Jinxed Read online

  “I’ll get them,” she said. “My fault.”

  She kneeled, her form-fitting dress hiking up to reveal shapely thighs, her head level with his … Christ. He stooped down to hide an untimely erection. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said.

  Hands full of ill-sorted data sheets, she looked him square in the eye.

  Oomph. A punch in the gut. He had a very hard time reconciling this vulnerable woman with her media nickname. “Black Widow?” More like “Lost Puppy.”

  “You’re firing me?”

  “Look, I …”

  She scrambled to her feet, affording him a brief, heart-tripping peek up her skirt.

  Jake rose, damning Harmon and his misplaced trust. Well, not misplaced, but certainly inconvenient. A man would have to be dead not to be attracted to Afia St. John. Although two men who had been attracted to her were dead. Good thing he wasn’t superstitious, otherwise he’d have to show Ms. St. John the door, screw the money. Bolstering himself, he zeroed in on the trembling woman, prepared for waterworks. She surprised him with fire.

  “You can’t dismiss me,” she said in rush. She glanced down at his appointment book and the blinking light on his message machine. “You’re overwhelmed. I can help.”

  Jake eyed the scattered case files. “This is helping?”

  “I have excellent people skills,” she continued. “I’m courteous and … and I’m a good listener. Your clients will love me.” She glanced around the room, brow creased as though she were in pain. “I’m also organized and have a flair for decorating.”

  “Forget it.”

  “But—”

  “No decorating.”

  Hope sparked in luminous sable eyes. “What about the good with people part?”

  “I’m fine with the good with people part.”

  She smiled, a thankful smile that twisted his gut into a knot. Well, hell. Normally an unforgiving judge of character, he cursed his bleeding-heart reaction. Beautiful, pampered, born and married into money—she was a walking cliché. It was absurd to feel anything for her other than blatant lust.

  “So I’m not fired?”

  “You were never fired.” He bent over to gather the rest of his files.

  “But, I thought—”

  “You jumped to conclusions. We’ll have to work on that. I was merely about to suggest that we postpone your start time until you go home and change.”

  He felt more than saw her tense. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  Nothing. “Everything.” He scanned her petite body—from strappy pointy-toed heels to belted waist to scooped neckline—while rising to place the papers on his desk. Classy. Sexy as hell. Skinny for his taste, but that face … huge soulful eyes, lush pink lips … Hell. “Unless otherwise notified,” he said, craving a cold shower, “dress to blend. That means no bright colors. No short skirts.” He pointed to her dainty pink shoes. “How the hell do you expect to run in three-inch heels?”

  “I’ll be running?”

  “You never know. And do something with your hair.”

  She smoothed a delicate hand over her loose, sable locks looking as though he’d just insulted her to the quick. “Like what?”

  Like shave it off. But imagining her bald didn’t diminish his desire. “Try a ponytail.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nix the perfume.” The light, spicy scent would get a rise out of a Eunuch.

  “Anything else?”

  “Lose the limo.”

  Afia descended the narrow stairs of the four-story walkup, dazed and intrigued. No one had ever criticized her sense of fashion. According to her mother, her good looks and unique style were the two things she had going for her. Something high-profile men would appreciate. Men like Randy and Frank. Indeed, her adoring husbands had positioned her on a lofty pedestal. Young, pretty, and eager to please, aside from her occasional brushes with misfortune, she’d been the perfect trophy wife.

  Her deceased husbands, both driven, successful men, had preferred she not work as it enabled her to concentrate on their needs. Serving on the Seaside Charity Committee, they’d said, was work enough, and politically advantageous. They’d given her carte blanche when it came to shopping. Both liked that she turned heads. Not that it was a conscious act on her part. She just happened to enjoy designer fashion, a bonus when one circulated in a world of dinner parties and black-tie affairs. Her wardrobe, just about the only thing that hadn’t been repossessed, consisted mainly of silk suits, chiffon blouses, and beaded evening gowns.

