Jinxed

by Beth Ciotta

  Afia stepped in behind him, peered around his shoulder, and giggled.

  “Rosco and Barney,” he said, nodding at the twin silver tabbies wrestling on the floor in front of the carpeted staircase. Unsettled by the sheer joy in Afia’s laughter, he set the trash bags next to the coat rack and motioned her ahead into the living area. “Scamp and Velma are around here somewhere.”

  “You have five cats?”

  “Not by choice. They’re all strays.” He reached down to break up Rosco and Barney’s antics, smiling when Barney licked his hand. “I’m only keeping them until I can find them a home.”

  “How long have you had them?”

  “One to four years, depending on the cat.” He ignored the twinkle in her eyes, crossed to the bay windows and pulled back the heavy curtains to let in some light. No dice. The sky had darkened to a smoky shade of purple. One hell of a storm was brewing and he’d yet to patch the leaks in the kitchen’s ceiling. Time to dig out the pots and pans.

  He turned to excuse himself and found her circling the room, scrutinizing his sparse décor. “It’s a work in progress,” he said, feeling defensive. He only had so much time and even less money.

  “It’s charming,” she said, eyeing the sculpted mahogany fireplace, shield back gentleman’s chair, and lyre base coffee table. “And tasteful. The exact opposite of your office.”

  “I don’t live at my office.”

  “I never would have guessed you liked antiques. Where do you shop?”

  “Estate sales. Flea markets. Most of these pieces are reproductions, but every once in a while I get lucky.” He motioned to the mahogany-finished Medallion sofa he’d picked up for a song. “Have a seat.” The sooner they had their talk, the better.

  She eyed the jewel-toned upholstery and winced.

  “I’ll get a lint brush.” What had he been thinking bringing her here? This place was a hellhole compared to the mansions she’d probably lived in.

  “It’s not that. It’s … me.” She gestured to her stained clothes then held up her hands. “I’m afraid to touch anything. I’m a mess.”

  Jake thought she looked adorable but kept his opinion to himself. He’d brought her here to clear the air. To address this infernal attraction. He’d expected her to refuse when he’d asked her to climb into that dumpster. The more she surprised him by going against type, the more he wanted to jump her bones. Which is basically what he’d done in the car. He’d learned every curve of her body in sixty-seconds flat. He still couldn’t believe what a total ass he’d made of himself by losing control. To make matters worse, he’d overreacted when he’d gotten a glimpse of that puffy eye. The possibility that his feelings ran deeper than lust proved downright chilling. Christ, he needed that drink.

  “There’s a full bathroom upstairs,” he said. “Second door on the right. Help yourself. I’ll see if I can find you something to wear.” Then we’re going to have that talk.

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth, scrunched her nose.

  “What?”

  “Are we pressed for time?”

  “No. We can go through Rivelli’s trash here just as well as back at the office. Why?”

  She shoved her hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand. “I feel disgusting. Would you mind terribly if I took a shower?”

  Great. He wanted to cool the attraction, and she wanted to get naked. He jammed his hands through his hair, trying to shake loose the image of her standing in his shower, water sluicing down her hot, little body. “The main bathroom has a claw-footed tub. It’s antiquated but the plumbing works. I installed a shower in the small bathroom adjacent to my bedroom. It’s my personal bathroom so it’s kind of a mess. But, whatever, take your pick.” Bath or shower, she’d still be naked, and he’d be burning in hell for his fantasies.

  She moved forward and tugged at the hem of Jake’s shirt, pointing out a food stain just north of his belt buckle. “Maybe I should take a bath and let you use the shower.”

  Maybe I should shoot myself, he thought. Now she was suggesting they both get naked. “Afia.”

  She tilted up her face, her eyes glazed with desire. “Yes?”

  “About what happened in the car.”

  “I’m sorry about the barbecue sauce.”

  “I’m not talking about that.” Thunder rumbled in the distance. Mouser streaked by, a blur of black and white fur, and dived under the sofa.

