Jinxed

by Beth Ciotta

  “It’s cheesy.”

  “Tell me.” She passed over a spa certificate and basket of Godiva chocolates.

  “Casablanca.”

  She slapped his shoulder and squealed. “Get out! I just watched that movie the other night! Humphrey Bogart as Rick Blaine. Except tonight you look more … I don’t know … like Cary Grant in Charade. Except you’re younger and have blond hair.”

  “Perfect casting,” his gaze floated from her lips to her eyes, “since you resemble Audrey Hepburn … except you’re sexier.”

  Embarrassed, she made light of the compliment, fluttered a hand, snickered. “Oh, go on. No really. Feel free to expound on my charms.”

  He grinned and fingered a certificate for a moonlight cruise dinner. “You’re cute when you’re tipsy.”

  Aching to plunge her tongue inside of his sexy mouth, she shook her head and inspected a beaded bag. “It’s not the scotch. It’s you. You make me feel …” Alive. It sounded so pathetic. “You’re right, it’s the scotch.” She smiled, and massaged her temple. “Next time, I’ll sip.”

  Five minutes later they’d placed a bid on a landscape painting by a local artist. Afia had insisted that the painting would look perfect on the office’s reception area wall, and amazingly, Jake had agreed. They hadn’t bid as much as she normally would have, but she was pleased all the same. She’d actually earned this money. No contribution is too small. How many times had she told someone that when she’d hawked raffle tickets at one or another charity event?

  She heard the orchestra switch over from Motown to standards, and knew from years of attending social dinner dances that the salad was about to be served. She suspected the special entertainment would take place in between courses. “We should probably go inside and find a seat.”

  “Preferably somewhere near Rivelli,” Jake said.

  Afia stroked her bracelet. “He’ll be seated up front along with any other attending casino executives.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  She glanced over and caught Dora glaring at her. I will not be intimidated. “No,” she said, with a practiced smile. “Not a problem. Just tricky. The tables closest to the stage are reserved.”

  Jake nodded and ushered her toward the ballroom entrance. “Let’s locate Rivelli and take it from there.”

  Afia slid off her sheer wrap, draping it over her arms as they walked past Dora and Frances. She heard a unified gasp and wasn’t a bit surprised. Obviously, the witches of the East were appalled by her backless gown. The surprising part was that Afia didn’t give a rat’s ass. Even more surprising was that she felt completely at ease as she navigated the ballroom on Jake’s arm. Most of the attendees were already seated and engrossed in conversation while awaiting their salads. The room was fairly dark, and it’s not as if there were a spotlight on her, although there was a time she would have imagined just that. She noticed a few curious glances, a few behind-the-hand whispers, but nothing that she couldn’t endure.

  Truth told, Jake was turning his own share of heads. Female heads. He looked handsome and dapper, and entirely comfortable in this reserved environment. He was rather like a chameleon, she thought, possessing the capacity to blend in perfectly with his surroundings. “You really didn’t need me here tonight,” she whispered out of the side of her mouth. “But I’m glad I came.”

  He smiled down at her. “So am I.” Then he angled his head toward a table just left of the dance floor. “There’s Rivelli. The tall, dark-headed man sitting in between the lady with the red curls and the man with the slate-gray jacket. See him?”

  Afia nodded. “I think I also see a table not too far away with two open seats. The best part is I don’t know another soul sitting there. Shall we?”

  Now Jake knew why this was a two hundred dollar a plate dinner. The food was incredible, prepared, according to Afia, by the city’s top chefs. The wine: top notch. The floral centerpieces: works of modern art. The ten-piece orchestra: talented and polished, playing jazz standards during the courses and dance music in between. The way Afia kept watching the parquet floor and swaying in time, it was obvious she wanted to dance. Several other men, including the husbands of the two bitches he’d met earlier, had noticed as well, stopping by the table at various times to invite her onto the floor. Jake had smiled, but he’d wanted to cold-cock each one. Afia had politely turned them all down saying, “Thank you, but all of my dances are saved.” Then she’d smile at Jake.