  Dress to blend? Jeans, T-shirts and sneakers? Did the prickly P.I. have any idea of what he was asking? And his last request … lose the limo. How did he know she’d come by limousine? Unless he’d been looking out his fourth-story window when she’d arrived. But then, even if he didn’t know who she was specifically, he’d assume that she was privileged. Wouldn’t he wonder why she was applying for a job as a glorified receptionist? Wouldn’t he ask? The more she thought about it the greater her confusion. What had just happened?

  She hit the last flight of stairs, brow scrunched.

  Rudy waited at the bottom. He closed the book he’d been reading (no doubt a guide to some sort of enlightenment), smoothed his onyx suit jacket, and smiled. “How’d it go?”

  “He hired me.”

  “Great.”

  “Strange.”

  “Why?”

  She paused on the second to the last step, putting herself eye to eye with her six-foot-three friend. “I’m not qualified.” Despite her bluster not two minutes before, her confidence waned. Yes, she was good with people, but she was a self-taught typist and clueless about computer programs beyond Microsoft Word. Wouldn’t he need her to surf the Internet? Hack into corporate and private systems? Isn’t that how a modern-day P.I. solved cases?

  “But he hired you.”

  “You see my point.”

  “Not really. You wanted a job. You got one. Working for a dick no less.”

  Afia narrowed her eyes. “What have you heard?”

  “Nothing.”

  “But you called him—”

  “Haven’t you ever seen a Humphrey Bogart movie?”

  She glanced up the stairwell then back to Rudy. “Are you sure he doesn’t owe you a favor?”

  “I told you, I don’t even know him. I overheard a couple of the guys talking down at the club—”

  “You said you were giving up clubbing.”

  “I slipped. Anyway, they were going through the want ads and—”

  “I don’t remember seeing—”

  “So what’s your schedule? Monday through Friday? Nine to Five?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Benefits? Salary?”

  “They didn’t come up.”

  “Afia, honey. You have to ask these things.”

  “I had every intention, but he rattled me.”

  “Rattled you?”

  “I don’t think he likes me.”

  Rudy tweaked her nose. “Nonsense. What’s not to like?”

  “He frowned through the entire interview. Not that it was much of an interview.”

  Her friend waved off her concerns. “He’s lucky to have you. When do you start?”

  “As soon as I change my clothes.”

  “What’s wrong with what you’re wearing?”

  “His exact words: dress to blend.”

  “With what?”

  She indicated the surroundings of the Bizby, a building that looked as if it hadn’t been redecorated since 1965.

  Rudy looked around at the faded red and brown linoleum, the peeling paint of the pea green walls, and shuddered.

  She grimaced. “I know.”

  “Well, what was he wearing?”

  “Jeans. Dark blue. Loose fitting. A taupe T-shirt. Tight-fitting.”

  Rudy’s mouth twitched. “Nice. What about his shoes?”

  “Work boots. Brown.”

  “Sexy.”

  Afia rolled her eyes,
but she’d thought the same thing.

  Rudy took her elbow and led her out onto the buckled sidewalk.

  Two platinum-blond, frizzy-haired women wearing cut-off jeans and oversized T-shirts exited the next-door Laundromat, stopping directly in their path. One snapped her gum. The other whistled. They both repositioned their plastic clothesbaskets on generous hips and openly gawked. Afia wasn’t sure if they stared because they recognized her, thought she looked out of place, or because Rudy looked like a cross between an F.B.I. agent and a goateed body builder. Either way their regard made her uncomfortable. Blushing, she dipped her head in greeting as Rudy whisked her along.

  “So?” he asked as they neared the limo.

  “So what?”

  “Is he cute?”

  Handsome, maybe. Charismatic, absolutely. But cute? She shrugged. “I didn’t notice.”

  Rudy laughed. “That means he’s young and straight.”

  “How do you figure?”

  He unlocked the back door. “You’re only attracted to gay men or men twice your age.”

