Jinxed

by Beth Ciotta

  “I like the taste of your champagne.” She took another long sip, before setting the fluted crystal next to his on the wicker table he’d pulled alongside the tub. Scented candles flickered all around the wainscoted room. The sensual beat of a salsa tune drifted from the radio on the vanity. She moaned with pleasure as he eased back her head and rinsed her hair with cup after cup of warm water. “I think we got our fantasies mixed up,” she whispered.

  He pulled her flush against him and kissed the top of her ear. “I think we got it just right.” Enjoying the feel of her slick, naked body, he smoothed a washcloth over her shoulders, across her collarbone then over her perfect breasts. His pole hardened just thinking about what he was going to do to her later in bed. She was sexy, beautiful, kind, and clever, and he was goddamned dizzy in love.

  She’d impressed him by solving the Rivelli mystery, and though she’d irritated the hell out of him with her views on the outcome, he respected her opinions and the fact that she’d fought to get her way. Six days ago she would have avoided the heated exchange. He found it hard to believe that a person could change so fiercely in so little time, which led him to believe that the tigress had always been lurking. She’d just needed someone to lure her out into the jungle of life.

  She sighed as he smoothed the washcloth over her ribs and across her taut stomach. Her limbs grew heavy, her breathing shallow. He half expected her to fall asleep in his arms. But then she surprised him by sitting up and swiveling around to face him.

  Not so bad. Now he had a prime view of those perfect breasts.

  “I never got to ask my questions.” She swiped water from her thick lashes and cocked her head. “You know, the interview game.”

  “Ah.” He forced his gaze from her rosy buds to her sable eyes.

  “Don’t look so worried. I only have two questions.” She grinned. “For now anyway.”

  Okay, she’d piqued his curiosity. He raked back his wet hair and took a bracing drink of champagne. “Fire away.”

  She traced a finger along the small, jagged scar on his cheekbone. “How’d you get this?”

  His skin sizzled beneath her gentle touch. “It’s not very glamorous. Bar fight. I was young, drunk, and—”

  “In love?” Her eyes rounded to the size of chocolate medallions. “Were you defending your girlfriend’s honor or something?”

  He smiled. “I was going to say hotheaded. I’ve never been in love.”

  Now she looked stricken.

  Hell. He’d meant he’d never been in love before now. “I meant to say—”

  “Don’t say anything!” she squealed, covering his mouth with her hand.

  Why the hell did she keep doing that? He raised his eyebrows, and she removed her hand.

  “Question number two.” She polished off her champagne. “Why did you leave the police force?”

  Fair question that deserved an answer, but he wasn’t in the mood just now to get into a grim discussion about the lowlifes of the world and the shit they sometimes get away with because of the system. “Let’s just say that I don’t always like to play by the rules.”

  She hugged her knees to her chest and shivered. “You mean you saw bad people do bad things, but you didn’t always see justice served.”

  Beautiful and intuitive. “That about sums it up.” He reached past her and turned on the faucet, giving the cooling water a hot blast.

  She nodded. “I understand. Believe me, I’ve heard lots of horror stories. I’ve been surrounded by judges and lawyers my whole life. My godfather’s a lawyer.”

  Dammit. He cranked off the faucet and refilled their champagne glasses. “Harmon Reece.”

  Her eyes lit up. “You know him?” She tipped the flute to her lips.

  “I’ve done some work for him.” Dammit to hell, he did not want to have this discussion here. Now. He leaned forward and stroked his finger along her sudsy jaw. “Listen, Afia. I need to tell you something.”

  “Wait!” She set down her glass. “I have to tell you first. Before you say it. Before you think it’s the liquor and not me.” She framed his face in her hands, regarded him intently.

  He waited … and waited. His heart hammered against his chest as he waited for the words that would make him the happiest man on this freaking earth.

  “I love you.”

  Thank you, Jesus.

  She smiled and continued to caress his face as the candles flickered and the music played. As his entire world tilted. “I want you to know that I’ve never said that to anyone before. That is, I’ve never been the first to say it. And it wasn’t like this. It’s never been like this.

