Jinxed (26 page)

No reaction to the name. No mew or angled head. The cat remained aloof and continued to stare.

Afia stared back, paralyzed with apprehension.
Are you a good omen? Or bad?
If this was Scamp, then he was the skinniest of Jake’s “strays.” No, not skinny … slender, sleek. His coat gleamed like polished ebony, reminding her of an Egyptian statue. “Black cats were sacred in ancient Egypt, you know.”
Please don’t run away.
Last night she’d followed Rudy’s advice. She’d trusted her heart and seized the day. She’d had wild, pulse-pounding sex with Jake, and this morning she didn’t harbor a single regret. She didn’t feel sluttish. She felt alive. And happy.
Truly happy
. She wanted to seize another day, and another. She was sick of living in fear.

“You remind me a little of Bast,” she softly told the cat. “Bast was an Egyptian Goddess. Head of a cat, body of a woman. The Goddess of the rising sun, and the moon, and so much more. Enlightenment, sexuality, fertility …”

The cat angled his head, causing her to blink and focus on just one of Bast’s roles. “She was a fierce protector of children and was often invoked by those desiring offspring.” Afia worried her lower lip, a savage longing clawing at her stomach. “Did I invoke you?”

The question was little more than a whisper, and yet the cat responded by taking a tentative step forward, and then another and another …

Afia lay flat on her back, her breath stalled in her lungs as the sleek black feline climbed on top of her and proceeded to knead her stomach with his furry paws. Then he purred, a low comforting drone that had tears of joy springing to her eyes.

“I’ll be damned.”

Afia rolled her head to the side and saw Jake standing in the doorway holding two crystal tumblers. He was quite the early morning delight. Disheveled, unshaven, and half-naked. She imagined personal trainers everywhere paying homage to his corded upper body. She certainly appreciated the result of his obvious hard work. Blushing, she turned back to the cat. “Please don’t scare him away.”

“Sweetheart, Scamp’s not afraid of me.” He moved inside and set the tumblers on the nightstand. “He’s leery of women.” He climbed back into bed and regarded her with a cocked eyebrow. “Most women anyhow. I guess he sensed what I know.”

“What’s that?” she asked, reveling in his masculine aura and the feel of Scamp’s busy paws.

Jake stroked the cat, but his eyes were on her, warm and caring. “That you’re special.”

“I’ve been called a lot of things,” she rasped, “but never special.” Scamp padded off of her lap and curled up at the bottom of the bed near her feet.
Like a protective Goddess
. The Goddess of pleasure and joy. Fertility and birth.

“
Two or three kids would be nice
,” Jake had said.

Afia’s eyes burned, and her throat felt raw. She tried to get a grip on her chaotic feelings while pushing herself up on her elbows. “Could I have a drink, please?”

“Water or orange juice?” he asked, studying her with wary eyes.

“Water, please.”

He handed her one of the tumblers. She drank deeply, sighed and, passed it back. “Thank you.”

He set aside the glass and then turned back and brushed his knuckles across her cheek. “Regrets?”

Concern and sincere affection burned in his eyes, quickening her pulse. She settled back against the plethora of pillows and smiled, basking in his tender regard. “No regrets.” If Scamp and her racing heart were any indication, she’d made the right choice. “You?”

“Oh, yeah.” He skimmed his finger down the hollow of her throat and over her collarbone. “Last night was torture.” He palmed her breast, leaned down and suckled.

Desire rippled through her body as he feasted on her nipples, making her wanton and bold. Then her mind tripped up her pleasure. She wondered where they were going with this. A fling? An affair? A relationship? Where did the babies fit in?

Don’t think, feel
.

“Speaking of torture …” A wicked smile curled her lips as she put her hands on Jake’s shoulders and pressed him back on the bed. “I owe you.”

He smiled up at her, a naughty twinkle in his eye. “Bring it on.”

“Stop second-guessing yourself, Bunny.”

