peeling wallpaper … oh, and the pet hair. “You’re not allergic to cats, are you?”
“You have cats?” She blinked up at him as they traversed the creaky floorboards of his porch. “How many?”
“A few.” Jake shifted Rivelli’s trash bags to one hand and unlocked the front door. He needed a drink. A stiff shot of whiskey to burn off the last of his adrenaline. One look at Afia’s injury and he’d been primed to kick some ass. It was the volatile side of him that had prompted him to resign from the force. He’d probably scared the hell out of Afia, but she’d handled the tense situation with a cool head and a sense of humor. The woman was full of surprises.
Jake pushed open his door, his dark mood lifting a shade at the sight of a friendly face. The senior feline of the house sat just inside the foyer, a stuffed mouse clenched between his teeth. “That’s Mouser.”
Afia reached down and gingerly petted his head. “Hi, Mouser.”
Didn’t look to Jake as if she had much experience with cats. “He won’t bite.”
She nodded. “Despite his name, he doesn’t look like much of a killer.”
He chuckled. “He’s not. He’s a big fat baby.” But lovable as hell. The old black and white greeted Jake at the door everyday. Mouser dropped his stuffed toy at Jake’s feet. He bent down and scratched the cat’s whiskered chin, thanking him for the gift. Content, Mouser waddled off to take up his place on the jade-velvet footstool. Same routine everyday. Jake straightened, placed his keys on the Queen Anne table and switched on the Tiffany table lamp flooding the small, dark foyer with muted amber.