  He’d been touched and tempted, especially during the slow songs. As to the classic R&B she seemed especially fond of, well, it’s not that he didn’t like to dance, it’s just that he wasn’t sure if he was capable of watching Afia “shake her groove thang” without losing his mind.

  Dinner had been torture. Every time she moved just so, he got a glimpse of her breast. Just a glimpse. Just enough to make saliva pool in his mouth. During the main course he’d felt bare toes creeping up his pant leg, sliding up and down his calf. Relatively certain they didn’t belong to the burly doctor on his right, he’d turned to Afia and raised a cautionary brow. She’d merely waggled her eyebrows and taken a dainty bite of her filet mignon. That’s when he’d moved her wine glass out of her reach. She’d only had one glass, but she’d also had that scotch, and maybe she didn’t have a head for liquor.

  Rivelli on the other hand could clearly hold his drink. Jake had had a clear view of the man most of the night. The casino V.P. had consumed more than a few glasses of wine, and yet his behavior remained above reproach. He’d conversed and laughed with his table companions during courses. In between he’d visited with the dignitaries seated at the surrounding tables. Outgoing without being obnoxious. Good-looking, well-dressed, and well-spoken, and as his fiancée had pointed out, charismatic. But he hadn’t made eyes at any woman in particular, nor had he touched any one of them inappropriately. When he’d stepped out into the hall to make a call on the house phone, Jake had stepped out for a smoke and eavesdropped. The call had been strictly business. When he’d excused himself from the table twenty minutes later, Jake had followed again only to land in the men’s room. Perfect. He’d had to take a leak anyway.

  Now they were both back at their tables, both having dessert and coffee, and both awaiting the special performance from Venetian Vogue.

  “This is it,” Afia whispered as the orchestra left the stage and a host announced the Carnevale showroom pit band. Five musicians, resembling Gondoliers in their black and white striped shirts and red kerchiefs, readied their instruments.

  Jake recognized his brother-in-law at the keyboard. This morning Joni had called to tell him, “Carson got the gig!” A gig with an open-ended contract and surprisingly decent salary. In that moment, Jake had felt lighter, less pressured on the financial end. If he could get Carson aside tonight, he’d congratulate him personally. Otherwise he’d call him tomorrow. Right now he needed to watch Rivelli as Rivelli watched the dancers.

  The music kicked off, very Euro-techno, and nine women and five men exploded into the room from all sides. Their costumes were outrageous. Revealing and glitzy, bold and imaginative. Eleventh-century Renaissance meets Cirque du Soleil. He’d never seen anything quite like it. The women wore matching hairpieces beneath their hats and plumes and gilded masks that covered the upper halves of their faces making it difficult to distinguish one from the other. They all had great bodies, stellar legs. Every one of them wore fishnet stockings. Rivelli, as far as he could tell, wasn’t focusing on any one, particular girl. He was watching all of the dancers, the choreographed numbers as a whole, with a fat-ass grin on his face. The man was mesmerized.

  Ten minutes later, the mini-show ended, and the audience rose to their feet for a standing ovation. The pit band disappeared—meaning Jake would be calling Carson tomorrow—and the orchestra returned and launched into It’s Raining Men. The Venetian dancers stormed the floor, encouraging the audience to join in. One of the first to bite was Anthony Rivelli. He snagged one of the girls, and they promptly
“hustled” their way to the center of the floor.

  It seemed as if three-quarters of the audience followed suit. Atlantic City’s elite packed the dance floor, effectively shielding Rivelli and his partner from Jake’s view.

  He stood and held out his hand to Afia. “I believe you saved a dance for me.”

  “Lots of them.” She clasped his hand and flashed a coy grin. “You just want to get close to Rivelli.”

  He pulled her onto the dance floor and into his arms. “I want to get close to you.” He slid both of his hands over her bare shoulders, down the smooth expanse of her sexy back and maneuvered her toward the middle of the floor. “And to Rivelli,” he admitted with a nod.

  “What did you think of the costumes?” she asked, backing out of his arms to do a funky move.

  “Imaginative.”

  She smiled. “My friend designed them.”

