Jinxed (10 page)

By the time they hit the street, he’d worked up a decent head of steam. He couldn’t pinpoint his frustration, which made him all the more pissed.

Afia hiked her leather bag higher on her shoulder. “You really don’t need to wait—”

“Yes, I do.”

“I don’t want you to miss Mr. Rivelli—”

“I won’t.” He leaned back against the Bizby’s brick front and lit up a cigarette, hoping to take off the edge. Afia started to say something and then apparently decided better. Smart girl. He was in no mood for a lecture. Besides, he’d already made a pact with Joni. Not wanting to be a bad influence on the baby, she’d agreed to temper her foul language if he gave up smoking. They both had up until the day the kid was born. He’d already cut down from a full pack to five cigs a day. The way he saw it, he was ahead of the game.

Afia copied his stance, settling in and leaning back against the wall, which was fine except that she was standing a little too close for his immediate comfort. “About that kiss,” she said, tweaking his unease. “We haven’t really discussed—”

“It was good. You were good. Rivelli didn’t suspect a thing. Nice cover.” He blew out a stream of smoke and glanced down in time to see her frown. What? Was she disappointed because he’d only rated her
good
? Had he wounded her pride? Sorry, but no freaking way was he going to own up to what he really thought of that kiss.

“Thank you. But, I have to confess you inspired the action.”

“How so?”
For the love of God, he thought, don’t admit you have the hots for me.

“You insulted me.”

His mouth fell open, the cigarette dangling from his lower lip. “When?” When the hell had he insulted her?

“When you said I don’t have what it takes to be a private investigator.” She straightened her shoulders, and although she didn’t meet his gaze or raise her voice, he could tell she was upset. “I wasn’t going to say anything,” she continued, her voice shaking with each earnest word. “But I thought about it all afternoon, and … I changed my mind. You don’t know me. How could you possibly know what I am or am not capable of? I want to learn the tricks of your trade, and I’d appreciate it if you’d take me seriously.”

Why did he have the feeling that she wasn’t used to speaking up for herself? Again he was shocked by her vulnerability and obvious insecurities. He snuffed his cigarette and nabbed her chin. “Look at me and say that again.” It was a move meant to intimidate.

She met his gaze, and it was then that he saw gold flecks of determination sparking in her big brown eyes. “I want to learn your business.” She steadied her voice, grasped his hand and squeezed. “I want you to take me seriously.”

“Fair enough,” he said, tempering a smile and the wild beating of his heart. Christ, Joni was right. Afia
was
his type. Although instead of rescuing her from an abusive lover, he needed to rescue her from herself. Afia St. John was the victim of low self-esteem.

Jake was a breath away from kissing some confidence into her when a Harley Davidson roared up curbside and broke the mood. Afia hurried forward. He slowly followed.

A six-foot-something mass of cut muscles, wearing tight black jeans and an even tighter black T-shirt took off his helmet revealing a head of short, equally black hair. The neatly trimmed goatee perpetuated biker boy’s devilish look. The man smiled at Afia then nodded at Jake and offered his big hand in greeting. “Rudy Gallow.”

“Jake Leeds.” He shook the hand of the man he recognized from this morning. The man he’d mistaken for Afia’s chauffeur. The man she called
friend
. Gallow’s grip was strong and confident, his gaze direct and assessing. Jake tried to size him up in return, but couldn’t get a bead on him outside of the notion:
He’s not what he seems
.

Afia took up a spare helmet and slipped it on without direction, leading Jake to believe she was no stranger to this man’s bike. She glanced at Jake while tightening the strap beneath her chin. “What time would you like me to be here tomorrow?”

So much for chitchat, he thought as he watched her climb up behind Gallow and straddle the motorcycle seat. Now that her friend was here, she seemed in a hurry to get away. He imagined the striking couple going for a spin and ending up back at the man’s posh home. When she wrapped her arms around Gallow’s ripped abdomen, Jake speculated about the sleeping arrangements and a muscle jumped under his left eye. He couldn’t fathom why he was ticked. He’d known Afia for all of six hours. So she had a boyfriend. So what? “Nine o’clock.”

She smiled. “I look forward to it.”

Jake eyed biker dude, subtly scoping for clenched fists, narrowed eyes, any body movement to imply propriety or jealously. The man merely smiled, an enigmatic twinkle in his eyes that confirmed he was going to be a pain in Jake’s ass. With a cheeky salute, he eased his bike into the steady flow of traffic.

