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  Afia took up a spare helmet and slipped it on without direction, leading Jake to believe she was no stranger to this man’s bike. She glanced at Jake while tightening the strap beneath her chin. “What time would you like me to be here tomorrow?”

  So much for chitchat, he thought as he watched her climb up behind Gallow and straddle the motorcycle seat. Now that her friend was here, she seemed in a hurry to get away. He imagined the striking couple going for a spin and ending up back at the man’s posh home. When she wrapped her arms around Gallow’s ripped abdomen, Jake speculated about the sleeping arrangements and a muscle jumped under his left eye. He couldn’t fathom why he was ticked. He’d known Afia for all of six hours. So she had a boyfriend. So what? “Nine o’clock.”

  She smiled. “I look forward to it.”

  Jake eyed biker dude, subtly scoping for clenched fists, narrowed eyes, any body movement to imply propriety or jealously. The man merely smiled, an enigmatic twinkle in his eyes that confirmed he was going to be a pain in Jake’s ass. With a cheeky salute, he eased his bike into the steady flow of traffic.

  What the hell? Jake climbed into his Mustang and watched as they drove away, more frustrated and intrigued by the minute. Afia was right. He didn’t know her. Every freaking time he thought he had a handle on her, she up and threw him a curve ball. Seeing her transform from demure socialite to biker chick had definitely shaken his assumptions. On impulse, he snatched up his cell phone and hit speed dial as he pulled away from the curb and headed toward the Carnevale Casino. “Joni? Fire up your laptop.”

  Without realizing it, Afia had just issued him a challenge.

  Chapter Eight

  “What do you want this morning, Afia? A bowl of oatmeal or a cup of fruit?”

  “Do you have the makings for a ham and cheese omelet?”

  Rudy cast a concerned glance at his friend, decked out in her cheetah pajamas and furry black slippers, and pondered her sanity as she rooted through one of the six clothing racks stationed on either side of his oak dining table. He’d known Afia for five years. Her breakfasts had always consisted of oatmeal, fruit, or dry wheat toast with a glass of orange juice. Last night she’d blown him away by asking Jean-Pierre to pick up a pepperoni pizza with double cheese on his way back from the video store. Then, right in the middle of Casablanca, she’d asked if they had any microwave popcorn—buttered. Now this. Something was definitely up.

  Pulling his “ABBA” T-shirt over his head, he padded across the kitchen floor in his boxers and bare feet and then opened the refrigerator door to check out the food situation. “I can whip you up an omelet with spinach and low-fat provolone.”

  “What about pancakes with maple syrup? Oh, and maybe some bacon.”

  He nabbed a bag of hazelnut coffee beans, shut the fridge door, and then moved to his sleek soapstone countertop. “Okay,” he said, filling the coffee maker with bottled water and scooping the beans into a grinder. “What happened yesterday at the office?”

  “You mean aside from me filing, cleaning, and ruining Jake’s carpet?”

  “Yes, aside from that.”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re stressed,” he shouted over the grinding ruckus.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Depressed.”

  “No.”

  Rudy rolled back his shoulders as the grinding ceased and rich black coffee dripped into the glass pot. “Lonely?”

  She crinkled her nose. “How could I be lonely? I’m living in a cozy two-bedroom townhouse with two warm, intelligent men.”

  Rudy surveyed his sheet and pillow strewn sofa (Afia’s temporary bed since she refused to accept his offer to swap places), his quaint kitchen, dining, and living area made even smaller by her suitcases and boxes, and Jean-Pierre’s clothing racks and bolts of glitzy fabric. What she called cozy, he considered cramped, though he’d die before speaking his mind. His home was Afia’s for as long as she wanted. Their employer/employee relationship had blossomed into a full-fledged friendship over the past few years. She’d even helped him to launch his freelance chauffeur business. Afia was tolerant, generous, and pure of heart, and Rudy adored her even with all of her quirky hang-ups and superstitions.

  As for Jean-Pierre, well, as much as he liked the costume designer, the man had a few irksome habits. Such as referring to people by pet names, and hand-stitching trim on dancers’ costumes while watching the Classic Movie channel. The next time Rudy stepped on a straight pin in his bare feet, he was going to punch Jean-Pierre in his chiseled jaw.

