Jinxed (22 page)

“I’m so sorry.” Afia pressed a hand to her racing heart. “It’s just …” She smiled at Jake. “I’m sorry. Jake, I’d like to introduce Dora Simmons, president of the Seashore Charity Committee, and our, their,
the
vice president, Frances Tate.”

“So how long have you and Afia been seeing each other,” Dora asked, moving in for the kill.

“Not long,” Jake said.

Frances raised her thinly tweezed brows at Afia. “I’m glad you had the good taste to break things off with your chauffeur, dear.”

Maybe it was the scotch. Maybe it was her reluctance to be a doormat with Jake looking on. Or maybe she was just plain sick of these two hypocritical do-gooders. She smiled, a slow smile laced with innuendo. “Oh, I’m still living with Rudy.”

Frances blinked and looked at Jake.

He nodded. “Great guy. A real man’s man.”

Afia stifled a giggle.

Dora crossed her arms over the black beaded bodice of her classic silk gown. “And what business are
you
in, Mr. Blaine?”

“The business of gathering information.”

“Oh?”

“Data processing,” he clarified.

“Oh. Sounds tedious. Although it must pay terribly well,” she said, glancing at Afia.

“Not terribly,” Jake said. “Just your everyday, blue-collar job.”

Frances smoothed her fingers over her diamond choker and chuckled. “Young. Middle income. You’re certainly not Afia’s type now, are you, Mr. Blaine?”

Zing! Afia felt an invisible arrow pierce her protective bubble, and she almost,
almost
lost her composure.
I am willing to forgive their pettiness
.

Jake’s smile was intact, that same gorgeous, dimpled smile, but his eyes had turned dark and cold. “Here’s a tip, ladies.” He thumped two fingers against his heart. “Charity begins at home.” He nodded toward the silent auction merchandise. “Amazing that you’re able to do so much good when your hearts are so small.”

“Well!” Dora said with a nervous titter. “I never!”

“I’m not surprised.” Jake grasped Afia’s hand and tugged her further down the table. “Come on, baby. Let’s shop.”

Afia had to press her lips together to keep from laughing. Jake, and not Dora, had gotten in the last word. “I don’t think you made a very good impression.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what those two think of me and neither should you.”

“I know. I don’t. At least, I’m trying not to. They do wonderful work, but they really are obnoxious. To me, anyway.”

“And why is that?”

“They’re afraid I’ve got my sights set on their husbands.”

“Do you?”

She blanched. “Of course not!”
I haven’t done anything wrong
. Then she saw the teasing twinkle in his eye. “Oh.”

He stroked his thumb along her jaw. “To hell with them, Jinx.”

“To hell with them,” she repeated, that strange ache pulsing in her chest again. Her blood roared in her ears as he focused on her mouth. She moistened her bottom lip willing him to steal a kiss. Just one … just something to appease the hunger until … later.

He swallowed hard then broke away to peruse the merchandise. “So what should we bid on?”

Disappointment seeped into her bones, even though she knew he was right to resist her silent plea. If they started kissing now they’d probably end up in the janitor’s closet instead of the ballroom. “Actually,” she said on a sigh, “Dora and Frances were right. I can’t really afford—”

“Sure you can. End of the week. Pay day. It’s for a good cause, right?”

“Oh, yes.” Her enthusiasm returned at the thought of all the good that would come from the gala. “Tonight’s proceeds will be divided up among several worthy organizations. The Homeless Shelter. The Aids Alliance.” She grinned. “Even the daycare center will get a small, but much needed slice.”

“Then let’s do it.”

His insistence melted away her inhibitions and left her light-headed. Or maybe it was the scotch. Probably a little of both. “All right, Mr.
Blaine
.” She squelched the urge to hold his hand while scanning the merchandise. “Where’d you get that name anyway?”

“It’s cheesy.”

“Tell me.” She passed over a spa certificate and basket of Godiva chocolates.

“
Casablanca
.”