  “I guess he doesn’t like storms.” She moistened her lips, her eyes now huge with dread. “I’m not fond of them either.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I have the distinct feeling you’re about to rain on my parade,” she said. “I, for one, enjoyed what happened in the car.”

  He swallowed hard. “Mixing business and pleasure isn’t smart.”

  She quirked a timid smile. “I’m not famous for making wise decisions.”

  “I’m not famous for playing second fiddle.”

  Her smile faded. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He didn’t know exactly. He’d slept with women who were seeing other men. Casual dating, casual sex, he’d never had a problem with the concept. Until now. Envisioning Afia doing the nasty with biker boy set his teeth on edge. Something about that guy bothered him.

  And then there was Harmon. If Jake nailed his goddaughter, the man would have his balls.

  “I don’t understand, Jake. Is it because of my hair?”

  “What?”

  “Because I’m not opposed to getting a little kinky, but I draw the line at shaving my head.”

  “Who asked you to shave your head?” And what exactly did she consider kinky? Damn. He shifted to disguise an infuriating boner.

  “Are you or are you not attracted to me?”

  He tried to ignore the hitch in her voice, the confusion in her eyes. He tried to rise above his carnal lust, and failed. He grabbed her up and kissed her hard, deep, and long. One hand cradled the back of her head, while the other cupped her tight, little ass, and he pulled her flush against his body. Instead of pushing him away, she moaned into his mouth and squirmed against his erection, sending shock waves throughout his lower half. Thunder rattled the windowpanes, and Jake swore he’d been zapped by a bolt of lightening. Every molecule in his body pulsated. He was on fire.

  When he set Afia to her feet she was glazed-eyed and short of breath. He was no better off. “And that’s the last I want to hear on the subject,” he rasped, backing toward the stairs. “You and me … it’s not gonna happen.”

  She blinked at him, her lips swollen from his arduous kiss. “Where are you going?”

  “To take a cold shower.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Rudy, I want to have a fling.”

  “That’s flattering, honey. But you’re missing a piece of equipment that I’m rather fond of.”

  “Not with you, silly.” Afia sank lower in the old-fashioned bathtub, careful to keep her cell phone above the bath water. “With Jake. I want to have a fling with my boss.” Five minutes after that mind boggling kiss-off, and she was still trembling. If that … interlude was any indication of his lovemaking skills, she’d probably climax before he even got her pants off. And wouldn’t that be bliss? She’d never had multiple orgasms, but sensed a testosterone-charged dynamo like Jake wouldn’t settle for less. She adjusted the faucet, cranking up the cold water as she assessed the wainscoted room’s eclectic bric-a-brac. Her pulse fluttered at the thought of the big, bad P.I. scanning a flea market for porcelain perfume bottles and ceramic soap dishes. “Nothing serious,” she said as much to herself as to her friend. “Just … fun. Just … sex. Does that make me awful?”

  “It makes you human. You forget, honey. I’ve seen Jake. I’d be worried if you didn’t want to get horizontal.”

  She wondered what Rudy would think if he knew how close she’d come to “getting horizontal” in the front seat of Jake’s Mustang. She’d straddled the man, for God’s sake, unbuttoned his shirt, and groped his chest. C
ould she be any more sluttish? Then thirty minutes later she’d been ready and hoping for a toss on his sofa. His kisses were like some sort of cosmic aphrodisiac, rocketing her libido to the next galaxy. Wiping perspiration from her brow, she used her toes to turn off the brass faucet. The scented water rose two-inches shy of the deliciously deep tub’s rolled rim. “So you approve?”

  “You’re a grown woman, Afia. You don’t need my approval. Or anyone else’s for that matter.”

  She recognized that disgusted tone. “Anyone else being my mother.”

  “You do tend to let her influence your relationships.”

  “I don’t want a relationship with Jake. I want to have a fling.” Short, hot, and memorable. She couldn’t imagine long-term with him. He was too intense. Too unpredictable. But mostly he was bossy. Henry Glick had cured her of blindly following a man’s directive. “Besides,” she said “Mother’s in Tahiti. By the time she hits U.S soil, the fling will be flung.”