  “I’m in love with you, Jake. I love you so much it hurts.” She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips, a tender kiss that wrapped around his soul and made his heart sing. “I didn’t scare you, did I?”

  He smiled, gazing at her with the love of a thousand Romeos. “You just made me very happy.” He pulled her to her feet, wrapped her in a fluffy towel, and carried her to his bed. Laying her on the mattress, he sealed their love with a kiss and a vow. “Nothing and no one will ever come between us.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sunday waffled into a blur. A beautiful, magical, romantic blur.

  Afia had awoken in erotic bliss with Jake inside of her murmuring promises of the day, the night, and a lifetime beyond. By the time he was through with her she’d barely been able to crawl out of bed. And he called her insatiable.

  She’d retaliated by making and serving him breakfast. Naked.

  Up to the challenge, he’d duly nailed her on the kitchen table. It was the stuff of her X-rated dreams. Only there wasn’t anything raunchy or tawdry about it. She was in love, and as corny as it sounded, all was right with the world.

  Of course, her world would shift slightly the moment her mother returned. Giselle St. John-Tate considered money, status, and power to be extremely important. It was the reason she’d married the bonbon baron, and the reason she’d hate Jake.

  Afia had never understood her mother’s motives. Giselle believed that her daughter was doomed to a life of misfortune. There had never, ever, been any doubt of that, and yet she continually manipulated Afia into relationships that she swore would bring good fortune. Maybe it was just the fortune part that mattered. Maybe Giselle truly thought that money could buy happiness.

  It occurred to her in the midst of searching E-bay for Victorian furniture with Jake that she hadn’t seriously thought about retrieving her inheritance in days. It was almost as if Henry Glick had done her a favor. By stealing her money he’d given her life. She’d never been happier, never felt stronger.

  It was so hard to believe that she had existed before this past week. Who was that person who’d shrunk at the slightest cross-eyed look? I haven’t done anything wrong. As if she deserved scrutinizing simply for being born on Friday the thirteenth. The notion filled her with disgust. Her mother filled her with disgust. Only now did Afia recognize the woman’s superstitious harping for what it was—emotional abuse. Giselle had molded her into a frightened, insecure target for mishap.

  She wanted to forget that person. To wipe her from her memory. Jinxed—goodbye. Black widow—goodbye.

  She was simply Afia.

  In a bid for independence, she’d slipped her charm bracelet into a velvet pouch and tucked it and her fears away.

  She’d said yes when Jake had asked her if she’d like to spend the day lounging at the beach. Yes, when he’d asked her to dinner at a steakhouse, and yes to a movie. Yes, to life!

  She’d been genuinely sorry to see Sunday come and go. Except for the fact that she’d gotten to sleep in Jake’s arms.

  Monday brought a heady dose of reality.

  Nancy Ashe stood her up.

  “I can’t believe she’s not coming.” Afia dropped her cell phone in her leather bag and fell back against the outer wall of the Women’s Center with a groan.

  Jake pushed his sunglasses on top of his head and regarded h
er with a frown. “What did she say?”

  “Just that she changed her mind. That she doesn’t want anything to do with counselors. That her problems are private.” Disappointment flooded through her, followed by a wave of anxiety. “Do you think that Marty got to her?”

  His tender gaze flicked from her wringing hands to her wide eyes. “I think she’s caught up in a pattern. Old ways die hard.”

  She realized suddenly that she was clasping her naked wrist, stroking charms that weren’t there. Was he talking about Nancy or her? His observance pertained to both of them. In moments of distress, fighting her jinxed mentality proved difficult. Was Nancy’s struggle any less of a challenge? She pushed off of the wall with a burst of determination. “I’m not giving up on her.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” He smiled and pulled her into his arms for a quick hug. “Now stop looking so glum. Today’s not a total bust. At least things went better at the daycare center.”

  “I suppose,” she said as he ushered her into the car. “At least no one bit me.”

