Jinxed

by Beth Ciotta

  He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the adoration shining in those chocolate-brown eyes. “You served on a charity committee and organized functions to benefit those in need. That’s more than a lot of people do.”

  “It’s not the same as getting personally involved.”

  He noted her cartoon T-shirt with a faint smile. A super-hero mouse, cape flying, fist thrust in the air … “Here I come to save the day!” He remembered how Afia had stormed around the corner of the Ashe house, wide-eyed, pigtails swinging, thirty seconds after the gunshot, ten seconds after he’d pinned Marty. He’d wanted to blast her for leaving the safety of the car. Instead, he’d said, “Call the cops,” and she’d disappeared inside the house chanting something under her breath. His heart tripped knowing how easily she could have been hurt had Marty been the one in control. “Helping people one-on-one can be rewarding,” he admitted. “But it can also be disappointing, draining, and, at times, dangerous.”

  “That doesn’t stop you,” she said, clasping her naked wrist. “The danger part. If Marty hadn’t tripped over that cat …” Her voice cracked, and she looked away.

  “I still would have been fine,” he told her, although he wasn’t sure if he bought that line any more than she did at this moment. He’d gone into the situation with a cocky attitude, swearing Marty didn’t have the stomach for firearms. He would have paid for his arrogance if not for that cat.

  Afia’s leg started to bounce, and he guessed now that the adrenaline was no longer pumping, her composure was at last slipping. Though a far cry from the fragile socialite who’d teetered into his office five days ago on three-inch heels, she still radiated a vulnerability that brought him to his knees. An appealing yet frightening trait as it pegged her a gentle soul. Gentle souls invariably get trampled. He’d tried to toughen her up over the past two days, to teach her a few practical skills. Skills she could utilize in her personal life as well as just about any field.

  What if it turned out that Glick and her money were history? What if she had to make her own way?

  The thought of her out there, operating alone in the big ugly world, set his teeth on edge. Trouble followed this woman like a faithful dog. Although he attributed her mishaps to coincidence or lack of confidence, it didn’t matter what he thought. If Afia continued to believe that she was jinxed, she’d continue to act as a bulls-eye for misfortune.

  “You can’t save the world, Jake,” Joni had said. Maybe not. But he could damn well make a difference in Afia’s life by instilling her with more confidence. He had another week to work his magic. She needed to trust her instincts, to believe in herself.

  She needed to break free of her influential mother. As soon as that woman returned from Tahiti she’d start pushing old buttons, and if Afia didn’t have the gumption to stand up to her, she’d be right back where she started.

  Maybe the judge was right. Maybe Afia needed all the luck she could get.

  He palmed the charm bracelet and rose. “You were incredible today. Grace under pressure.”

  She stood and held out her arm, offering up her delicate wrist as he rounded the desk. “Let’s just say that I’m good at containing my emotions.” She cleared her throat. “Usually.”

  “That’s funny,” he said, securing the bracelet, his fingers tingling at the feel of her silky skin. “I’m pretty good at maintaining control myself.” He gazed down into her big brown eyes, now glassy with tears, and his own throat constricted. “Usually.”

  It was a mistake, of course, to draw her into his arms. He did it anyway, his heart pounding like a son of a bitch as she leaned into him and rested her face against his chest. Compassion and lust warred as he smoothed his palm down her rigid spine trying to ease her trembling, his own body pulsating with caged desire. A vivid fantasy exploded in his head involving bath bubbles and champagne. Jesus. She was upset, and all he could think about was getting her naked.

  Clinging to his shoulders, she stood on her tiptoes and tilted back her head, seeking, offering. Her lush pink lips and glittering doe eyes shattered the last of his so-called control.

  With the primitive groan of a man who’d lost his grip on his good intentions, Jake framed her face within his hands and lowered his mouth to hers, intending to sate the hunger that had gnawed at him for two days. But when their lips connected, tenderness coursed through his being instead of raw passion. Affection instead of lust. He swept his tongue inside her welcoming mouth, offering comfort. An unfamiliar need burned strong in his gut. The need to cherish.

  A siren wailed in his ears. Step away from the subject.