  “You’re not the love ‘em and leave ‘em type, honey.”

  Although he’d probably meant that as a compliment, it felt like a slap in the face. Afia’s a goody two-shoes. Na-na-na-na-na-na. “That was the old me. The PG me. I would like one X-rated night before I die.” Lightning flashed outside the small window, a shock of white light bouncing off of her beloved bracelet curled on the porcelain vanity. Rudy had claimed that losing her fortune and her moneybag charm on the same day had been pure coincidence. Giselle St. John would cite the consequences of being born on Friday the thirteenth. Thunder boomed. “With my luck, come tomorrow, I’ll be knocking on Heaven’s door.”

  “That’s your mother talking,” Rudy said. “Please don’t make me reach through this phone and slap you.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Forgiven. So your husbands were duds in bed, huh?”

  She could almost envision the teasing grin on his face. “No.” She smoothed a cool washcloth over her burning cheeks, mindful of the swelling beneath her left eye. She’d never discussed the specifics of her sex life before with Rudy, and there were limits to how much she’d say now. It was too personal, and okay, maybe a little embarrassing. “They were both very … attentive.”

  “Boring.”

  “Conventional.”

  Rudy grunted. “Like I said, boring.”

  She heard the pipes groan, registered the silence of pulsating water, and immediately envisioned Jake stepping out of the shower in all his naked glory. Water rippling over the hills and valleys of all that sinew. His biceps flexing as he finger-combed his hair off of his chiseled face. Her eyes rolled back in her head.

  Sizzle.

  All she had to do was climb out of the tub, hurry two doors down, and climb all over Jake. Surely, he wouldn’t be able to resist a naked, willing woman. Surely, that would kick start a fling or at least a one-night stand. It was brazen and risky, and darn it, she just couldn’t do it. “So, how do I seduce a man who doesn’t want to be seduced?”

  “How do you know he doesn’t want to be seduced? What about that kiss on the boardwalk?”

  She glided a bar of heather-scented soap over her legs and smiled. “That was nothing compared to what happened today,” she said, marveling that the macho P.I. had actually purchased fragrant soap.

  “If I have to hear about this through Jean-Pierre, so help me, Afia—”

  “Jake kissed me this morning in his car,” she said, lowering her voice to an excited buzz. “Actually he ravished me, and it was … incredible, but unfortunately it went no further than a ten alarm kiss.”

  “Was there tongue involved?”

  She blushed to the roots of her damp hair. “Um … yes. Then later,” she hurried on, “when I questioned the attraction, he floored me with a second scorcher. Rudy, he makes the backs of my knees sweat.”

  “Wow. I’m jealous.” Her friend cleared his throat, as if dismissing a dicey image. “Wait a minute. Why are you worrying about seducing this guy? He’s all over you.”

  “Was all over me. He doesn’t believe in mixing business with pleasure. Or something to that effect,” she mumbled. “You and me … it’s not gonna happen.” He’d sounded so adamant. And what had he meant about playing second fiddle?

  “Maybe he’s intimidated by your wealth,” Rudy said. “Blue-collar, alpha-men are funny that way.”

  “You think?”

  “Why are you whispering, honey? I can hardly hear you. Where are you?”

  She heard Jake walking along the hall, padding down the creaky stairs, and immediately pulled the rubber plug from drain. “In Jake’s bathtub. Where are you?”

  “A.C. International. A high-roller’s flying in from Florida. I’m supposed to drive him … Did you say Jake’s bathtub?”

  “Don’t ask me to explain. It’s case-related which makes it confidential. Let’s just say I ended up wearing someone else’s lunch.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “That’s what I said.” She climbed out and snatched up a fluffy towel while maintaining her grip on the cell phone. “So what should I do?”

  “Soak and scrub, and hope that he owns some talcum powder. It’s not like you know him well enough to borrow his deodorant.”

