Jinxed (7 page)

Or maybe she’d exert that independent streak Harmon had mentioned and insist on calling her own shots. Maybe he didn’t get a bad vibe on Afia, because she wasn’t really all that bad. Spoiled, but not rotten. She was a puzzle all right. Damn if he didn’t love a good mystery.

“King? Grisham?”

“Gawain. Shakti Gawain.” Rudy closed his copy of
Creative Visualization,
a paperback that was a third of the size of any Stephen King or John Grisham novel he’d ever seen, and set it aside as Harmon Reece took the seat across from him in one of Ventnor’s trendiest restaurants.

“Never heard of him.”

“Her,” Rudy corrected, and he wasn’t surprised. Harmon was hardly what he’d call enlightened. Unlike Afia’s wacko mother, who believed in every superstition known to man, Harmon believed in what he could see, smell, hear, and touch. Hard evidence. He’d never dream of meditating or chanting affirmations before entering the courtroom, of visualizing a positive outcome. Men like Harmon achieved their goals through sheer arrogance. He never doubted his actions.

Rudy almost envied him.

Harmon signaled a waitress and ordered a scotch on the rocks. He eyed Rudy’s glass of seltzer. “Something stronger?”

“No, thank you. I have a pick-up scheduled at the airport in one hour.”

The waitress passed them menus, recited the specials, and then slipped away.

Harmon loosened his tie. “But you’ll be back in time to drive Afia home. Or rather to
your
place.”

Rudy suppressed a smile. Harmon hated not having Afia under his roof, or more to the point, under his watchful eye. Unfortunately, he expected her “friend” to be his eyes and ears. “Plenty of time,” he said, his good humor fading. “But there’s a catch. Your dick ordered her to get rid of the limo.”

Harmon raised an eyebrow and then turned his attention to the menu’s parchment pages. “So pick her up in your regular car.”

“That would be my motorcycle.”

The man frowned, flipped to the next page. “I’ll provide you with a car. Something unobtrusive since I’m assuming that was Jake’s problem. A limousine attracts attention. One of the reasons I wanted him to take charge of Afia. He’ll keep her low-key while this mess blows over.”

Rudy skimmed the entrees, ignoring the part about Jake “taking charge,” as if Afia needed another person pulling her strings. It’s exactly what she didn’t need. She needed to stand on her own two feet. She needed support not domination. He’d watched her struggle with guilt, loneliness, and confusion in the eleven months since Frank’s death. Mostly due to her mother who’d somehow convinced Afia that she was jinxed and had nothing to offer the world outside of her looks. His gentle friend had no idea who she was or what she was capable of, because she’d spent her entire life morphing into other people’s ideals. Good-hearted to a fault, Afia worried about pleasing everyone except herself. When she’d expressed the desire to wring Henry Glick’s traitorous neck, he’d cheered.

Deciding on the pan-seared scallops, Rudy abandoned the menu and stroked his goatee. “Do you really think you’ll get her money back, Mr. Reece.”

“It is my sincere intention.”

In other words, yes. He waited until the waitress served Harmon his scotch and then returned to another point of concern. “Afia knows I can’t afford a new car. If I suddenly show up with one she’ll ask questions. She’s not as ditzy as you think.”

Harmon sipped his drink then met his gaze. “Ditzy is not a term I have ever used to describe my goddaughter. She is, however, gullible.”

“Trusting.” Rudy’s gut clenched. “I don’t feel right about this whole arrangement, Mr. Reece. I can’t betray Afia’s confidence by reporting to you her every thought and move.”

“I don’t need details. I just want to know that she’s safe.”

Rudy softened at the genuine concern in the older man’s eyes. “I won’t let anything bad happen to her.”

“I know. And neither will Jake. I’ll be out of town for the next few days on business. It’ll be easier now that I know Afia’s in good hands. Jake’s got her days. You’ve got her nights. I’m comfortable with that.”