What the hell? Jake climbed into his Mustang and watched as they drove away, more frustrated and intrigued by the minute. Afia was right. He didn’t know her. Every freaking time he thought he had a handle on her, she up and threw him a curve ball. Seeing her transform from demure socialite to biker chick had definitely shaken his assumptions. On impulse, he snatched up his cell phone and hit speed dial as he pulled away from the curb and headed toward the Carnevale Casino. “Joni? Fire up your laptop.”

Without realizing it, Afia had just issued him a challenge.

“What do you want this morning, Afia? A bowl of oatmeal or a cup of fruit?”

“Do you have the makings for a ham and cheese omelet?”

Rudy cast a concerned glance at his friend, decked out in her cheetah pajamas and furry black slippers, and pondered her sanity as she rooted through one of the six clothing racks stationed on either side of his oak dining table. He’d known Afia for five years. Her breakfasts had always consisted of oatmeal, fruit, or dry wheat toast with a glass of orange juice. Last night she’d blown him away by asking Jean-Pierre to pick up a pepperoni pizza with double cheese on his way back from the video store. Then, right in the middle of
Casablanca
, she’d asked if they had any microwave popcorn—buttered. Now this. Something was definitely up.

Pulling his “ABBA” T-shirt over his head, he padded across the kitchen floor in his boxers and bare feet and then opened the refrigerator door to check out the food situation. “I can whip you up an omelet with spinach and low-fat provolone.”

“What about pancakes with maple syrup? Oh, and maybe some bacon.”

He nabbed a bag of hazelnut coffee beans, shut the fridge door, and then moved to his sleek soapstone countertop. “Okay,” he said, filling the coffee maker with bottled water and scooping the beans into a grinder. “What happened yesterday at the office?”

“You mean aside from me filing, cleaning, and ruining Jake’s carpet?”

“Yes, aside from that.”

“Nothing.”

“You’re stressed,” he shouted over the grinding ruckus.

“No, I’m not.”

“Depressed.”

“No.”

Rudy rolled back his shoulders as the grinding ceased and rich black coffee dripped into the glass pot. “Lonely?”

She crinkled her nose. “How could I be lonely? I’m living in a cozy two-bedroom townhouse with two warm, intelligent men.”

Rudy surveyed his sheet and pillow strewn sofa (Afia’s temporary bed since she refused to accept his offer to swap places), his quaint kitchen, dining, and living area made even smaller by her suitcases and boxes, and Jean-Pierre’s clothing racks and bolts of glitzy fabric. What she called cozy, he considered cramped, though he’d die before speaking his mind. His home was Afia’s for as long as she wanted. Their employer/employee relationship had blossomed into a full-fledged friendship over the past few years. She’d even helped him to launch his freelance chauffeur business. Afia was tolerant, generous, and pure of heart, and Rudy adored her even with all of her quirky hang-ups and superstitions.

As for Jean-Pierre, well, as much as he liked the costume designer, the man had a few irksome habits. Such as referring to people by pet names, and hand-stitching trim on dancers’ costumes while watching the Classic Movie channel. The next time Rudy stepped on a straight pin in his bare feet, he was going to punch Jean-Pierre in his chiseled jaw.

“Then you must be horny,” Rudy said, heading back toward the fridge. He heard Afia gasp, and he smiled. For an open-minded person, at times she was pathetically easy to shock.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you’re eating to fill some void. You used to shop. Now you don’t have any money, so you’re eating comfort food. Not that I’m complaining. I always thought you were too skinny.”

“You did?”

“Absolutely, honey.” He pulled out a carton of eggs, a bag of fresh spinach, and a loaf of wheat bread.

“Why didn’t you say something,” she asked quietly.

He turned and noted her crestfallen expression. “Because of that,” he said, gesturing to her pout. “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
And because you had too many other people telling you what you should and shouldn’t look like.

She tugged at the hem of her pajama top and straightened her shoulders. “I’m not
that
sensitive.”

“
Oui, ma petite
, you are.” Jean-Pierre Legrand, Rudy’s latest roommate and newest pain in the ass, sashayed into the living room wearing Pink Panther draw-string pajama bottoms and a sexy smile. He crossed to Afia and kissed her on each cheek.
“Bonjour, Chou à la crème.”