  “Then you must be horny,” Rudy said, heading back toward the fridge. He heard Afia gasp, and he smiled. For an open-minded person, at times she was pathetically easy to shock.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you’re eating to fill some void. You used to shop. Now you don’t have any money, so you’re eating comfort food. Not that I’m complaining. I always thought you were too skinny.”

  “You did?”

  “Absolutely, honey.” He pulled out a carton of eggs, a bag of fresh spinach, and a loaf of wheat bread.

  “Why didn’t you say something,” she asked quietly.

  He turned and noted her crestfallen expression. “Because of that,” he said, gesturing to her pout. “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” And because you had too many other people telling you what you should and shouldn’t look like.

  She tugged at the hem of her pajama top and straightened her shoulders. “I’m not that sensitive.”

  “Oui, ma petite, you are.” Jean-Pierre Legrand, Rudy’s latest roommate and newest pain in the ass, sashayed into the living room wearing Pink Panther draw-string pajama bottoms and a sexy smile. He crossed to Afia and kissed her on each cheek. “Bonjour, Chou à la crème.”

  She blushed and giggled. “Good morning, Jean-Pierre.”

  Rudy couldn’t imagine why she was so charmed since Jean-Pierre had essentially called her a cream-puff. As she was working hard to assert herself these days, he didn’t think she’d appreciate the nickname. But Rudy had to admit even an insult sounded sexy with a French accent.

  As if reading Rudy’s mind, the man cast a thousand-watt smile over his shoulder. “Bonjour, Gym Bunny.”

  “Jean-Pierre.” Rudy snagged a skillet from the baker’s rack, trying not to stare at his roommate’s defined pecs. He had a lot of nerve ribbing Rudy about his love affair with free weights, when he himself had the wiry, hard body of an avid runner. The least Jean-Pierre could have done was throw on a shirt, not that Afia seemed bothered. No. The only one apparently affected by Jean-Pierre’s bare chest was Rudy. I am open and ready for a serious, long term relationship, he silently affirmed. Jean-Pierre was not relationship material. “Omelet?”

  “Merci, Bunny.

  Rudy wanted to pummel him. He also wanted to get him in a lip-lock. Neither action seemed prudent.

  The chestnut-haired man held Rudy’s gaze for an uncomfortable moment and then turned to Afia, utilizing his moderately-accented English. “So, what are we doing here?”

  She flipped her hair over her shoulder and sighed. “Looking for something to wear.”

  Jean-Pierre noted the crammed clothing racks with a coy smile. “I can see where that would be difficult.”

  “Something subdued,” she said, thoughtfully tapping her finger to her chin. “And not too tight.”

  “Something boring,” Jean-Pierre said.

  Afia beamed. “Exactly.”

  “So we should pass on the paisley turquoise and lime silk suit.”

  She blew her bangs off of her forehead. “Afraid so.”

  “Pity.” Jean-Pierre raked his wavy hair off of his clean-shaven face and tied the shoulder-length mass into a low ponytail, his compact shoulders rolling with the effort.

  Rudy suppressed a groan, and cracked six eggs into a ceramic bowl. “Go and pour us a cup of café, Chou à la crème,” he heard Jean-Pierre say, “and leave this to a professional.”

  Two seconds la
ter, Afia was standing beside Rudy, straining to reach the mugs on the top shelf of his corner cabinet. “I really like Jean-Pierre,” she whispered.

  “Of course, you do,” Rudy mumbled. “He filched those racks from the wardrobe department so you could hang up your clothes, and to top things off he’s hot, he’s French, and he’s gay.”

  “You noticed,” she said with a grin.

  He grunted then snared three mugs for her and set them on the counter. “So what happened with Jake?” he asked, firmly changing the subject. “You two were looking pretty chummy last night when I rolled up on my bike.”

  “For heaven’s sake, nothing happened!”

  Jean-Pierre started singing the theme to Casablanca. “You must remember this, a kiss is still a kiss …”

  Afia’s cheeks bloomed with two brilliant blotches.

  “Jake kissed you?” Rudy exclaimed.

  She averted her eyes and concentrated on pouring the coffee. “It was business.”