What if Jake gets one of her nights
? he wanted to ask, but wisely bit his tongue. Assuming the man was good-hearted, he’d dance with joy and sing
Everything’s Coming Up Roses
if Afia got down and dirty with the sexy P.I. As far as he knew she’d never had a one-night-stand. Creative, erotic sex? Might be therapeutic just now. Though Afia was fairly tight-lipped about her bedroom antics, he was fairly certain she’d never experienced anything other than the missionary or a slight variation thereof. He tried picturing Randy or Frank bending her over the kitchen table and shuddered.

Now Jake … Hell, he could picture emerald-eyes doing a lot of things. Not with him, of course. That tasty morsel registered off his gay-dar. But with Afia … He visualized his friend and the P.I. doing the hetero-nasty and smiled. As for himself … his days of flinging were over. He rested his hand on his book, silently chanting,
I am open and ready for a serious, long-term relationship
.

Harmon signaled the waitress that they were ready to order and then eyed Rudy over his drink. “So Afia tells me you have a new roommate. Tell me about him.”

He was trying to kill her. Death by junk food. She’d consumed a jumbo hotdog smothered with mustard and relish because, according to Jake, that was the only way to eat a hotdog, a small bucket of salted French fries, and now he expected her to eat frozen chocolate custard. Afia tugged down the brim of her new baseball cap, pushed her black Gucci sunglasses back up her sweat-beaded nose, and tried not to think about how refreshing, and delicious, that screaming-fat dessert would taste. “I couldn’t possibly.”

Jake thrust the cone into her hand, his eyes a mystery behind those mirrored aviators. “If you’re worried about the calories, don’t.”

She smirked. “Easy for you to say. You don’t need to fit into a size three.”

“Neither do you.”

She didn’t argue. She wasn’t about to explain her obsession with maintaining a svelte figure, especially not within earshot of the myriads of tourists and casino workers crowding the beachside boardwalk. Not that she had an eating disorder or anything similarly tabloid worthy, but she had been counting calories and pounding the treadmill since she was sixteen. If she so much as gained five pounds, her mother would notice. She’d raise a judgmental eyebrow, saying,
“You know I don’t mean to be cruel, Afia, but high-profile men prefer showcase wives. Have you ever seen Donald Trump with a blimp
?”

Except Afia didn’t want Donald Trump or any other high-profile man for that matter. She’d had two, and though she’d felt sincere affection for Randy and Frank, there had been no pulse-pounding passion. No spark. Next time around she wanted fireworks. Unpredictable, heart-stuttering pyrotechnics.

Jake sat down beside her on the wood-slatted bench, and a roman candle rocketed through her blood stream. The man sizzled with an inner intensity that made the backs of her knees sweat.

She resisted the urge to fan herself, although she could easily blame her burning cheeks on the noonday sun. Chocolate custard melted and dripped over her knuckles. She had two choices: start licking or toss the cone in the nearest trash receptacle. She glanced sideways at Jake—lounging comfortably against the park bench as if he hadn’t a care in the world—and surreptitiously admired his mouth-watering profile. Square jaw, strong chin, and an interesting nose that looked as if it may have been broken once or twice. But mostly she focused on his full, tempting lips. She imagined kissing that sinfully sexy mouth, and her insides melted along with another ripple of custard.

She thought about Jake’s mysterious client. Next to that curvy siren, Afia felt as desirable as an anorexic nun. Maybe if she gained a few pounds in the right places, she’d gain the interest of a man like Jake. Not Jake specifically, of course, but someone like him. Someone who sizzled.

Ignoring her mother’s phantom nagging, she attacked the calorie-infested cone with gusto. Rebellion never tasted so good.

Behind her, waves crashed against the public beach, sunbathers worshiped the June sun, and children screeched with joy as they splashed and bodysurfed in the vast Atlantic. A southern breeze blew in the tantalizing scents of funnel cakes, corn dogs, and French fries, catapulting Afia back to her childhood. To the cherished times her dad had brought her to the Steel Pier, a historic amusement venue boasting carnival rides, psychics, and forbidden food. A self-confessed adrenaline junkie, Judge Bradley St. John had introduced his young daughter to the thrills of roller coasters and sky wheels—the higher, the faster, the better. In between, they’d played darts, shot air rifles and had pigged out on cotton candy and cheese fries. She’d never felt so
alive
.

