Jinxed Page 4

  Ms. Brannigan burst into tears.

  Jake shoved the folders into Afia’s hands. “Alphabetically by last name. Thanks, Jinx.” Grasping her shoulders—damn, they were bony—he spun her around, nudged her into the reception area, and shut the door. So much for discreet.

  So much for making a good impression.

  Afia had tried on four different outfits before settling on her low-riding rayon pants and knock-around CK shirt. She was determined to please the cranky P.I. from her functional ponytail to her Dooney & Bourke sport utility shoes. The only reason she was late was because she’d asked Rudy to stop by the daycare center. She’d promised to deliver hats and scarves for “dress-up day.” A day she was going to miss because of her new job. Mrs. Kelly had detained her further, trying to ascertain when she could volunteer a few hours. An impossible task since she didn’t know her work schedule. Something she’d promised to rectify as soon as she got back to the office.

  Then she’d asked Rudy to drop her two blocks from the Bizby. She couldn’t lose the limo as it belonged to Rudy and, even though she could no longer afford his services, he insisted on driving her when his schedule allowed. He also insisted on escorting her to the front door of the timeworn walk-up, worrying that she’d run into an unscrupulous character along the way. He’d sworn it wasn’t because he thought she attracted trouble. He would have done the same for any female, which she tended to believe since Rudy was an innate protector and true gentleman.

  Unfortunately, it had taken him ten minutes to find a parking space.

  She’d jogged two blocks and run up four flights of stairs, barging into Jake’s office with an apology on her lips and the intent of organizing his unkempt desk in record time.

  Instead, she stood on the buckled carpet of the cramped reception area, holding folders that he’d told her to file, although how could she when the filing cabinet was in his office? She spun on her rubber souls and stared at the door Jake Leeds had essentially slammed in her face.

  Was there no end to this man’s hostility? Rudy would tell her to confront the jerk. “Aren’t you weary of being a doormat?” He’d surprised her with that question after she’d told him she’d agreed to resign from the Seashore Charity Committee. Although Harmon had managed to keep her latest fiasco out of the newspapers, he hadn’t been able to stop her neighbors’ wagging tongues. Word of her misfortune had reached the president and vice-president of the SCC board the day after she’d lost Frank’s house. She didn’t know which had shocked Dora Simmons and Frances Beck more: that she was broke, or that she was living with her ex-chauffeur.

  Doormat.

  Is that how the world viewed someone who chose not to make waves?

  Clutching the folders to her chest, she padded to what she assumed was her desk, thinking back on her interview with Jake. He’d cussed when she’d dropped the files, insulted her clothes and hair, and had ordered her to acquire another mode of transportation. He’d walked all over her, and she hadn’t said boo.

  Groaning, she plopped down on a black-cushioned swivel chair, placed the folders on what had to be her desk, and idly fingered her twelve charms while scrambling for a positive slant.

  Better a doormat than a jerk.

  The least he could have done was introduce her to that distraught woman before tossing her out. Perhaps she could have offered comfort: a sympathetic ear, a cup of tea … her charm bracelet. Blondie was in for seven years of bad luck.

  Unless it had been Jake who’d broken the mirror.

  She almost smiled at the thought. It would serve him right for making fun of her.

  Jinx.

  He definitely knew who she was. Afia St. John-Harper-Davis, the Jersey socialite who’d lost a father and two husbands in separate, yet equally bizarre, accidents. AKA “The Black Widow.”

  It occurred to her then that Jake wasn’t superstitious. Nor did he put stock in gossip, believing that she’d offed (was that appropriate detective lingo?) the men in her life for financial gain. Otherwise this morning he would have shown her the door and ushered in the next applicant.

  Unless there were no other applicants. Maybe he’d scared them all away.

  She commiserated. Three weeks ago he would have scared her away too. She wouldn’t have survived ten minutes with the intimidating man, let alone an entire interview. But things were different. She was different. She wanted her money back and, more importantly, her dignity. Jake could be as surly as he wanted as long as he taught her a few tricks of the trade.

  Like tracking a missing person.

