Jinxed (2 page)

“Welcome back.” Dave smiled, lips splitting the short white beard.

“Thanks.”

“What were you doing in the cab? Did you forget I was picking you up?”

“No,” Jinx hooked his seatbelt and leaned back into the seat with a sigh. “I was working on a pickup of my own.”

“Ah, blonde?”

“Nope…brunette…kind of.”

His head shaking with mirth, Dave pulled into traffic and chuckled. “I take it you struck out?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Jinx murmured with a grin. “Let’s say I was laying the groundwork for something bigger…definitely bigger.”

The chuckle faded with the older man’s smile. “That grin always scares me. You’ve got something hatching in that head of yours.”

“Drive, Dave. I need to think.”

Traffic slowed and stopped, honked and swerved but Jinx saw none of it. He was focused on a pair of bourbon-like eyes shimmering with banked anger. Deep in his gut, a tsunami brewed. Destiny was a strange little shit with a warped sense of humor. He’d expected a boring trip home but found his future in front of him instead. He’d pretty much given up believing it could ever happen again. He’d had his chance at happily ever after and watched it crumble into dust and take his heart with it. Did he dare believe a sharp tongue in a tempting mouth could resurrect Forever out of the ashes? And if he dared believe it, how did he find her again?

{

“Hocus! Pocus! Here kitty, kitty,” Frannie walked in her door, dropping her suitcase and portfolio. Two speeding black cats zipped down the staircase. One bounded onto the couch before sailing at her chest, the other twined itself between her feet. Smiling, she nuzzled and petted her furry family. No one could tell the cats apart just by looking at them, but their personalities were as different as night and day. Frannie would’ve loved to have more than two, but fear of turning into the Crazy Cat Lady prevented her from falling victim to adorable Free Kitten posters.

Hocus sniffed her damp ankles, trilling his greeting. Putting Pocus down, she kicked off her soggy heels with a groan.
Why did something that made your legs and butt look good have to hurt your toes so much?
In wet stocking feet, she padded into the kitchen, made coffee and fed the cats while checking her voicemail.

By the time there was enough dark, fragrant coffee for a vital cup, Frannie had untucked her silk blouse, pulled off her soggy pantyhose and removed her earrings. The first invigorating sip was pure bliss, an orgasm in a cup. The only thing better than an orgasm was chocolate, so she devoured four Oreos with her coffee.

Life was looking better after the infusion of both liquid and crunchy caffeine so she grabbed the suitcase and climbed the stairs barefoot, carrying a second cup of French Roast. A long hot shower sounded sinfully perfect at the moment. Before long, pear-scented steam rolled out of the open bathroom door. As she washed away the travel grime, her thoughts returned to McHottie.
Good Lawd, but the man was a dish!

In an annoying sort of way, he was almost endearing. Her pulse had certainly jumped up a few notches when he kissed her hand. But men like him oozed charm, and charm was something she didn’t need. Sincerity was what she wanted—honest, down-to-earth, last-a-lifetime commitment. Playboys rarely lasted a month. She’d never cared for those flavor-of-the-month clubs and had no intention of ever becoming the limited feature item on someone’s menu.

This is not my underwear
. Brow wrinkled in confusion, Frannie stared at the various colored briefs in the suitcase. Male briefs, complete with the mysterious front pocket most women wondered about. And it was more than not her underwear. It was not her shirts or her pants or her shampoo. The suitcase looked like hers. Okay, so there wasn’t that little scuffed place where it had fallen off the hotel luggage rack and got stuck in the elevator door. And the red piece of ribbon she’d tied around the handle so she wouldn’t mistake it for someone else’s was missing.
Yeah, that theory sucks. You have to actually look for the ribbon for it to work. They didn’t tell you that little hint on all those travel channels
. But anyone could have made the same mistake, especially when your mind was filled with erotic images of a side serving of honey-glazed McHottie. The suitcase was the same color and style as hers, with the same identification tag. Even the name was hers, Frances Sullivan.