  Wetness trickled along his fingertips. He eased back, thumbed away the tears escaping through her lowered lashes. “Afia.” She met his gaze and the siren blared louder. She had the distinct look of a woman in love. She opened her mouth, and he braced himself for the three words that would serve as well as a curse.

  “You and me,” she croaked. “It’s not gonna happen.”

  Roses. Two-dozen long stemmed yellow roses meticulously arranged in a blue crystal vase. Angela tipped the delivery boy, shut the door, read the accompanying gift card, and promptly hurled the vase against the wall.

  He’d promised! Tony had promised that he’d be home in time to attend her father’s party. He’d assured her that he could clear his calendar. He knew how important it was that they showed. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe she should have articulated the unspoken. Don’t screw up our life by screwing with my daddy. He’s a mob boss.

  Tony had to know. He was an intelligent man. He read the newspapers. Though he consistently eluded prosecution, Vincent Falcone had been at the root of more than one criminal investigation. What, did he think that was another Vinnie Falcone? Did he truly think her daddy’s catering business was legit?

  Angela sank down on the sofa and stared at the carnage of her rage. Was the shattered vase an omen of shattered dreams? She balled her trembling hands in her lap, contemplating the disturbing notion that she was engaged to an imbecile. Either Tony was too stupid to put two and two together or too stupid to be afraid of Vinnie Falcone. Either way she felt her anger ebbing as she focused on those long-stem roses. Tony was a hard worker. A straight arrow. A gentle soul and a gentle lover. He treated her like a lady. The fact that he was messing around with another woman hurt deeply, but she could bear the pain, just as she’d deal with that woman because, in her heart, she believed that Tony truly cherished her. No man had ever cherished Angela Falcone. They’d used her to get ahead. To get close to her father. If Tony were interested in taking advantage of a mob connection to further his career and finances, he would have found a way to sidestep his boss’s directive.

  Swallowing an uncharacteristic bout of tears, she reread Tony’s card.

  Sorry, honey. Dunkirk unable to attend SCC Gala. Insists I represent the Carnevale in his absence. My regrets to your father. Will call you later tonight. I love you, Tony.

  So casual. So calm. No, clearly, he didn’t understand the importance of attending her daddy’s party. He was being responsible. Following his boss’s orders. That’s if indeed George Dunkirk, president of the Carnevale Casino, had issued that order. What if Tony wasn’t going to that gala at all, but rendezvousing with his tart?

  Angela crumpled the note and tossed it aside, angry tears coursing down her cheeks as her stomach twisted painfully with jealously and mistrust. It’s not as if she could waltz into that gala decked out in her finest under the guise of attending as the V.P.’s dutiful fiancée. No, she had to make an appearance at her daddy’s stupid dinner party and somehow cover Tony’s ass. Surprisingly, the prospect of dealing with her father wasn’t nearly as upsetting as the vision of Tony burning up the sheets with a twenty-something bimbo.

  She rose on shaky legs and crossed to the bar. Sniffing back tears, she mixed a double martini, downed the drink in one long swallow and then snatched up her cell phone. There was one sure fire way to know where Tony spent his evening.

  “What makes y
ou so sure we’re not going to have an affair?”

  An affair? Afia tried to back away from Jake, but he tightened his grasp on her forearms. She supposed she should be grateful for his vice-like grip, as her knees were five seconds from buckling. She cursed herself for losing her composure, for allowing him to offer comfort. His idea of comfort was a slow, tender kiss that wrapped around her heart and ignited images of cuddling in bed, talking about their day and their kids. Longing had swirled in her stomach like a cyclone, overwhelming in its power. It was like having a glimpse of what you’d always wanted, and feared you’d never have. It was torture. “You said so yourself two days ago. You and me. It’s not gonna happen,” she mimicked, swiping away her tears and steeling herself against his seductive gaze. “I distinctly remember you saying that.”

  He focused on her mouth and then looked deep into her eyes, searing her soul with a white-hot declaration. “As much as I hate to admit it, I’m not always one hundred percent right.”