Rudy adjusted the sheet over his lower half and lolled his head to the left. Jean-Pierre lay on his side, head propped in his hand, looking better than any man had a right to on two hours of sleep, if that. “I’m not second-guessing myself.” He’d taken his own advice, trusted his heart, and seized the day. Or rather the Frenchman. When Jean-Pierre had dragged through the door after one in the morning, exhausted and bitchy because one of the dancers had just informed him that she was pregnant, Rudy had taken pity on the man.

Comfort had started by way of a bottle of wine and a massage and had ended up in bed. The interlude had been hot, gratifying, and, when Jean-Pierre had fallen asleep in his arms, oddly fulfilling.

“All right.” The source of his insomnia pushed his hair off of his face and raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Then what have you been thinking about? You have been staring at the ceiling for twenty minutes.”

Rudy grunted, embarrassed and aroused. “I can’t believe you’ve been lying there watching me.”

“You are very easy on the eyes,
mon amour
.” He flashed one of the devilish smiles that simultaneously irked and stimulated Rudy.

“I wish you wouldn’t use that word.”

“What word?”

He sighed, rolled over, and pushed himself onto an elbow to face Jean-Pierre and his greatest fear. “Love. I don’t take it lightly.”

“Neither do I.”

“Then stop tossing it around.”

Jean-Pierre screwed up his face. “Tossing?”

“I ignored it last night because you were hammered.”

“What is hammered?”

“Drunk.”

Jean-Pierre’s lips twisted into an annoyed smirk. “Rudy, I am French. I have wine in my veins. I was not drunk. I meant what I said.”

Rudy’s heart pounded in slow, aching thuds as his fears started to ebb. Maybe all of those affirmations had helped. Maybe what he was looking for was right here in his bed. Was Jean-Pierre the one? Dare he believe? Dare he put his heart on the line? An Erica Jong quote floated through his head. “
If you don’t risk anything, you risk even more
.”

“So what were you thinking about?” Jean-Pierre asked.

“Vermont,” he said, taking a leap of faith. “I’d like to spend Christmas in Vermont with you.”

Jean-Pierre nodded. “And I would like to show you Paris in the springtime.”

His heart swelled at the genuine affection swimming in his bed partner’s eyes. Then a lone thought lanced his euphoric bubble. He flopped back on the bed, jammed his hands through his hair. “Shit.”

“Now you are thinking about Afia.” Jean-Pierre fell back beside him. “You are wondering how you are going to break it to her that we are in love. No doubt, she will want to move out to allow us privacy.”

“When did you get so damned perceptive?”

Jean-Pierre chuckled, reached over and squeezed his hand. “Do not worry, Bunny. Last night I got a glimpse of Afia and Jake on the dance floor. I think she will be moving out regardless.”

“I like your bed,” Afia said. “A lot.”

Grinning, Jake watched her stretch like one of his cats and then roll side to side on his mussed sheets while he zipped up his jeans. “I’m glad.” He wasn’t sure if she was referring to the queen-sized pillow mattress, or to what they’d done on it. Either way the sight of her filled him with bone-deep pleasure. She filled this house with warmth, goodness, and an enigmatic energy. Wrapped in a thick burgundy towel and still damp from their shower, she looked pretty as hell and hot to trot.

He was down for the count. Her idea of torture had been smothering his body with kisses, stroking him to the brink, and then rolling on a condom and climbing aboard. He’d flipped her over, managing to hold out for another twenty minutes, intent to give as good as she gave. Exhausted, she’d drifted back to sleep, and he’d slipped off to take a shower. Damned, if she didn’t join him midway through to soap him up into another lather. The woman was insatiable.

“I’m going to go downstairs and fix us some breakfast. You,” he said, pointing a stern finger, “put on some clothes.” Did those words actually come out of his mouth?

She rolled over on her stomach. The towel scrunched up, and he got a peek at three-quarters of her firm bottom. He shook his head at the tempting sight as she propped her chin in her hand and grinned. Velma curled up on one side of her, Scamp on the other. He still couldn’t get over how the wary cat had taken to her so quickly. Then again, he’d fallen in love with Afia in under a week.