She blushed and giggled. “Good morning, Jean-Pierre.”

Rudy couldn’t imagine why she was so charmed since Jean-Pierre had essentially called her a cream-puff. As she was working hard to assert herself these days, he didn’t think she’d appreciate the nickname. But Rudy had to admit even an insult sounded sexy with a French accent.

As if reading Rudy’s mind, the man cast a thousand-watt smile over his shoulder. “
Bonjour,
Gym Bunny.”

“Jean-Pierre.” Rudy snagged a skillet from the baker’s rack, trying not to stare at his roommate’s defined pecs. He had a lot of nerve ribbing Rudy about his love affair with free weights, when he himself had the wiry, hard body of an avid runner. The least Jean-Pierre could have done was throw on a shirt, not that Afia seemed bothered. No. The only one apparently affected by Jean-Pierre’s bare chest was Rudy.
I am open and ready for a serious, long term relationship
, he silently affirmed. Jean-Pierre was
not
relationship material. “Omelet?”

“
Merci,
Bunny.

Rudy wanted to pummel him. He also wanted to get him in a lip-lock. Neither action seemed prudent.

The chestnut-haired man held Rudy’s gaze for an uncomfortable moment and then turned to Afia, utilizing his moderately-accented English. “So, what are we doing here?”

She flipped her hair over her shoulder and sighed. “Looking for something to wear.”

Jean-Pierre noted the crammed clothing racks with a coy smile. “I can see where that would be difficult.”

“Something subdued,” she said, thoughtfully tapping her finger to her chin. “And not too tight.”

“Something boring,” Jean-Pierre said.

Afia beamed. “Exactly.”

“So we should pass on the paisley turquoise and lime silk suit.”

She blew her bangs off of her forehead. “Afraid so.”

“Pity.” Jean-Pierre raked his wavy hair off of his clean-shaven face and tied the shoulder-length mass into a low ponytail, his compact shoulders rolling with the effort.

Rudy suppressed a groan, and cracked six eggs into a ceramic bowl. “Go and pour us a cup of
café, Chou à la crème
,” he heard Jean-Pierre say, “and leave this to a professional.”

Two seconds later, Afia was standing beside Rudy, straining to reach the mugs on the top shelf of his corner cabinet. “I really like Jean-Pierre,” she whispered.

“Of course, you do,” Rudy mumbled. “He filched those racks from the wardrobe department so you could hang up your clothes, and to top things off he’s hot, he’s French, and he’s
gay
.”

“You noticed,” she said with a grin.

He grunted then snared three mugs for her and set them on the counter. “So what happened with Jake?” he asked, firmly changing the subject. “You two were looking pretty chummy last night when I rolled up on my bike.”

“For heaven’s sake,
nothing
happened!”

Jean-Pierre started singing the theme to
Casablanca
. “You must remember this, a kiss is still a kiss …”

Afia’s cheeks bloomed with two brilliant blotches.

“Jake kissed you?” Rudy exclaimed.

She averted her eyes and concentrated on pouring the coffee. “It was business.”

“… a sigh is just a sigh …”

“Do you mind?” Rudy called over his shoulder.

“
Moi
?” Jean-Pierre chuckled then opted to whistle the melody.

Rudy rolled his eyes and turned back to Afia. “I can’t believe you confided in Jean-Pierre and not me. You’ve known him for less than three weeks.”

“I didn’t confide in Jean-Pierre,” she said, shoveling four spoons of sugar into her coffee.

“Then how—”

“I don’t know,” she grumbled.

“You talk in your sleep,
Chou à la crème,
” Jean-Pierre said, coming up behind them. “Must have been the sangria. I was on my way to the bathroom when I heard you mumbling about a … um …
surveillance
op and Jake’s tongue.” Grinning, he presented her with a pair of taupe slim-fitting capris and a short-sleeved emerald shirt trimmed with brown and taupe ribbons. “Unassuming,” he said. “Better than boring.” Then he draped the outfit over a chair, picked up two mugs, and handed one to Rudy.

Rudy ignored the jolt when their fingers brushed and focused on Afia. “Care to explain how you ended up frenching your boss on a surveillance gig?”

She sipped her coffee and stared down at her slippers. “Can’t.”

“Can’t?”

“It’s related to a case, and Leeds Investigations prides itself on maintaining confidentiality.”