  Nerves jangling with anticipation, she suppressed a sigh of relief when he released her and headed for the door. At least one of them had regained their good sense. But then he turned the deadbolt, locking out the rest of the world, and her heart threatened to burst through her ribcage. Her own world spun as he took a deep breath and slowly closed the distance between them. She took a step back. Then another.

  He followed until he’d backed her against the desk. “Maybe we should stop fighting this thing,” he said. “See where it takes us.”

  “By having an affair?” she croaked. An affair sounded even more risky than a fling. So passionate. So emotional. No, no, no. She couldn’t risk getting emotionally involved with Jake. Men she cared about, men who cared about her, died. Somehow Rudy had escaped the curse. Or had he? For the first time she pondered the wisdom of moving in with her dear friend. Today, the powers that be had given her a not so subtle reminder of her ability to attract fatal danger in the form of Marty Ashe. That black cat could’ve been Jake’s doom as easily as his savior. Thank goodness she’d had the wits to arm him with her protective charms.

  “What are you afraid of, Afia?”

  “What?” Her thoughts muddled as his hands slid to her backside. The next thing she knew she was sitting on the edge of the desk, Jake’s big body wedged between her thighs.

  “Is it the difference in our social status?” He worked his right hand up under the hem of her T-shirt, smoothed his palm up and over her bare back, his fingers brushing the clasp of her bra.

  Her breath hitched as a wave of shock and excitement rippled through her body. He wasn’t going to feel her up right here on his desk, was he? “You forget. I’m not rich anymore.”

  “Your friends are rich,” he said, leaning closer.

  “No, they’re not.” Not her real friends. Oh, God. Was her bra undone? She shifted. No. Still clasped. Darn. No, good. No … She leaned back, trying to gain breathing room, but bumped up against his left arm. She glanced over her shoulder and caught him shoving aside notepads and receipts. Why was he clearing the desktop? Her mind danced with X-rated possibilities.

  “Your mother’s rich.”

  “Filthy rich,” she squeaked, her vision clouding as she breathed in the scent of herbal shampoo and raw masculinity. “Now that she’s married to Bartholomew.”

  “Bart’s Bonbons,” he said, close to her ear, his breath hot on her neck. “The man’s practically an icon. I’m not an icon.”

  “No.” Her eyes lazed shut as he nipped her earlobe and suckled. That felt good! No, great! No … “You’re an everyday guy.” Though far, she thought hazily, from ordinary.

  “Your mother would hate me,” he said, easing her back until she was pressed flat against the top of the desk.

  She nodded, her breath coming in shallow pants as he inched up her shirt, pressing kisses over her taut stomach. “She would strongly advise me against,” she swallowed hard, “seeing you.”

  “Do you always do what your mother tells you to?” he asked, rolling up her shirt to reveal her bra.

  Always. “Mostly,” she whispered as he skimmed his fingers over the swells of her breasts. Her skin tingled, her body pulsed. He pressed his erection against the juncture of her thighs, and she instinctively wrapped her legs around him. Do it! She gripped his shoulders, trembling with anticipation. Take off my pants, rip off my panties. Do it! Do it! She felt naughty, feverish. She’d never had sex on a piece of furniture other than a bed. “Too conservative,” she mumbled.

  “Your mother?”

  Actually she’d been thinking about her husbands. Her cheeks burned. Now wasn’t the time to bring up her boring sex life. “Her choices … safe,” she managed as she risked meeting Jake’s heated gaze. Passion and excitement danced in his emerald-green eyes, promising a wicked adventure. He’d looked sexy and dangerous, and out-of-this-world gorgeous.

  He smiled down at her, squeezed her nipples through the thin, lacy fabric. “Ready to take a walk on the wild side?”

  Walk? She was ready to leap, run. Hell, she was eight steps ahead of him. She blinked, unable to articulate a dignified answer, warning bells clanging in her head. No, wait. Not clanging. Ringing. The phone was ringing six inches from her ear.

  “Let the machine get it,” he said, smile fading.