  He laughed and rounded the car to the driver’s side.

  Afia smiled. Actually, as a result of creating a few boundaries two of the children had even hugged her, and that had been glorious. Mrs. Kelly had been a boost to her confidence as well, expressing her delight over the benefit Afia was planning. The older woman had seen a performance of La Cage Aux Folles and had loved it. She’d especially liked that song I Am What I Am. “Do you know someone who could do that song justice, dear?” she’d asked.

  Afia fidgeted in her seat as she envisioned Iva Dream. Her stomach churned with guilt and apprehension. “What time did Angela say she’d come to the office?”

  “Three o-clock.” He turned onto Atlantic Avenue and then glanced sideways. “You all right with this?”

  He was going to reveal Rivelli’s secret. He was going to show Angela those pictures and quite possibly ruin the man’s future happiness. “No, I’m not all right with it, but I can’t come up with a reasonable alternative.”

  “Everything happens for a reason, baby. Sometimes you have to forgive the process, knowing that the outcome is for the best.”

  The softness of his voice, the hint of pleading, turned her head. Why did she feel as if this wasn’t totally about Rivelli?

  “I’m going to let you off at the Bizby,” he said, before she could question him. “I’ve got an appointment. I should be back in an hour or so.” He pulled up to the curb, turned to her, and cradled the back of her head, striking her woozy with a deep, tender kiss.

  A shiver coursed through her and not the good kind. She eased back and slid off his sunglasses to peer into his eyes. All she read was affection and desire. Still, her body hummed with a sickening sense of foreboding. “I love you, Jake.”

  “I love you, too, baby.” He winked. “Don’t reorganize my desk”

  Jake had taught her how to do a basic background search. She could access various public records from the Internet. If there was any dirt on Angela Brannigan, and her gut told her there was, she’d find it. Afia’s fingers trembled as she keyed in the information.

  In a matter of minutes she’d learned that Brannigan was a married name and that her maiden name was Falcone. Angela Falcone, daughter of Vincent Falcone. Anyone who read the newspapers, or who’d spent as much time as Afia had around local lawyers, knew the reputation of that man.

  Searching through newspaper archives, she found an article on the death of Angela’s first husband, Michael Brannigan. Construction mogul and his mistress found dead in the Delaware River, suspected foul play, never proven.

  Heart pounding, she shut down the computer and scanned the phone book for the number to the Carnevale. She had to warn Rivelli. Whether or not he knew that his future father-in-law had mob ties was irrelevant. If his fiancée flipped out when she found out about “the other woman” he could be in danger. Men who wronged Angela Falcone died.

  Afia shivered. It was like meeting her evil alter-ego.

  She dialed the number, calmed her voice. “Anthony Rivelli, please. Yes, I’ll wait.”

  Jake would understand, wouldn’t he? Maybe she should have called him first. Then again, he was in an appointment, and it would be rude to interrupt.

  “Anthony Rivelli’s office. This is his secretary. May I ask who’s calling?”

  Seize the day! “Afia St. John. I’m … I’m with the Seashore Charity Committee. I need to speak to him about last Friday’s gala. It’s urgent.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Her stomach clenched as her mind considered alternate ramifications. What if Angela freaked out when Jake showed her the pictures? What if she pulled a gun out of her purse and shot him, wanting her fiancé’s dirty little secret to die with him? She blew out a steadying breath. Jake was right. She’d been watching too much bad television.

  “Anthony Rivelli. Good afternoon, Ms. St. John. What can I do for you and the SCC?”

  He sounded so … nice. “I lied,” she blurted. “I’m not with the SCC. At least not anymore.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I need to speak with you in person, in private. It could be a matter of life and death.”

  “Ms. St. John …” he started in a patient, but skeptical tone.

  “It’s about Iva Dream.”

  Pause.

  “And your fiancée.”

  “I have an apartment in Ventnor. Let me give you the address.”

  “I know it. I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.” She hung up, grabbed her purse, and raced out the door. God, she hoped she didn’t take the wrong jitney.

