Jinxed (11 page)

Rudy stroked his goatee. “Hmm.” He glanced at Jean-Pierre, cocked an eyebrow, and then looked back to Afia. “So how’s the coffee?”

She puckered her lips and blew on the steaming java. “Hot.”

Jean-Pierre winked at Rudy. “That is what she said about the kiss.”

Mrs. Kelly was trying to calm a cranky parent when Afia blew into the daycare center. According to Rudy, who patiently waited in the limo with the engine running, she had five minutes to coordinate her schedule with the woman who, with the exception of two assistants and an occasional volunteer mother, ran the center single-handedly. Since Jake hadn’t mentioned a specific lunch hour and had implied she could be working sometimes as late as six-thirty, she figured her best course of action was to volunteer between six and eight-thirty in the morning. Mrs. Kelly had intimated that she could use an extra hand to do some cleaning and someone to help serve cookies and milk during morning story time. Afia looked forward to spending time with the children even if it meant mopping up spilled milk and crumbled cookies.

Children were wondrous creatures and a source of curiosity for Afia. Just like working for a living and asserting herself in uncomfortable situations. Standing up to Jake yesterday, looking him in the eye, and demanding that he respect her wishes had been an incredible rush. It had taken her the utmost control not to crow to Rudy and Jean-Pierre. Rudy, especially, would be so proud. But she feared, as excited as she was, if she started talking she might unwittingly divulge the details of the Brannigan/Rivelli case. So instead she’d indulged in pepperoni pizza, popcorn, and a classic movie with her best friend and her new friend, Jean-Pierre. They’d stayed up until two a.m. giving each other facials and getting tipsy on sangria. She hadn’t realized what a small and sheltered life she’d led until Henry Glick had robbed her of her security. Yesterday had been the best day of her new life.

Today would be even better, because today Jake was going to teach her some investigative techniques. Today she’d start hunting down Glick and her money.

She looked around, frowning at the crayon-marked walls and the threadbare carpet. The daycare center could benefit from a dose of her money. Unfortunately, for now, Mrs. Kelly would have to make due with Afia’s time, and time was ticking away. The last thing she wanted was to be late to the office two days in a row.

“Are you the hat lady?” A little red-haired girl, maybe three or four years old, tugged at Afia’s blouse. “Mrs. Kelly says the lady who gived us the hats was pretty. You’re pretty.”

“Why, thank you.” Afia stooped down to put herself eye to eye with the cute little munchkin. “And yes, I’m the lady who
gave
you the hats. What’s your name?”

“Mya.”

Afia smiled. ”Did you like the hats, Mya?”

The little girl’s mouth puckered into a frown. “Billy taked mine.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Billy
took
your hat?”

The girl nodded. “He’s bad.”

“Maybe if you ask nicely, he’ll give it back.”

Just then a slight, skinny-legged boy galloped into the room wearing one of Afia’s straw hats. The buttercup yellow number, with an up-turned brim and a big, red rose pinned due center. He looked ridiculously cute.

Mya disagreed. She wagged her pudgy finger chanting, “Sissy, sissy, sissy! Billy is a sissy!”

Afia gasped. “That’s not nice, Mya.”

She pointed to the man arguing with Mrs. Kelly. “Daddy said so!” she announced.

Afia was disgusted and absolutely speechless.

The little girl taunted the boy in a singsong voice. “Billy is a sissy! Na-na-na-na-na-na!”

Red-faced, Billy rushed forward and clipped Afia in the eye while tackling Mya. All hell broke loose and finally, Afia had Mrs. Kelly’s attention.

He wouldn’t yell. He wouldn’t lecture. He’d simply wait and see what kind of excuse Afia offered for being twenty minutes late. No wonder she couldn’t hold down a job. She was clumsy, moody, and habitually late. Okay, maybe not moody so much as unpredictable. Her ability to transform from kitten to wildcat in the blink of an eye had kept him tossing and turning most of the night. Or perhaps it was the vivid dream showcasing Afia in stiletto heels and biker leather. If she was as adventurous in real life as she was in Jake’s fantasy, no wonder her first husband had suffered a heart attack in the middle of sex.

Just one of the interesting tid-bits Joni had confirmed last night via cell phone as Jake had tailed Anthony Rivelli from the Carnevale Casino to his Cherry Hill home. Unfortunately, their conversation had been cut short when Carson had returned home early from a gig, surprising Joni with flowers and Chinese food. Joni had promised to phone Jake with the rest of her report as soon as she did some fact-checking. One thing about Joni, she never did anything half-assed. Which probably meant, if she dug deep enough, she’d discover the fact that Afia was currently broke. He’d cross that bridge when he got to it.

Anxious and without a laptop, he’d ended up calling a buddy on the force who’d gotten back to him in spurts during the six non-eventful hours he’d sat surveillance outside Rivelli’s home. He’d quickly learned that Rudy Gallow, though he looked big, bad, and rich, had a clean record, a chauffeur’s license, and a bank account comparable to Jake’s, which wasn’t saying much. He rented a townhouse in a new development in the Inlet, not the nicest of areas, though the city was working hard to build up that section of town. Gallow wasn’t Afia’s social equal. He was her ex-driver and current friend, possible lover. Harmon hadn’t seemed thrilled that she was shacking up with her “friend,” but he hadn’t seemed overly concerned. Jake didn’t know what to make out of any of it, and he hated that he couldn’t let it go. Of course, he could call Harmon and ask him straight out.
What’s up with Afia and biker boy
? But Harmon might wonder why Jake cared.

Good question.