  That, she decided, was that. “He needs a hand,” she said noting the phone’s blinking message light. “I need a dick.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  Afia started as a pregnant woman shuffled over the threshold. She hadn’t even heard the door click open.

  “It’s been a month, and I’m horny as hell.” The husky-voiced blond grinned, revealing a deep dimple in her left cheek. “The downside of getting knocked-up. Where’s Jake?”

  Afia eyed the candid woman with interest. Generic capri jeans, a pale blue maternity blouse, and navy-blue boat shoes. Golden skin buffed to a natural glow. Shoulder-length hair tied in a low ponytail, topped with a NY Yankees baseball cap. She lacked style and polish, and yet Afia was transfixed. The woman had entered the room as though she owned the building.

  Or the boss.

  She squirmed in her seat, wondering if this woman was Jake’s other half. For some reason the notion bothered her. Maybe because he was behind closed doors with another attractive blond. “Umm …” she pointed to his office. “He’s with a client.”

  Blond number two glanced at Jake’s private door. “Man? Woman? What’s the name?”

  Flip to intense in two seconds flat. Afia cleared her throat, hoping mother-to-be wasn’t violent … or hormonal. “I’m not at liberty to say.” Not to mention, she didn’t know.

  Instead of striking out, the stranger laughed. “You just might last longer than the others.” She thrust out her hand in greeting. “Joni McNichols.”

  What others, Afia wanted to ask, but instead stood and clasped Joni’s hand. “Afia St. John.”

  One eyebrow rose. “Oh. I’m sorry, I just assumed …” She frowned. “Damn, I’m slipping. I thought you were Jake’s new assistant.”

  “I am.”

  “Really.” She pursed her naturally rosy lips. “Hmm.”

  Afia could see the woman’s wheels turning. Stroking her bracelet, she braced herself for a deluge of questions. None came. Feeling awkward, she swept her hand toward a brown pleather couch that was in dire need of being replaced or reupholstered. “Would you like to take a seat while you’re waiting?”

  “Mmm. No. What I mean is, I can’t wait.” She rested her hand on her extended belly. “I have an appointment with my obstetrician.”

  Afia experienced a pang of envy. When she’d asked Randy about children, he’d said, “What’s the rush? We have time.” He’d been wrong.

  Frank hadn’t been adverse to a family but seemed incapable of delivering the goods.

  “I just stopped by to give him these coupons.” Joni pulled a crumpled envelope out of her canvas backpack and handed it to Afia. “Will you see that he gets them?”

  Nodding, she tried to imagine Jake pushing a cart down the aisle of the local grocery store, stocking up on milk, bread, and disposable diapers. Instead, she envisioned him pumping iron in a gritty gym. Bulging biceps and rippling abs. His skin glistening with sweat. She imagined coming up behind him, smoothing her hands over his broad shoulders, kissing the nape of his neck and …

  O-ma-god.

  She blew her bangs off of her forehead, stunned by her prurient thoughts. Fantasizing about a man in the presence of his wife, girlfriend, or whatever. Celibacy was taking its toll.

  “Also tell him dinner’s at six-thirty and to bring ice cream.”

  Flustered, Afia sank in the chair and scanned the desktop for a notepad.

  Left ha
nd supporting her lower back, Joni hedged around and opened the top right drawer. “Memo pads, pencils, pens, stamps, paper clips, and extra staples.” She placed a pad and pencil on the desk. “Always print. Jake hates deciphering flowery script, and always take down as many details as possible.”

  “What flavor?” Afia asked, concentrating on her penmanship.

  Joni laughed. “Not bad,” she said, while moving toward the door.

  Afia jerked up her head. “Wait! Do you need … can I … help?” She fluttered a hand toward the hall. What if she lost her balance navigating those steep stairs?

  “I may have balls, as Jake is fond of saying, but I’m not crazy.” She flashed her sole dimple. “I’m taking the elevator. Later.” Slinging her backpack over her shoulders, she exited and shut the door.

  Afia stared after the woman unsure as to what shocked her more—Joni’s language or the news that the Bizby had an elevator.