  Jake left Harmon’s office with a sick sense of dread in the pit of his stomach.

  Kilmore had located Glick. It looked as if they were going to recover at least half of Afia’s money. His damsel was an heiress once more.

  He wasn’t concerned that she’d ditch him in order to pursue her old life. She hated her old life, and he had faith in her love.

  What worried him is that their relationship was built on a lie. Though Harmon had been adamant, neither he, nor Gallow, who’d also been present for the meeting, were convinced that this was the best way to proceed. In order to spare Afia hurt feelings, Harmon had pleaded that they keep the initial ruse a secret. He’d never hired Jake as her babysitter. He’d never asked Rudy to drive her to the office on the false pretense of hearing about the “job” from the boys at the club.

  It was one hell of a lie, and there was a glitch. Giselle knew the whole story. She’d called to check in with Harmon two nights ago, and he’d spilled the beans. “Don’t worry, he’d told Jake and Gallow, “I’ll call her as soon as you two leave. I’ll handle it.”

  But hadn’t he also been the one to intimate that Giselle was not a woman easily handled?

  Jake rolled back his shoulders, slid on his sunglasses, and keyed the ignition. This had disaster written all over it. He should have come clean with Afia yesterday, but she’d been so thrilled with their day-long date that he hadn’t had the heart.

  His cell phone rang. He noted the caller and cursed. Speaking of potential disasters … “Hello, Angela. What can I—”

  “I’ve decided I don’t want to see the pictures,” came a slurred voice. “Whatever you found in Anthony’s apartment, I … I want to see it with my own eyes.”

  Had she been drinking? Was she driving? Shit. “Are you okay?”

  “No, I’m not okay!” she shouted. “The man I love is seeing another woman.”

  He flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You said you found proof!”

  Christ, she sounded sloshed. “I said—”

  “I’m here now.”

  “In Rivelli’s apartment?” Hell.

  “He’s at work. Now is the perfect time. Please hurry.” She hung up.

  Freaking hell.

  She got into the elevator at the same time as he did. “Mr. Rivelli?”

  “Ms. St. J
ohn, I presume.” He shook her proffered hand. The door slid closed. He hitched back his designer suit jacket and slid his hands into the pockets of his creased brown trousers. “So you know Iva Dream?”

  Afia smiled up at him. He was a good-looking man, though not nearly as striking as Jake. Jake. She tamped down a flutter of guilt for going behind his back. “I’m a fan, actually. I saw her cabaret act a few years ago.” She leaned in and whispered. “You were fabulous.”

  He cleared his throat and massaged his brow. “This is a little awkward, Ms. St. John.”

  “Please call me Afia.”

  He blew out a breath, glanced at the ceiling, and then studied her with wary eyes. “Afia, I made a conscious decision to pull out of the drag scene six years ago for the sake of my career. I prefer to keep Iva in the closet.”

  But you don’t want to give her up completely. That’s why you keep this apartment. He probably spent whole nights trying on Iva Dream’s costumes and polishing her dance moves. Observing Anthony Rivelli from afar and interacting with him one on one were two different stories. Though painfully polite, the man radiated a ferocious remoteness that caused Afia’s skin to prickle. More than ever she felt as if she’d stuck her nose where it didn’t belong. She’d told Jake that he wasn’t gay, but how did she know that for sure? Maybe he was in denial, or cocooned in a thick cloak of secrecy. Maybe Angela was merely an unwitting beard.

  Wringing her hands, Afia glanced up at a security camera. What if there was audio, or what if, upon reviewing tapes, someone read their lips? If Rivelli was gay, she didn’t want to be responsible for outing him. She’d feel much better discussing this inside his apartment, away from prying eyes and videotapes. “Given your professional status, I understand your wish to keep Iva Dream a secret,” she said, turning her back to the camera. “If you’d explain your fascination with … Iva to your fiancée, perhaps she’d understand as well. The news should come from you, don’t you think?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What are you driving at, and how do you know Angela?”