“I’ll have to borrow something of yours to wear,” she said. “My evening gown is a little dressy for breakfast, and all of my other clothes are at Rudy’s.”

“Not for long,” he mumbled, pulling a T-shirt over his head.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. We’ll talk about it over waffles.” He streaked a comb through his wet hair. “Do you even like waffles?”

Her eyes twinkled. “With strawberries?”

“Don’t have strawberries. What about bananas?” Her eyebrows rose, and he cut her off. “Don’t say it. Keep those X-rated thoughts to yourself.” He grinned. “At least for a couple of hours.”

She snickered and rolled off of the bed in one fluid movement, smiling as she walked toward him with all that dark, wet hair, the towel skimming those enticing thighs, the devilish gleam in her eyes tempting him to …

Groaning, he sidestepped her and slid on his wristwatch. “Hands off, woman.”

Now she was giggling. “Geesh, what happened to my fantasy fulfilling superhero?”

Christ, she was adorable. “His powers need recharging.” His cell phone rang.

“Saved by the bell.” She sighed and then turned and slid open his top drawer.

“Hello? Yes, this is Jake Blaine.” He listened to some woman from the SCC introduce herself and watched in amazement as Afia folded his underwear. Women. His mother had folded underwear. Joni folded underwear. What was the point? “We did? Great. When and where?”

He moved in beside her, opened the middle drawer, and yanked out a pair of sweats and a tee. “Got it,” he told the woman. “Thanks.” He powered off then nudged Afia. “Get your hands off of my briefs.”

“But—”

“We won the painting we bid on last night,” he said, giving her something else to do by shoving the pants and shirt in her hands.

Her face lit up like a Christmas tree. “We did?”

He wanted to wrap around her like a garland. He turned away and sat in a chair to tug on a pair of boots. “The prize chairperson—”

“Sally Clarkson,” she said, pulling on the faded blue T-shirt.

“Yup. Said we could pick up the painting anytime this week.”

She stepped into the navy sweats and tugged the drawstring tight. “I can’t believe we won! That painting was beautiful. Surely several people wanted it. How was it that we had the highest bid?”

He tied off his work boot. “Lucky, I guess.”

They looked at each other at the same time.

“My luck does seem to be changing for the better,” she said, wide-eyed. “Since I met you.”

Jake poked his tongue in his cheek and digested that statement. The last thing he wanted was to become her lucky talisman. He wanted her to be with him out of love, not because she thought he could magically ward off misfortune. “You know what I think?” He braced his arms on his knees and regarded her intently. “We make our own luck. It’s all in the mind. Positive thought over negative.”

She divided her wet hair evenly over her shoulders and weaved the mass into two long braids. “You sound like Rudy.”

He raised a brow. “A friend wouldn’t steer another friend wrong, right?”

She cocked her head, studied him for a moment, and then padded over in her bare feet. “You really are my friend, aren’t you?”

He took her hand and pulled her down onto his lap, humbled by the trusting look in her eyes. “I don’t care if you’re young or old, rich or poor, if you live next door or across the country. I sure as hell don’t care that you were born on Friday the thirteenth. I will always be your friend, Afia.”

She clasped her hands in her lap, her voice stilted and breathy. “I think that’s the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

He wrapped his hand around hers and squeezed. He ached to say much more. He wanted to be her lover, her husband, but he wasn’t sure if she was ready to hear that just now. Although he was fairly certain she’d fallen in love with him, she’d neatly avoided last night’s sleepy confession. Something was holding her back, and he didn’t want to make things worse, ultimately scaring her off. Still, he had to say something, make some play to set their future in motion. “Yeah, well, that part about you living next door or across the country … Gotta be honest, baby, I’d like it a hell of a lot better if you lived here.”

She toyed with the end of one braid and glanced away.

“I’ve been thinking about it, and it makes sense,” he plowed on. “Gallow’s townhouse is cramped. He’s already got a roommate. You’re sleeping on the couch, cluttering his dining room with your boxes and racks of clothes.”