  “… a sigh is just a sigh …”

  “Do you mind?” Rudy called over his shoulder.

  “Moi?” Jean-Pierre chuckled then opted to whistle the melody.

  Rudy rolled his eyes and turned back to Afia. “I can’t believe you confided in Jean-Pierre and not me. You’ve known him for less than three weeks.”

  “I didn’t confide in Jean-Pierre,” she said, shoveling four spoons of sugar into her coffee.

  “Then how—”

  “I don’t know,” she grumbled.

  “You talk in your sleep, Chou à la crème,” Jean-Pierre said, coming up behind them. “Must have been the sangria. I was on my way to the bathroom when I heard you mumbling about a … um … surveillance op and Jake’s tongue.” Grinning, he presented her with a pair of taupe slim-fitting capris and a short-sleeved emerald shirt trimmed with brown and taupe ribbons. “Unassuming,” he said. “Better than boring.” Then he draped the outfit over a chair, picked up two mugs, and handed one to Rudy.

  Rudy ignored the jolt when their fingers brushed and focused on Afia. “Care to explain how you ended up frenching your boss on a surveillance gig?”

  She sipped her coffee and stared down at her slippers. “Can’t.”

  “Can’t?”

  “It’s related to a case, and Leeds Investigations prides itself on maintaining confidentiality.”

  Rudy stroked his goatee. “Hmm.” He glanced at Jean-Pierre, cocked an eyebrow, and then looked back to Afia. “So how’s the coffee?”

  She puckered her lips and blew on the steaming java. “Hot.”

  Jean-Pierre winked at Rudy. “That is what she said about the kiss.”

  Mrs. Kelly was trying to calm a cranky parent when Afia blew into the daycare center. According to Rudy, who patiently waited in the limo with the engine running, she had five minutes to coordinate her schedule with the woman who, with the exception of two assistants and an occasional volunteer mother, ran the center single-handedly. Since Jake hadn’t mentioned a specific lunch hour and had implied she could be working sometimes as late as six-thirty, she figured her best course of action was to volunteer between six and eight-thirty in the morning. Mrs. Kelly had intimated that she could use an extra hand to do some cleaning and someone to help serve cookies and milk during morning story time. Afia looked forward to spending time with the children even if it meant mopping up spilled milk and crumbled cookies.

  Children were wondrous creatures and a source of curiosity for Afia. Just like working for a living and asserting herself in uncomfortable situations. Standing up to Jake yesterday, looking him in the eye, and demanding that he respect her wishes had been an incredible rush. It had taken her the utmost control not to crow to Rudy and Jean-Pierre. Rudy, especially, would be so proud. But she feared, as excited as she was, if she started talking she might unwittingly divulge the details of the Brannigan/Rivelli case. So instead she’d indulged in pepperoni pizza, popcorn, and a classic movie with her best friend and her new friend, Jean-Pierre. They’d stayed up until two a.m. giving each other facials and getting tipsy on sangria. She hadn’t realized what a small and sheltered life she’d led until Henry Glick had robbed her of her security. Yesterday had been the best day of her new life.

  Today would be even better, because today Jake was going to teach her some investigative techniques. Today she’d start hunting down Glick and her money.

  She looked around, frowning at the crayon-marked walls and the threadbare carpet. The daycare center could benefit from a dose of her money. Unfortunately, for now, Mrs. Kelly would have to make due with Afia’s time, and time was ticking away. The last thing she wanted was to be late to the office two days in a row.

  “Are you the hat lady?” A little red-haired girl, maybe three or four years old, tugged at Afia’s blouse. “Mrs. Kelly says the lady who gived us the hats was pretty. You’re pretty.”

  “Why, thank you.” Afia stooped down to put herself eye to eye with the cute little munchkin. “And yes, I’m the lady who gave you the hats. What’s your name?”

  “Mya.”

  Afia smiled. ”Did you like the hats, Mya?”

  The little girl’s mouth puckered into a frown. “Billy taked mine.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Billy took your hat?”

  The girl nodded. “He’s bad.”

  “Maybe if you ask nicely, he’ll give it back.”

  Just then a slight, skinny-legged boy galloped into the room wearing one of Afia’s straw hats. The buttercup yellow number, with an up-turned brim and a big, red rose pinned due center. He looked ridiculously cute.