  He had a bead on Rivelli now. The man looked to be in his glory, but he seemed more focused on his dance moves than his actual partner. “What did you think of the pit band?”

  “Awesome,” she said, gaining his attention by giving him her back and using her arms and hips as enticingly as any belly dancer.

  His throat went dry as the beaded dress shimmied and shifted over her curves, reminding him of what lay beneath. A willing body and a sexy thong. He forced his mind back to the topic at hand. “The keyboardist is my brother-in-law.”

  “He’s good.”

  “So are you. Where’d you learn to dance like that? Come here.” He grabbed her hand and spun her into him, clamped his hands on her ass and pulled her tight against his groin.

  “You’re being touchy-feely,” she said, grinding against him to the rhythm of the music.

  “Yes, I am.” Christ, he was turned on.

  She peeked over her shoulder. “Rivelli’s not.”

  “No, he’s not. He even switched to another dancer. Did you notice?”

  “Yes. I also noticed …”

  “What?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Something about the way he moves. I’m certain we’ve never met before, and yet he’s familiar to me.” She shook her head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Doesn’t have to make sense. It’s a hunch. Let it simmer, and see what comes to you. Anything would help at this point. This guy hasn’t even thrown us a bone.” He shifted his hands to Afia’s hips as they continued to rock and grind. Trying to keep his mind and eye on Rivelli was a challenge.

  “You’re a sexy dancer, Jake.”

  It pleased him that she thought so, although she’d inspired the grind. “Not as sexy as you. You’re killing me, babe.”

  She tunneled her fingers through his hair. “Really?”

  Christ Almighty. “Mmm.” He glanced down, the ornery twinkle in her eye causing his arousal to twitch. “You’ve been teasing me all night.”

  “I know.”

  “You’ll pay.”

  “I hope so.” She smiled, glanced sideways, and then gasped. “He’s leaving.” Afia poked him in the shoulder. “Rivelli’s saying his goodbyes.”

  He clasped her hand and gently guided her through the crowd. “We’re out of here.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  This was hell on earth. Sheer torture. Cruel and inhumane punishment for being a shameless flirt. Why hadn’t it occurred to her that they’d have to tail Rivelli after he left the gala? Of course they had to follow through, see where he ended up. What if he’d planned a late night rendezvous with one of the dancers? Or two of the dancers? He’d hustled with two different girls. Maybe he was seeing both of them on the side.

  A ménage à trois.

  Afia’s mind swirled with scandalous images, only they were of her with Jake and … Jake. She was seeing double. Mixing wine and scotch probably hadn’t been the brightest of ideas. Only she didn’t feel drunk, just deliciously uninhibited. And the two naked Jakes were only in her mind. The real Jake sat, fully dressed, on the other side of the car, driving west on the A.C. Expressway.

  “I’m telling you this dude is going to drive straight home or to Angela’s townhouse.” He steered one-handed as he stripped off his bowtie and popped some studs off of his shirt.

  The gesture was wholly male and had Afia cracking her window for a blast of refreshing air. “He could still veer off between here and Cherry Hill,” she pointed out.

  “Five bucks says he won’t. He’s careful. Does all the right things. You saw him tonight. He played the perfect host. Once he hit the dance floor, the whole room followed. Maybe his sole purpose in joining that dancer was to get the party jumping. After that his duties as V.P. were complete, and he was free to play dutiful fiancé.” He flexed his fingers on the wheel. “Oh, yeah. He’s going straight home.”

  “So you don’t think there’s another woman?” She kicked off her shoes and adjusted the seat belt, trying to get comfortable.

  “Didn’t say that. There’s the issue of the lipstick, the nail tips, and the fishnets. Between what I witnessed tonight and what Jean-Pierre told you, there is definitely an obsession or fascination of some sort at play.”

  She squinted across the darkened car at him. “How do you know about Jean-Pierre?”

  “You told me.”

  “I didn’t tell you his name.”

  “Rudy did.”

  He sounded so nonchalant. “So you don’t mind that I’m living with two men?”

  “I mind that you have to live with two men. I mind that Glick stole your money and left you homeless, but that’s another case. Let’s stick with Rivelli for now.” He dragged his hand over his head, causing choppy strands to stick out every which way. “For the record, it helps that they’re gay.”