  Afia settled in and opened her purse in search of an anti-bacterial towelette. Mental note: Dust the office. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Both of your husbands were old enough to be your father. In fact they were both friends of your father.”

  “You make them sound ancient. Randy was forty-four when we married. Frank, fifty. That’s not old.”

  “Not for a forty-year-old woman, no. You were twenty-two when you married Randy. Twenty-six when you hooked up with Frank.”

  She finished cleaning her hands and tossed the soiled wipe in the litterbag. “So?”

  Rudy closed the door, rounded the limo, and then slid in behind the wheel. He glanced over his shoulder. “When’s the last time you were attracted to a man no more than five years your senior?”

  “Jeff Morton.”

  “Gay.”

  “Rickey Freeman.”

  “Gay.”

  “Carlos—”

  “Been there. Done him.”

  “Your point?”

  He faced front, revved the engine. “Either you connect with men you have no chance of hooking up with, or you hook up with men you have no chance of connecting with.”

  Afia resisted the childish urge to cover her ears. She did not want to hear this. “So now you’re reading psychology books?”

  “You know what your problem is?”

  “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

  “Fear of intimacy.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “I can explain.”

  “Maybe in our next session, Dr. Gallow. I need to change my clothes and get back here before Jake changes his mind.” Good thing Rudy’s apartment was only ten minutes away. Although finding an appropriate outfit would take time since she was living out of boxes. The last few weeks had been an emotional blur, the creditors proving as brutal as Henry Glick. After the IRS had confiscated Frank’s house, she’d had no choice but to move in with Harmon or Rudy. Rudy had been the easier choice even with all of his new age preaching. Harmon, though well-intentioned and loving, represented a lifestyle she was trying to shed like old, ill-fitting skin. She wanted to learn how to make it on her own.

  “So what’s he look like?”

  “Jake? Straw-blond hair. Short. Spiky. Longish sideburns. Remember my emerald ring?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Eyes a shade deeper. Crescent moon scar on his right cheekbone. Square jaw. Full lips.”

  Rudy laughed. “Not that you noticed.”

  Afia blushed. She hadn’t realized she’d been looking that hard.

  “Tall? Lean? A real hard-body?”

  Her head snapped up. “You do know him.”

  “No.” Rudy pointed up ahead. “Straw-blond hair. Short. Spiky.”

  Afia scooted forward and peered through the windshield. Sexy work boots planted slightly apart, Jake Leeds leaned back against the brick façade of the Bizby and lit a cigarette. Mental note: Remind him smoking is bad for his health. Tapered torso, sculpted biceps, he looked rugged and dangerous, and yet not one of several pedestrians gave him a second look. Dress to blend.

  Rudy gave a low whistle.

  Afia’s lip twitched. “Down boy. Not your type.”

  “So he is straight.” Rudy pulled out onto Atlantic Avenue.

  Afia shifted her gaze to the lowered side window. Straight and sexy. Good Lord.

  “And definitely under forty, honey. Not your type either.”

  The private investigator’s disturbing green gaze locked with hers. He blew out a stream of smoke, gestured to his watch, and mouthed, “One hour.”

  Sixty-minutes to transform herself into an anonymous, low-profile woman. Her heart thudded in answer to the challenge. Or maybe it was because of the one-dimpled smirk he quirked just as Rudy made a right turn. “No,” Afia whispered, mesmerized by the intensity of the enigmatic P.I. “Not my type at all.”Chapter Four

  Chapter Four

  “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  Hoping to put his potential client at ease, Jake leaned back in his chair, adopting a casual air. “How can I help you, Ms. Brannigan?” The slender, five-foot-eight woman with the tanning bed glow hadn’t made an appointment. She was a walk-in, suggesting she was either impulsive or paranoid. Given the way she kept looking over her shoulder, his money was on the latter.

  “I think my fiancé is cheating on me.”