Unfortunately, her mother had worried incessantly that, given Afia’s luck, one of the rides would go haywire and they’d end up the victims of some horrific accident. Bad enough that she was being exposed to carnies, gypsies, and midway food. Eventually, her dad had buckled under the weighty lectures, and thereafter, when he’d managed to tear himself away from his courtroom, had taken his young daughter to the latest G-rated movie. It occurred to Afia that were the film censors to rate her life, misfortune and all, she’d barely register PG. The realization proved oddly depressing.

She swirled her tongue around the frozen custard lapping up taboo calories. “Why aren’t you having dessert?” she asked Jake in between licks.

“My dessert’s in my shirt pocket, but since the wind would blow the smoke in your face, I’ll have it later.”

Why have the lung-blackening cigarette at all, she wanted to ask, but knew he’d take exception. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

His dimple flared. “I’m a thoughtful kind of guy.”

He was joking with her again. At least she thought he was joking. Her head ached, and she wasn’t sure if it was from eating the frozen custard too fast or from trying to get a fix on Jake. She’d never been around a man like him. So blunt. So … what would Rudy call him?
Alpha-male
. And yet underneath that gruff exterior lurked a sensitive soul. She’d seen it in his eyes when he’d dealt with his weepy client, and when he’d asked about Joni’s welfare. And even though she clearly wasn’t qualified to be a private investigator’s assistant, he’d given her the job she so desperately wanted. Was that it? Had he seen the desperation in her eyes? Did the intimidating Mr. Leeds have a weakness for damsels in distress? Her back went up at the notion that he’d hired her because he felt sorry for her. The last thing she needed was yet another man coming to her rescue.

“Your life is out of control because you have no control in your life.”

Suddenly all she wanted was to get back to the office.

“You can answer the phone, right? Make coffee?”

Thinking back, Jake’s comments had been as insulting as Harmon’s incredulous expression when she’d announced her intention to get a job. As if she were a fluff-brained idiot. Although that’s exactly what the manager of the casino boutique had called her when she’d been unable to master the computerized cash register. Not that the buttoned-up, pinch-lipped woman had taken the time to properly train her. One quick overview and she was expected to understand. Questions annoyed the standoffish manager, and when Afia unintentionally ticked off a casino high-roller by asking for identification before accepting a check, she’d been terminated on the spot. She’d taken the humiliation in stride, much like her heated dismissal from the hectic themed restaurant.

She hadn’t deserved to lose either job. She certainly hadn’t earned the insults. Rudy was right. She should have spoken up in her defense because obviously her indignation had been festering. Just now her stomach churned like an active volcano, and she didn’t think it was because of the mass quantities of junk food. Although that was a possibility.

“It was very kind of you to buy me lunch,” she said, her voice as cool as her devoured custard, “but you mentioned you had someplace to be, and I’d hate to keep you from work.” She pulled a moist towelette from her purse, squared her shoulders, and wiped her sticky hands.

“I’m exactly where I need to be, and believe it or not, I am working.”

His expression was unreadable and because of those darned sunglasses, she couldn’t tell if he was looking at her, the Carnevale Casino, or the flock of seagulls attacking an abandoned bag of popcorn. “You don’t look like you’re working.” He looked like any one of the surrounding tourists, relaxed and enjoying a humid-free day on the boardwalk.

The corners of his mouth curled into an arrogant grin. “That’s because I’m good.”

I’ll bet.
Her cheeks burned. She scrubbed her hands harder as if it would cleanse her dirty thoughts. Darn him for being so charismatic. Darn
her
for being susceptible. As Rudy had pointed out, this wasn’t like her at all. Lusting after a straight, under-forty, blue-collar male.
Lust.
The word was almost as foreign to her as poor. Yes, she wanted to break old patterns, but not with a married man. Not with her boss. Her anxiety simmered toward boil. “So what exactly are you doing?”