  She touched her fingertips to her temples, trying to focus on his words rather than his moonlit silhouette. Could he be anymore sexy? “Are you saying you’d mind if they were straight?”

  He glanced sideways at her, worked his jaw. “Let’s get back to Rivelli.”

  She suppressed a smug grin. He would mind. He’d be jealous. It made him even sexier in her eyes, and she wondered how she was going to make it to Cherry Hill and back without touching him. She rolled her window down another inch.

  “I had the air on,” Jake said.

  “I know, but I’m hot.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  She frowned at him. “I needed some fresh air.”

  He grinned. “The wine?”

  “Yeah,” she said, fluttering a hand in the air. “Sure. Blame it on the wine. So!” she said a little too brightly. “You’re thinking there was, or maybe still is, another woman, but since the lipstick incident he’s decided to play it cool.”

  “Very cool. Very safe. Hike up your skirt.”

  She stared at him for a moment, unsure if she’d heard correctly.

  “You said you were hot. We’re going to be in this car for another two to three hours. You might as well make yourself comfortable. While you’re at it, let down your hair.”

  It sounded a little bit like an order, and absurdly that turned her on. Her hands shook as she reached up and started pulling the bobby pins from her chignon.

  “We’re going to play a game,” he said, tweaking her excitement. “It’ll help pass the time.”

  “Wh … What about Rivelli?”

  “I’ve got him in my sights. I’m also ninety-nine percent sure of where he’s going.” He glanced over just as she shook out her hair. “You look like a goddess.”

  His voice was thick and hoarse and spiked her pulse mercilessly as she finger-combed the tousled mess. “I thought you didn’t like my hair. You’re always telling me to do something with it.”

  He flashed a one-dimpled smile. “That’s because it’s distracting.”

  “Oh.” She smiled back. It was a beautiful night—mild temperature, star-filled sky, bright moon. She was a little tipsy, a lot aroused, and alone with a sexy man who’d promised to take her for a walk on the wild side. Swallowing hard,
she slowly inched up her ankle-length gown to mid-thigh. “What’s the game?”

  “Interview,” he said, reaching over and sliding her skirt higher. “I ask questions, and you answer them.”

  Her eyes rolled back as his fingertips grazed her inner thighs. “Do I get to ask you questions?” Her voice sounded raw and distant to her ears.

  “Maybe.”

  “Fair enough,” she said, because just now she’d agree to anything.

  He smoothed his palm down her thigh, caressed the underside of her knee and gave a soft tug.

  She shifted, allowing him to reposition her left leg so that her foot rested in his lap. Her gown pooled between her legs, otherwise he would have had a prime view of her thong. Deliciously aroused, she groaned and let her head fall against the back of the seat as he stroked her bare calf.

  “What’s your favorite color?”

  “Pink.”

  “What’s your favorite kind of music?”

  “It’s a toss up between rhythm and blues and Latin.”

  “List your top three favorite movies.”

  “That’s a tough one.” She closed her eyes and thought about it a minute, shivering with sensual delight when he traced circles around her ankle. “Wizard of Oz. Any James Bond Movie.” She smiled. “And Casablanca.”

  He laughed. “Quite the variety. Okay. List your five closest friends.”

  “Rudy, Jean-Pierre, and maybe you.”

  “That’s only three, and I was only a maybe.”

  She lazed open her eyes, glanced out the windshield, and caught sight of a doe up ahead, standing just clear of the roadside trees. Alone and vulnerable. She tensed, fearing for the gentle animal’s well-being. Please let it have better judgment than me.

  “True friends believe the best in you, no matter what,” she said, willing the deer not to dart across the road. “They don’t care if you’re young or old, rich or poor, if you live next door or across the country, or if your luck is worse than most people’s.” She didn’t feel that she needed to explain any further than that and wasn’t sure that she could. She’d had her share of fair-weather friends early on in her life, and her adult friends had been her husbands’ friends. All had drifted away following the funerals. True friendship was rare and her most treasured possession.