No, wait
. She peered closer. It wasn’t her name. It read
Francis
, not Frances. And it was almost her address. The numbers were transposed and she lived on West Claireborn, not West Claymore. West Claymore was the upscale end of town, full of new homes built by fast-rising young executives. Frannie’s side of the tracks was more modest, full of starter homes and remodels, like her own little Craftsman-style house.

So, this suitcase was not hers. So whose was it?
Well, duh.
She mentally smacked her forehead. She’d obviously grabbed the wrong case from the cabbie, which meant this belonged to none other than McHottie himself. Funny, he didn’t look like a Francis. He probably went by Frank.

Suddenly curiosity tapped her on the shoulder. Two fluffy black bundles hopped into the open suitcase, drawing her from her musings. She shouldn’t invade his privacy anymore. She should probably zip everything back up and try to track him down.
Yeah, I should also drink eight glasses of water a day and avoid caffeine.
It was possible—in theory, if you stretched your imagination—there could be a piece of paper somewhere in the suitcase with a phone number on it. She really should look for it. It would be the responsible thing to do. Not nosy in the least, nope, responsible. She always did the responsible thing. She was good like that.

Shooing the cats away, she picked up his shaving kit. McHottie had no athlete’s foot or crabs or other ailment that would require OTC medications, just plain old Tylenol. He used basic white toothpaste and a shampoo/conditioner blend for normal hair. Boring. In fact, the only interesting things in the kit were four pre-lubricated condoms tucked in the outside zipper. She smiled in nosy delight.
So he’s most likely single
.

Guilt tossed aside, Frannie delved through the rest of the suitcase. Gawd, it smelled good in there, like spicy woods and raw sex appeal. Buried under a stack of socks was a John Grisham paperback with bent cover and folded pages, one she hadn’t read. He seemed to prefer silk-soft worn jeans and comfortable sweatshirts. An enormous pair of ugly, broken-in sneakers proved he had size thirteen feet.

And you know what big feet mean
, the slut in her mind whispered.

Yeah, big shoes
, replied the geeky accountant who held the slut in check.

She found no pajamas so he must sleep in the nude. It fit her image of a playboy perfectly. The thought of his bare skin made her heart leap up and dance a little rumba around her chest. To calm her sudden pulse rate, she blew out a quick breath. She really had to stop fantasizing about him.

The doorbell’s harsh intrusion into her fantasy made her jump. Frannie knew in her heart who stood beyond her door and hated herself because she was looking forward to seeing him. She descended the stairs, determined to be civil to the sleeps-naked, big-footed, condom-carrying single man. She ignored the fire ants that raced through her veins and congregated in her belly, doing a little conga line. Glancing down at her chest, she quickly contemplated changing clothes. The faded cotton pajama bottoms and plain pink tee shirt with no bra would have to do. Completing this fashion statement were her favorite dilapidated slippers. With no makeup and her freshly washed hair damp about her face, her desirability factor registered somewhere on the negative end of the beauty scale. If nothing else it would put a screeching halt to his flirting.

At that surprisingly sad thought, the conga line fizzled and sank, leaving her with a heavy stomach. Outwardly calm and deliberate, she opened the wooden door.

“Hello, Mr. Sullivan.” Frannie tried to make her voice sound friendly.
Friendly is good, sex-starved is not.

“Hello, Ms. Sullivan.” Rich as butter, his voice prickled her skin more than the chilled air streaming in from outside. McHottie had changed into another pair of careworn jeans and the deep blue of a sweatshirt poked out of his half-opened winter coat. A few ice crystals clung to his midnight hair and he had an open, easy smile on his face. He carried a pizza box beneath a pastry box. Even through the storm door she could smell the fragrant scent of garlic, cheese and pepperoni.

Fizzles bolted through her stomach that had little to do with the food boxes he lifted. “I brought a peace offering. I thought it might make the luggage exchange more pleasant. Can I interest you in a slice of pizza or cheesecake?”