  She’d have to ask Jake about that mysterious elevator. She’d have to ask him about a lot of things. Like her hours, her salary. Maybe when she handed over the coupons and dinner message, he’d fill her in on his relationship to Joni McNichols. She hadn’t noticed a wedding band, but that didn’t mean anything. She wasn’t sure why she was obsessing over whether or not they were a couple. If they weren’t he was probably hooked up with someone else. Not that she cared. He wasn’t her type. Worse, he was her boss.

  An office affair. Like she needed another disaster in her life.

  She rolled back her shoulders and started arranging the folders alphabetically by last name. Next she’d transcribe the messages on the answering machine and then organize her desk drawers and the supply closet, if there was one. She’d also brought a tote bag of cleaning supplies. Hopefully, Blondie would depart soon giving her access to Jake’s office. The sooner she whipped this place into order, the sooner she could talk him into teaching her the trade.

  The sooner she’d catch a thief.

  Instead of crossing her fingers, she followed Rudy’s advice and chanted two of the affirmations he’d gleaned from his current read, Creative Visualization.

  “Infinite riches are now freely flowing into my life.

  “The more I have, the more I have to give.”

  She glanced at Jake’s door. “Blondie will hit the road.”

  She suppressed a gasp when the door actually swung open and Jake ushered the curvaceous woman across the reception area to the outer door. Mental note: Affirmations are powerful.

  He shot Afia a look that promised a lecture before escorting Blondie, who hadn’t so much as glanced her way, out into the hall.

  Afia chanted an oldie but goodie, “I haven’t done anything wrong,” quickly followed by “I will not be intimidated.” Still, her heart raced as she scooped up the folders and hurried into his office. Work quickly, she told herself. Show him you’re efficient. Maybe he’ll be so impressed that he’ll forget that you were forty minutes late and nix the finger-wagging session.

  She stood in the center of his office breathing in the lingering scent of Opium. Blondie’s scent. She crinkled her nose and frowned. Something about that woman bothered her, and she refused to believe that it had anything to do with the fact that she was California, albeit artificially, gorgeous. The epitome of most men’s fantasies. She wondered if Jake typified “most men.”

  Focus, Afia. Focus.

  She curled her fingers around the folders, rocked back on her rubber heels, and considered her uninspired surroundings.

  Three locking file cabinets lined the west wall. Nothing fancy. Basic steel. Boring beige. Then again, everything about Leeds Investigations, aside from its owner, was basic and boring. The two-room business lacked style and color. The furnishings and sparse accessories were neither masculine nor feminine. Kind of like Rudy’s new roommate, Jean-Pierre. Although Jean-Pierre had flair. She noted the stark beige walls, scarred hardwood floor, the two brown-vinyl chairs opposite the pressed-wood desk that boasted a laptop computer, multi-lined phone, and non-descript table lamp.

  Jake’s office could definitely use some flair.

  No decorating.

  Sighing, she determined the appropriate cabinet, filed all of the folders, alphabetically by last name, and then moved to his desk. What a mess. She sorted through a mountain of bills and receipts, trying to decide whether to separate by month or category.

  “What are you doing?”

  She jerked and spun. Receipts sailed out of her hand and fluttered to the floor. Oh, no.

  Jake clenched his jaw, dragged his fingers though his hair. “Leave them,” he said, when she crouched to gather the papers.

  “But—”

  “We’re going out.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.” He swung open the door to a tiny closet and snagged a short-sleeve, button-down shirt off of a wire hanger.

  Of course, he would have wire hangers. Everything in this office was bargain basement issue. Not that there was anything horrid about a bargain. She was learning to appreciate coupons and sales and, thanks to Rudy, the wonders of E-bay. But plastic hangers were inexpensive and didn’t leave indentations in the shoulders of one’s shirts and sweaters. She imagined his closet at home and shivered.

  “You okay.”

  “Yes, of course.

  He slipped the dark-brown shirt over his taupe tee while crossing to his desk. “You look a little flushed.”