  “What if it’s Nancy?” she whispered. What if Marty made bail? The thought was as effective as being doused with cold water. She snatched the receiver before Jake could stop her. “Leeds Investigations,” she said, her voice sounding unnaturally husky. She cleared her throat. “Hello? Oh … hello.” Sincere worry faded to wariness. Client or not, Afia didn’t like this woman. “Yes. One moment, please.” She glanced up at Jake, who’d yet to remove his hand from her breast. He didn’t look very happy, and she suspected this call wouldn’t help her case. Quirking an apologetic smile, she offered up the receiver to Jake, and mouthed, “Angela Brannigan.”

  He mouthed a word that started with an “F” and this time she was positive it wasn’t fudge. Frowning, he took his hands off of her to take the call. “I’m working on the dancer angle, Ms. Brannigan. Nothing yet. Mmm. Uh-huh.” He straightened and raked his fingers through his hair.

  Afia shimmied off of the desk and yanked down her shirt. Two seconds ago she’d been ready to have wild, dirty sex. Just now … she didn’t know what she wanted just now, but she certainly wasn’t in the mood to lie there half naked while Jake conversed with a client. She tried to escape, but he nabbed her hand, stroking his thumb back and forth across the sensitive skin of her wrist.

  “The Summertime Gala, hosted by the SCC,” he said into the phone while snaking his arm around her waist. “Yes, I’ve heard of it.” He tugged her close and maneuvered the receiver so that they could both listen to Angela speak.

  “This year the event is being sponsored by the Carnevale Casino. Tony just informed me that his attendance is mandatory,” the woman said in a strained voice. “I want you to go to that gala. If he’s there, watch who he interacts with. If he’s not there … find him and, and …”

  “Photograph who he interacts with,” Jake finished for her.

  “I don’t know how you’re going to get in,” Angela went on. “I just called and the event is sold out, and obviously I can’t ask Tony to put you on a guest list.”

  Afia poked Jake then patted her chest and gave him the thumbs up.

  He raised an eyebrow, telling Angela, “I’ll get in.”

  Afia smiled and nodded.

  “Good,” Angela said, relief evident in her tone. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow morning.” Then she disconnected.

  “If it weren’t for those fishnets and press-on nails,” he said, replacing the receiver, “I’d be questioning that woman’s suspicions. Five days into the investigation and Rivelli still smells as sweet as a rose. Either he’s really good or I’m really slipping.”

  “Or he’s innocent.” Afia pulled clear of Jake and backed toward the door with a sigh. “Not that I’m convinced after
talking to my friend.”

  “That’s right. You have additional info on those dancers.”

  “And some scoop on Rivelli. Don’t worry,” she said, leaning back against the door and fiddling with the hem of her shirt. “My friend doesn’t know why I asked. I used some of the interviewing techniques you taught me, and I’m pretty sure I did it right.”

  “No doubt.” He cocked his head and studied her with a smile. “Why don’t you come over here and we’ll talk about it.”

  Her gaze slipped to the bulge in his jeans. “Because if I come over there … just now … we won’t end up talking.”

  He laughed and propped a hip on his desk. “Good point. Okay. What have you got?”

  “Not that much, but it may lend credence to Angela’s ‘dancer’ theory. Even though Rivelli oversees all of the departments—gaming, food and beverage, hotel—his main interest lies in entertainment. Thanks to Anthony Rivelli, the Carnevale has the most aggressive entertainment program in Atlantic City. Public areas, the lounges, the restaurants, and of course the showroom. He really pushed for the current variety show, Venetian Vogue. Glitzy, over-the-top costumes, dancing and singing, and plenty of T&A. Vegas meets Broadway, according to my friend.”

  Jake crossed his arms over his chest. “This friend of yours have a name?”

  She didn’t want to drag Jean-Pierre into this. What if it somehow got back to Rivelli? What if it compromised his job? “Surely you don’t expect me to give up the name of my snitch?”

  Jake snorted. “You’ve been watching too much television. All right. So Rivelli’s hot on entertainment. That doesn’t make him hot on an entertainer. Unless your friend, who I am assuming works at the Carnevale, heard some in-house gossip.”

  “No. Nothing like that. No one in particular, that is. It’s just that he shows up at a lot of rehearsals and performances. Apparently he’s very friendly with all of the cast members. More than one of the dancers has been seen sitting in his lap, but that doesn’t mean anything. Show people tend to be touchy-feely.”