  Angela Brannigan was a well-dressed, spike-heeled, curvy stunner with killer legs. Mid-to-late thirties. Eyes the color of iced cappuccino. Between her pouty lips and the honey-blond hair flowing over her shoulders in seductive waves, she reminded him a little of Kim Basinger in L.A. Confidential. She reeked of cool sophistication and hot sex. If her suspicions were true then her fiancé was an ass.

  “I hope I’m wrong. I desperately want to be wrong, but if Anthony’s …” In an agitated manner, she twisted her engagement ring, a three-carat rock that suggested Anthony was either loaded or in hock. “I need to know, Mr. Leeds. When I marry it will be forever. I … I don’t want to make a mistake.”

  Precisely why he was thirty-three and still single. It wasn’t the life-long commitment that had him dragging his feet, but the fear of failure. His parents’ rocky marriage combined with the domestic investigations he’d conducted, on and off the force, had branded him a cautious cynic. To his way of thinking, if she had any doubts as to her future husband’s fidelity, this pro-active measure was not only logical, but also smart.

  “I found lipstick …” She fingered the collar of her dress. “It’s so clichéd … and, of course, he had a reasonable explanation, but …” Her breath hitched.

  “Do you suspect any woman in particular?”

  “No,” she croaked. “It could be a co-worker or a customer. It could be the woman who tailors his suits for all I know. He’s a very charismatic man.”

  A ladies’ man. Jake snagged a box of tissues from his bottom drawer, rounded the desk, and had a Kleenex in her hand by the time the first tear rolled. Wronged women and kids. His ultimate weakness.

  The timing sucked.

  Harmon had hired him to keep Afia out of trouble. Although she might wonder if he didn’t conduct some sort of investigation while she was in his “employ.” In addition, if Anthony was a faithless pig, he sure as hell didn’t want to be the one responsible for a doomed marriage. “If your fiancé is playing around, Ms. Brannigan, depending upon how careful he is, it could take a couple of weeks to get audio/visual. I’m assuming you do want evidence.”

  She blew her nose into the tissue and nodded. “I don’t care how long it takes. I need to know for sure one way or the other.” She pulled a mirrored compact out of her clutch purse and checked her makeup, which, despite the tears, hadn’t smudged.

  “Could be costly,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. “Between the retainer, expenses, and my hourly fee—”

  “Money isn’t an issue.”
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  Why couldn’t this woman have walked into his office a couple of days ago? Before his meeting with Harmon. Now he had two plumb assignments and an unqualified assistant—a destitute socialite who still tooled around in a limo—with questionable work ethics. He’d asked Afia to return in one hour. She was now—he glanced at his watch—forty minutes late.

  On cue the outer office door slammed.

  Ms. Brannigan whirled in her seat. The compact flew out of her hands, ricocheted off the center file cabinet, and skittered across the hardwood floor. “Who’s that?”

  Afia blew into his office looking harried and pretty as hell. “My assistant.” He’d been wrong about the ponytail. Instead of making her less attractive it only accentuated her pixie features. Pert nose, high cheekbones, huge eyes fringed with thick, dark lashes. Her glossy straight bangs grazed perfectly arched eyebrows. A foot taller and she could’ve been one of those waif-like, anorexic models splashed all over MTV. Even though she’d dressed down in red-leather sports shoes, slim-fitting black pants, and a tailored crimson blouse, she still looked dressed up. Ms. Brannigan, stunning as she was in her floral-print halter dress, paled in comparison. Then it struck him. It had nothing to do with outer beauty. Afia St. John radiated an innocence that seduced a man into a stupor.

  Jake frowned.

  His client panicked. “If this gets back to Anthony—”

  “It won’t.” He nabbed the folders from his desk and crossed the room, chin lowered, gaze intent on Afia. “This office prides itself on maintaining confidentiality.” Hopefully, she’d get the point and make a discreet exit.

  She hovered on the threshold, one hand on the doorknob, her sable-brown gaze bouncing back and forth between him and the leggy, teary-eyed blond. Then she spotted the shattered mirrored compact and winced. “Someone’s cursed.”