She slapped his shoulder and squealed. “Get out! I just watched that movie the other night! Humphrey Bogart as Rick Blaine. Except tonight you look more … I don’t know … like Cary Grant in
Charade
. Except you’re younger and have blond hair.”

“Perfect casting,” his gaze floated from her lips to her eyes, “since you resemble Audrey Hepburn … except you’re sexier.”

Embarrassed, she made light of the compliment, fluttered a hand, snickered. “Oh, go on. No really. Feel free to expound on my charms.”

He grinned and fingered a certificate for a moonlight cruise dinner. “You’re cute when you’re tipsy.”

Aching to plunge her tongue inside of his sexy mouth, she shook her head and inspected a beaded bag. “It’s not the scotch. It’s you. You make me feel …”
Alive
. It sounded so pathetic. “You’re right, it’s the scotch.” She smiled, and massaged her temple. “Next time, I’ll sip.”

Five minutes later they’d placed a bid on a landscape painting by a local artist. Afia had insisted that the painting would look perfect on the office’s reception area wall, and amazingly, Jake had agreed. They hadn’t bid as much as she normally would have, but she was pleased all the same. She’d actually
earned
this money.
No contribution is too small
. How many times had she told someone that when she’d hawked raffle tickets at one or another charity event?

She heard the orchestra switch over from Motown to standards, and knew from years of attending social dinner dances that the salad was about to be served. She suspected the special entertainment would take place in between courses. “We should probably go inside and find a seat.”

“Preferably somewhere near Rivelli,” Jake said.

Afia stroked her bracelet. “He’ll be seated up front along with any other attending casino executives.”

“Is that a problem?”

She glanced over and caught Dora glaring at her.
I will not be intimidated
. “No,” she said, with a practiced smile. “Not a problem. Just tricky. The tables closest to the stage are reserved.”

Jake nodded and ushered her toward the ballroom entrance. “Let’s locate Rivelli and take it from there.”

Afia slid off her sheer wrap, draping it over her arms as they walked past Dora and Frances. She heard a unified gasp and wasn’t a bit surprised. Obviously, the witches of the East were appalled by her backless gown. The surprising part was that Afia didn’t give a
rat’s ass
. Even more surprising was that she felt completely at ease as she navigated the ballroom on Jake’s arm. Most of the attendees were already seated and engrossed in conversation while awaiting their salads. The room was fairly dark, and it’s not as if there were a spotlight on her, although there was a time she would have imagined just that. She noticed a few curious glances, a few behind-the-hand whispers, but nothing that she couldn’t endure.

Truth told, Jake was turning his own share of heads. Female heads. He looked handsome and dapper, and entirely comfortable in this reserved environment. He was rather like a chameleon, she thought, possessing the capacity to blend in perfectly with his surroundings. “You really didn’t need me here tonight,” she whispered out of the side of her mouth. “But I’m glad I came.”

He smiled down at her. “So am I.” Then he angled his head toward a table just left of the dance floor. “There’s Rivelli. The tall, dark-headed man sitting in between the lady with the red curls and the man with the slate-gray jacket. See him?”

Afia nodded. “I think I also see a table not too far away with two open seats. The best part is I don’t know another soul sitting there. Shall we?”

Now Jake knew why this was a two hundred dollar a plate dinner. The food was incredible, prepared, according to Afia, by the city’s top chefs. The wine: top notch. The floral centerpieces: works of modern art. The ten-piece orchestra: talented and polished, playing jazz standards during the courses and dance music in between. The way Afia kept watching the parquet floor and swaying in time, it was obvious she wanted to dance. Several other men, including the husbands of the two bitches he’d met earlier, had noticed as well, stopping by the table at various times to invite her onto the floor. Jake had smiled, but he’d wanted to cold-cock each one. Afia had politely turned them all down saying, “Thank you, but all of my dances are saved.” Then she’d smile at Jake.

