Jinxed (18 page)

It was the black cat that had lunged out of nowhere, streaking across Marty’s path and tripping the bastard just as he’d aimed a revolver at Jake that had him presently cruising the Internet. The bullet that had whizzed by his ear might have gone through his chest if not for that cat. A cat that had duly disappeared. A cat that no one in the neighborhood claimed.

Coincidence or luck?

Jake sat at his desk, eyeing the polished cat charm on Afia’s bracelet while typing SUPERSTITIONS into the search engine and contemplating his brush with disaster. Marty Ashe was a bully. A man who attacked with obscenities and fists. The fact that he’d obtained a gun was a surprise and, in a warped way, a blessing. Unlike Nancy, Jake wasn’t afraid to press charges.

Marty was looking at some deserved jail time.

A multitude of listings came up on the computer screen. Jake clicked on one after another, noting in particular the superstitions pertaining to black cats. Depending on the culture, beliefs differed. In the Orient, black cats symbolized poverty and ill-health, while Scottish superstition claimed a strange black cat on your porch brought prosperity. Though considered unlucky in the European and European-American traditions, in the African-American sporting world, the black cat granted invisibility and the return of lost love as well as money luck.

The clichéd and most common belief was that black cats conjured bad luck, while others touted exactly the opposite. Apparently there was an “evil” black cat and a “good” black cat.

To see a black cat cross your path brings bad luck.

To see a black cat walk toward you brings good luck
.

And assorted variations.

Any way you looked at it, if one was given to superstition, Marty Ashe had been foiled by a black puss. The bastard’s bad luck had been Jake and Nancy’s good fortune.

Jake’s skeptical brain spun in circles as he fingered Afia’s bracelet. A gift from her father. A father she adored. A father who’d told her that she needed all the luck on earth, not because he believed her to be jinxed, but because her mother had an absurd fear of Friday the thirteenth, amongst other things. He wondered what an intelligent man like Judge Bradley St. John could’ve seen in such an irrational woman. He typed PARASKEVIDEKATRIAPHOBIA into the search engine only to learn that over twenty-one million Americans suffered from the phobia. Amazingly, fear of Friday the thirteenth appeared to be the most widespread superstition in America. So it wasn’t as if Giselle was a freak of nature. As for the judge, well, whether the man was superstitious or not he’d given Afia a gift that perpetuated the belief in lucky talismans.

Since Jake subscribed to the notion that children are products of their parents, Afia’s easy acceptance of ancient superstitions made perfect sense. Had he been reared in a whimsical household, perhaps he’d be walking around with a lucky token in his pocket. When it came down to it, how was rubbing a rabbit’s foot any different than stroking rosary beads? How did believing in the power of the supernatural differ from believing in the power of a Supreme Being? Who was he to judge?

When Afia had slipped the bracelet into his pocket he’d been touched and, okay, a little amused. As if a charm bracelet was going to offer more protection than his Glock and honed boxing skills. But then there’d been that cat, and although logic supported coincidence, curiosity, and Afia, had him contemplating luck.

“I just got off of the phone with Nancy.”

Jake glanced up from the computer screen as the woman of his obsession walked into his office and sank down in the chair across from his desk. She slumped rather than sitting rigidly in her usually prim way. She looked exhausted, but gratified, and his heart tripped at the jazzed twinkle in her eyes.

“She thought it over and decided to take my advice. She’s going to visit the Atlantic County Women’s Center on Monday. I’m so relieved.”

“So am I,” Jake said, amazed and grateful that Afia had been able to convince Nancy to seek professional help. While he’d been filling in the patrolmen on the details of the attempted shooting, she’d been in the house “having a talk” with Nancy. Considering the volatile situation, Afia’s calm demeanor had impressed him. “I’ve been trying to talk Nancy into visiting the center for months.” He minimized the “superstition” document and leaned back in his chair. “How is it that you know so much about a place that councils battered women?”

Cheeks tinged with pink, she shrugged and looked away. “I served on the Seashore Charity Committee for years. I’m familiar with most of the non-profit social service agencies in Southern Jersey. But I’m ashamed to say that I don’t have much hands-on experience. I’ve never actually been to the ACWC. I told Nancy I would meet her there. For support. With me there, maybe she won’t back out.” She glanced at Jake with a shaky smile. “I need to take an active part in society rather than standing on the sidelines.”

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.