  Mya disagreed. She wagged her pudgy finger chanting, “Sissy, sissy, sissy! Billy is a sissy!”

  Afia gasped. “That’s not nice, Mya.”

  She pointed to the man arguing with Mrs. Kelly. “Daddy said so!” she announced.

  Afia was disgusted and absolutely speechless.

  The little girl taunted the boy in a singsong voice. “Billy is a sissy! Na-na-na-na-na-na!”

  Red-faced, Billy rushed forward and clipped Afia in the eye while tackling Mya. All hell broke loose and finally, Afia had Mrs. Kelly’s attention.

  He wouldn’t yell. He wouldn’t lecture. He’d simply wait and see what kind of excuse Afia offered for being twenty minutes late. No wonder she couldn’t hold down a job. She was clumsy, moody, and habitually late. Okay, maybe not moody so much as unpredictable. Her ability to transform from kitten to wildcat in the blink of an eye had kept him tossing and turning most of the night. Or perhaps it was the vivid dream showcasing Afia in stiletto heels and biker leather. If she was as adventurous in real life as she was in Jake’s fantasy, no wonder her first husband had suffered a heart attack in the middle of sex.

  Just one of the interesting tid-bits Joni had confirmed last night via cell phone as Jake had tailed Anthony Rivelli from the Carnevale Casino to his Cherry Hill home. Unfortunately, their conversation had been cut short when Carson had returned home early from a gig, surprising Joni with flowers and Chinese food. Joni had promised to phone Jake with the rest of her report as soon as she did some fact-checking. One thing about Joni, she never did anything half-assed. Which probably meant, if she dug deep enough, she’d discover the fact that Afia was currently broke. He’d cross that bridge when he got to it.

  Anxious and without a laptop, he’d ended up calling a buddy on the force who’d gotten back to him in spurts during the six non-eventful hours he’d sat surveillance outside Rivelli’s home. He’d quickly learned that Rudy Gallow, though he looked big, bad, and rich, had a clean record, a chauffeur’s license, and a bank account comparable to Jake’s, which wasn’t saying much. He rented a townhouse in a new development in the Inlet, not the nicest of areas, though the city was working hard to build up that section of town. Gallow wasn’t Afia’s social equal. He was her ex-driver and current friend, possible lover. Harmon hadn’t seemed thrilled that she was shacking up with her “friend,” but he hadn’t seemed overly concerned. Jake didn’t know what to make
out of any of it, and he hated that he couldn’t let it go. Of course, he could call Harmon and ask him straight out. What’s up with Afia and biker boy? But Harmon might wonder why Jake cared.

  Good question.

  Just because he was attracted to Afia didn’t mean he had to act on it. Just because she seemed as though she needed to be saved, didn’t make it so. She’d already proven herself quite the actress. What if the wide-eyed, vulnerable waif persona was an act? What if she’d seduced both of her husbands with that angel aura only to sprout horns? Two rich, older husbands. Two freak accidents. A missing fortune. A hot, young lover.

  Black Widow.

  Jake rolled his eyes and reached for a bottle of aspirin. He really had to stop watching late night film noir.

  His door slammed open, and Afia skidded into the office wearing a preppy summer outfit, big black sunglasses, and a panicked expression. Her hair was unbound and tousled, her cheeks flushed. She’d either sprinted to work or just tumbled out of bed. Again, he wondered about her sleeping arrangements. Again, his left eye twitched.

  She stood poised on his threshold, one hand pressed to her heart as she caught her breath. “I’m so … so sorry … to be late,” she said in between pants. “There was an … incident.”

  Jake raised one eyebrow, waiting for her to elaborate.

  “So,” she said, ten seconds later as she moved forward and gingerly sat on the edge of an opposing chair. “Where do we begin? What would you like me to do?”

  Jake chased three aspirin with a swallow of cold coffee, winced and then tossed the empty cup in the trash.

  Afia clasped her hands in her lap, fingered her charm bracelet. Her leg started to bounce. “Would you like me to make a fresh pot of coffee? Check the messages? File some … files?”

  He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you going to wear those sunglasses all day?”

  She pushed them higher up her pert nose. “It’s a little bright in here.”