He’d been touched and tempted, especially during the slow songs. As to the classic R&B she seemed especially fond of, well, it’s not that he didn’t like to dance, it’s just that he wasn’t sure if he was capable of watching Afia “shake her groove thang” without losing his mind.

Dinner had been torture. Every time she moved just so, he got a glimpse of her breast. Just a glimpse. Just enough to make saliva pool in his mouth. During the main course he’d felt bare toes creeping up his pant leg, sliding up and down his calf. Relatively certain they didn’t belong to the burly doctor on his right, he’d turned to Afia and raised a cautionary brow. She’d merely waggled her eyebrows and taken a dainty bite of her filet mignon. That’s when he’d moved her wine glass out of her reach. She’d only had one glass, but she’d also had that scotch, and maybe she didn’t have a head for liquor.

Rivelli on the other hand could clearly hold his drink. Jake had had a clear view of the man most of the night. The casino V.P. had consumed more than a few glasses of wine, and yet his behavior remained above reproach. He’d conversed and laughed with his table companions during courses. In between he’d visited with the dignitaries seated at the surrounding tables. Outgoing without being obnoxious. Good-looking, well-dressed, and well-spoken, and as his fiancée had pointed out, charismatic. But he hadn’t made eyes at any woman in particular, nor had he touched any one of them inappropriately. When he’d stepped out into the hall to make a call on the house phone, Jake had stepped out for a smoke and eavesdropped. The call had been strictly business. When he’d excused himself from the table twenty minutes later, Jake had followed again only to land in the men’s room. Perfect. He’d had to take a leak anyway.

Now they were both back at their tables, both having dessert and coffee, and both awaiting the special performance from
Venetian Vogue
.

“This is it,” Afia whispered as the orchestra left the stage and a host announced the Carnevale showroom pit band. Five musicians, resembling Gondoliers in their black and white striped shirts and red kerchiefs, readied their instruments.

Jake recognized his brother-in-law at the keyboard. This morning Joni had called to tell him, “
Carson got the gig!
” A gig with an open-ended contract and surprisingly decent salary. In that moment, Jake had felt lighter, less pressured on the financial end. If he could get Carson aside tonight, he’d congratulate him personally. Otherwise he’d call him tomorrow. Right now he needed to watch Rivelli as Rivelli watched the dancers.

The music kicked off, very Euro-techno, and nine women and five men exploded into the room from all sides. Their costumes were outrageous. Revealing and glitzy, bold and imaginative. Eleventh-century Renaissance meets Cirque du Soleil. He’d never seen anything quite like it. The women wore matching hairpieces beneath their hats and plumes and gilded masks that covered the upper halves of their faces making it difficult to distinguish one from the other. They all had great bodies, stellar legs. Every one of them wore fishnet stockings. Rivelli, as far as he could tell, wasn’t focusing on any one, particular girl. He was watching all of the dancers, the choreographed numbers as a whole, with a fat-ass grin on his face. The man was mesmerized.

Ten minutes later, the mini-show ended, and the audience rose to their feet for a standing ovation. The pit band disappeared—meaning Jake would be calling Carson tomorrow—and the orchestra returned and launched into
It’s Raining Men
. The Venetian dancers stormed the floor, encouraging the audience to join in. One of the first to bite was Anthony Rivelli. He snagged one of the girls, and they promptly “hustled” their way to the center of the floor.

It seemed as if three-quarters of the audience followed suit. Atlantic City’s elite packed the dance floor, effectively shielding Rivelli and his partner from Jake’s view.

He stood and held out his hand to Afia. “I believe you saved a dance for me.”

“Lots of them.” She clasped his hand and flashed a coy grin. “You just want to get close to Rivelli.”

He pulled her onto the dance floor and into his arms. “I want to get close to you.” He slid both of his hands over her bare shoulders, down the smooth expanse of her sexy back and maneuvered her toward the middle of the floor. “And to Rivelli,” he admitted with a nod.

“What did you think of the costumes?” she asked, backing out of his arms to do a funky move.

“Imaginative.”

She smiled. “My friend designed them.”