  “I’m fine.” Liar. She was fantasizing about re-organizing his bedroom close and, worse, his underwear drawer. Fantasizing about him walking around in a pair of Calvin Klein briefs.

  “You like wieners?”

  “What?”

  “Hot dogs.”

  Her cheeks burned. “I guess.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I haven’t had one in years.”

  “Figures,” he mumbled while bending over to open his bottom desk drawer.

  Afia frowned. Fantasizing about a jerk. Definitely losing it. She watched in wide-eyed horror as he withdrew a holstered gun and strapped it to the right side of his belt. “Is that legal?”

  He buttoned up the bottom half of the boxy shirt effectively concealing the weapon. “Not any more.” He opened his top drawer, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and tucked it in his left breast pocket.

  “Smoking is bad for your health.”

  He tugged on a taupe baseball cap. “So is poking your nose into other people’s business.”

  She snorted. “This from a licensed snoop.”

  His lip twitched, and her heart skipped. She wondered how she’d react if he actually smiled. Her bones would probably melt. The notion was nearly as frightening as his gun. Being attracted to this man was not an option. She’d only been widowed a year. He was a bossy jerk and quite possibly married. Which reminded her …

  “Joni dropped by.”

  “She okay?”

  Her stomach knotted at the concern glittering in his eyes. Married or not, he obviously cared a great deal about Joni McNichols. “One might call her feisty,” she quickly assured him.

  “That’s my Joni.”

  He smiled then, a genuine, affectionate smile that affected parts other than her bones.

  Mesmerized by his full lips, her mind skipped merrily down fantasy lane.

  “What did she want?”

  She blinked, met his questioning green gaze, and blushed. “Excuse me?”

  “Joni.” He held her gaze a brief, cleavage-damp moment before breaking off and snatching up a pair of aviator sunglasses. “What’d she want?”

  “Oh. She dropped off some coupons and said to tell you dinner is at six-thirty and to bring ice cream.”

  “What flavor?”

  “I … um …” Darn!

  “Never mind.” He nudged her into the reception area. “Can’t make dinner anyway. I’ll be working.”

  “At six-thirty?”

  “This isn’t a nine to five.”

  “Does that include me?” She didn’t mi
nd working late. The more time she spent with Jake, the greater her chances of tracking down a crooked accountant. Only, she’d hoped to squeeze in a few hours at the daycare center. It bothered her that she could no longer make her monthly donation, although, as Rudy had pointed out, time was also valuable. Unfortunately, she’d spent every minute of the last few weeks dealing with the fallout of Henry Glick’s betrayal.

  “Depends on the case and whether or not I need assistance in the field,” he said. “We’ll talk about it over lunch.”

  “Lunch?”

  He glanced over his shoulder toward the scattered receipts. “I have to be somewhere, and I figure it’s safer than leaving you here unsupervised.”

  She refused to take offense. Her body hummed at the prospect of being an active participant in a case. A chance to learn some actual investigative techniques. Could it be her luck was changing for the better? “Just a minute.” She hurried over to her desk, snatched up her Chanel handbag, and then turned back to find him staring down at her with an intense frown. Her stomach churned. “What?”

  “We’ve got to do something about that hair.”

  So much for not taking offense.

  Chapter Five

  Steering one-handed, Angela Falcone-Brannigan popped two antacid tablets and gunned her silver Jaguar through a yellow light. She needed a drink, but she’d be damned if she’d step one heel in a local lounge and risk running into a friend of her dad’s or a co-worker of Tony’s. She’d have to hold out until she got home. Home was fifty minutes away, that’s if she drove seventy on the Atlantic City Expressway.

  She’d drive eighty.

  Damn Tony for putting her in this position. Everything had been perfect. They were perfect. They shared the same interests, favored the same music and wines, and Caribbean getaways. They had similar taste in clothing for chrissake. He was gorgeous and an extremely considerate lover compared to her first husband and the string of insatiable pigs she’d dated in between. Anthony Rivelli was everything she wanted, but more importantly everything her dad wanted. Educated, sociable, and wealthy. A prominent figure in an Atlantic City casino.