  Afia rolled her eyes, trading the towel for the T-shirt and sweatpants Jake had given her just before he’d escaped into his own bathroom. “Hold on.” She laid down the phone to pull his faded gray T-shirt over her head, breathing in the distinct scent of fabric softener. There was something undeniably intimate about wearing her host’s clothes. Smiling, she tugged on the dark blue sweatpants, pulled the drawstring tight and then put the cell back to her ear. “You have approximately sixty seconds to give me a crash course in flinging.”

  Rudy sighed. “You’re absolutely positive you don’t have feelings for this guy?”

  “I’ve known him for less than two days.”

  “Takes less than two minutes. Cupid’s a quick shot.”

  She blocked out the image of Jake fired up and ready to pummel her “assailant,” his affectionate behavior toward his five “stray” cats, and the knowledge that he spent his free time shopping for antiques to furnish his charming Victorian home. She focused on his sexual charisma—his hands, his tongue, the hard evidence of his desire—while shaking her hair loose from its bun. A plethora of feelings had rocked her body, but she was certain it had nothing to do with affection and everything to do with lust. “If you don’t want to help me, Rudy, just say so.” She leaned over to roll the too-long hem of the overly baggy sweat pants to above her ankles. “I just thought, well, you have more experience than I do.”

  “Ah.”

  Afia cringed at her friend’s flat tone. “I didn’t mean to imply that you’re …”

  “The king of quickies?”

  “I’m sorry, Rudy.” This morning he’d received three new self-help books from Amazon.com. He’d probably been sitting in the airport waiting area engrossed in an enlightening read when she’d called. Afia crumpled onto the toilet seat, feeling like an insensitive heel. “I know you’re trying to alter your lifestyle. I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have said …”

  “Afia.”

  “Yes?”

  “Always do what you want and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.”

  She relaxed and smiled. “Shakti Gawain?

  “Dr. Seuss.”

  “I love you, Rudy.”

  “I love you, too, honey. Now here’s what you need to do.”

  Showered, dressed in comfortable black cargo shorts and a faded blue T-shirt, Jake sat at the oak butcher-block table petting Velma with one hand while sorting through Rivelli’s discarded magazines and receipts.

  The afternoon storm raged. Rainwater dripped into the three stainless steel pans, an annoying audible plop that registered every five seconds. Rosco and Barney wrestled in the laundry room. Mouser cowered under the sofa waiting for the storm to subside. Wary of women, Scamp had taken refuge under Jak
e’s bed and wouldn’t be showing his whiskers until Afia left the house. Jake almost wished he could join the skittish puss.

  He stretched his muscles, but the tension remained. The woman had him tied up in knots. His “talk” hadn’t gone precisely as planned. No, he’d had to complicate matters by sticking his tongue down her throat for the second time today. Smooooth. He’d spent ten minutes under an icy shower spray trying to numb the craving to join her in that claw-footed tub. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this stupidly hot for a woman.

  Probably because this was a first.

  His head snapped up as Afia padded into the kitchen wearing his sports socks, sweatpants, and police academy shirt. He’d purposely provided her with worn workout gear guaranteed to fit her like a potato sack. The T-shirt fell to mid-thigh. His sweats, rolled to above her ankle, bagged in all the right places. She had absolutely no shape. Her face was scrubbed clean of make-up, and her damp hair was divided into two long braids. She looked all of seventeen.

  Perfect. He’d never been attracted to jailbait.

  Just think of her as off-limits, which she is, and you’ll be fine.

  Right.

  So long as she follows my dictate and doesn’t raise the subject of our mutual attraction, everything will be cool.

  Sure.

  He focused on Rivelli’s crumpled receipts and continued to stroke Velma, who’d sprawled out on the left half of the butcher’s block. He’d tried to break the tiger cat from jumping up on the tables, but she was stubborn and needy, and hell, it’s not like he ever used the butcher block anyway. “Feel better?” he asked Afia without turning. Be cool, man. Don’t bring up the kiss.

  “Much better,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “There’s a T.V. in the parlor. Make yourself comfortable. We’re not going anywhere for a while. It’s raining like a bitch out there.”