Just because he was attracted to Afia didn’t mean he had to act on it. Just because she seemed as though she needed to be saved, didn’t make it so. She’d already proven herself quite the actress. What if the wide-eyed, vulnerable waif persona was an act? What if she’d seduced both of her husbands with that angel aura only to sprout horns? Two rich, older husbands. Two freak accidents. A missing fortune. A hot, young lover.

Black Widow
.

Jake rolled his eyes and reached for a bottle of aspirin. He really had to stop watching late night film noir.

His door slammed open, and Afia skidded into the office wearing a preppy summer outfit, big black sunglasses, and a panicked expression. Her hair was unbound and tousled, her cheeks flushed. She’d either sprinted to work or just tumbled out of bed. Again, he wondered about her sleeping arrangements. Again, his left eye twitched.

She stood poised on his threshold, one hand pressed to her heart as she caught her breath. “I’m so … so sorry … to be late,” she said in between pants. “There was an … incident.”

Jake raised one eyebrow, waiting for her to elaborate.

“So,” she said, ten seconds later as she moved forward and gingerly sat on the edge of an opposing chair. “Where do we begin? What would you like me to do?”

Jake chased three aspirin with a swallow of cold coffee, winced and then tossed the empty cup in the trash.

Afia clasped her hands in her lap, fingered her charm bracelet. Her leg started to bounce. “Would you like me to make a fresh pot of coffee? Check the messages? File some … files?”

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you going to wear those sunglasses all day?”

She pushed them higher up her pert nose. “It’s a little bright in here.”

“Late night?”

“Rough morning.” Her leg bounced faster.

He didn’t know what that meant, but he didn’t like the possibility that it involved sex. Jake stood, reached up under his retro bowler’s shirt, and repositioned his gun. “Let’s roll.” He walked past a wide-eyed Afia, trying not to notice how sexy she looked with all that rumpled hair.

“Where are we going?” she called, chasing after him.

“To start your training.”

She let out a musical squeal.

Jake suppressed a wicked grin. She’d be singing a different tune once she got a load of her first assignment. He stopped short, turning to explain the concept of “low profile” at the same time she tripped, stepped out of her strapless green slip-ons, and tumbled forward.

He caught her in his arms, all one-hundred pounds of her, feminine and flustered and smelling of cinnamon. His mouth watered. His pulse raced. “Afia.”

She tilted her face up, moistened her lips, and he thanked God those sunglasses shielded her puppy dog eyes. “Yes?” she whispered.

“Do something with that hair.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious.”

Afia squinted through her sunglasses to where Jake pointed, her nostrils flaring at the odor of rotting vegetables. “But it’s disgusting, not to mention rude.”

“It’s an old and proven means of gathering valuable information.” Jake tugged down the brim of his baseball cap and glanced over his shoulder. “We’ve got about an hour before the disposal truck comes by. Chop, chop, baby.”

Afia knotted her hair into a low bun and cursed her chosen footwear. The backless slip-ons were pretty but impractical. Not that there was anything practical about “dumpster diving,” as Jake had so eloquently tagged her appointed task. Mental note: Buy a pair of cheap sneakers. “Invading someone’s privacy is a serious offense, you know.”

“It’s part and parcel of being an investigator.” He slid his hand into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a pair of disposable, latex gloves. “So do you have what it takes or don’t you?”

Afia bristled at the challenge and the implication that she considered herself above a little dirty work. She wasn’t a snob, and she certainly wasn’t a wimp. She did, however, have scruples. Fighting her honest nature, she nabbed the gloves and snapped them on, ignoring Jake’s toe-tingling smirk. It was really most annoying being attracted to a jerk. When she’d tripped and fallen into his arms this morning, her knees had gone mushy along with her brain cells. She’d stared up at his scrumptious mouth, hoping for a sizzling kiss, and all she’d gotten was yet another rude remark about her hair. Both of her husbands and almost every other man she’d ever met preferred women with long hair. Sleek, meek “Barbie dolls.” As near as she could tell, Jake liked his women bald, fleshy, and aggressive. Even
she
wouldn’t go so far as to shave her head to please a man. He’d just have to get over it.

Shooting the infuriating P.I. a sidelong glance, she scrunched her nose while nearing the six-foot, brown-metal dumpster of the ritzy high rise. “What are
you
going to be doing while
I’m
breaking the law?”

“Standing guard. If anyone starts down the alley, I’ll distract them.” He grinned as he offered her a leg up. “And for the record, you’re not breaking the law.”

“Then why don’t you want anyone to see us?”

“Because I don’t want to have to explain why we’re scavenging through the trash. We’re on a case, remember?”

“How could I forget?” He’d recited his views on confidentiality and covert surveillance on the short ride over to Anthony Rivelli’s shore getaway. She’d appreciated the industry insight, if not the sarcasm. Inexperience might cause her to bobble, but she’d never purposely bungle a job.

Annoyance gave way to sinful delight when he encircled her bare ankle with one hand and cupped her bottom with the other. Her entire body tingled as her mind raced with a wicked fantasy. She had his pants around his ankles when he called her back to reality saying, “Nothing personal.”
Kaching
! Another ding in her ego. Next he issued a “One, two, three …” and before she knew it, she was flat on her back amidst an ocean of rippling green garbage bags. How romantic.

“You okay?” he asked with a smile in his voice.

“Fine,” she grumbled, squirming to find her footing. She swatted away a fly and crinkled her nose, trying not to gag on a noxious odor as she unknotted one of the garbage bags. At least it was a cool, cloudy morning. She didn’t even want to know what this dumpster smelled like in the heat of a sunny afternoon. “What am I looking for precisely?”