He could interest her in a whole lot more than food but she stifled that notion. With a nod, she took the boxes while he picked up her case from beside his knee, red ribbon screaming brightly next to his hand, and stepped into her world. Glancing at her hardwood, he kicked off his damp boots, revealing stark white athletic socks, no holes. Her lip tilted, touched at his unexpected thoughtfulness.

“You really didn’t have to but I’m starving so I’m not going to complain. The kitchen’s this way. Just leave that case by the door. I’ll go get yours after we eat.”

“Uhm, is your husband home?” He removed his coat and followed her into the small kitchen.

“Oh, I’m not married anymore. Sullivan was my ex’s name. You can call me Frannie.”

McHottie clasped his hands together and raised his eyes upward in prayer. “Thank you, Lord. I owe you one.” At her quizzical glance, he sent her a sheepish smile. “I was having a very difficult time accepting the fact that we
might
be related. I’m from Georgia but I still don’t flirt with my cousins.”

“Georgia? Really? I’m originally from Valdosta but we left there when I was about eight.” Frannie opened the refrigerator and peered inside to hide the jitters in her stomach.
He’s still flirting
. “I have milk, coke, beer or coffee.”

“Beer, please. Here, let me help.” McHottie opened the cabinet behind him and retrieved two plates. Frannie stopped perfectly still, the cold brown bottle chilling her fingers, and stared at the fake china in his big hands. Bristles of apprehension skittered across her flesh.

“How did you know which cabinet to open?”

“Uhm, I don’t really know.” His brows dipped and she found solace in his confusion. He seemed as surprised at his action as she was. He shrugged with dismissal. “I keep my plates beside the stove, so I just assumed yours would be there. I guess it’s a pretty common place.”

Handing her the dishes, he took the beer then sat at her small table. The tantalizing smell made her stomach growl as she sat across from him. She inhaled the aroma of heaven—pepperoni, bacon, spinach and black olives on Gino’s special thick crust. Her favorite. Her mouth watered in anticipation. When he reached for the pepper shaker at the same time she did, she thrust herself back in her chair and crossed her arms across her braless bosom.

“This has got to stop.”

“What?”

“We have the same name, similar addresses and now you bring my favorite pizza and top it with black pepper, just the way I do. What’s going on? Are you some kind of stalker or something?”

Both inky black brows shot upward toward a slight widow’s peak and he roared with laughter. He twisted the cap off the beer then leaned forward and extracted his wallet from his back pocket. He handed it to her casually. The warmth it held from his body stuttered her heart like the engine of a four-hundred-dollar rust bucket on a February morning. She fought the urge to bring the supple leather to her cheek.

“Here, check my license. I swear to you I’m not a stalker. I really am Francis Sullivan. I really do live at 4742 West Claymore. I own brown leather luggage, love Gino’s number three special with extra cheese and black pepper and keep my plates beside the stove.”

“This is too weird,” she murmured, staring at the rather unflattering identification picture of him. He was six foot one, his birthday was June ninth and he was an organ donor. The laminated card said his eyes were brown but they appeared black as she watched him watch her.
Black as homemade sin and damn near as potent.

He served her a slice of pizza and put three on his plate. “Do you think someone’s trying to tell us something?”

Ignoring his question, she handed him back his now cool wallet and picked up her pizza slice. “Do people call you Frank?”

“Frank is my father. Francis was my grandfather. I go by Jinx.”

“Jinx?” The pizza halted in front of her lips. “Why Jinx?”

“Yeah, long story short, I was a surprise. My brother was in college when I was born. My sister was a junior in high school. She was mortified her parents still did it and got pregnant. My very existence scandalized her. So she named me Jinx before I was even born, claimed I ruined her life.”

His easy grin made her relax even more. “My parents were older too. Dad had just retired from the Navy when Mom started tossing her cookies every morning. They were ecstatic, I’m told. They thought they were destined to be childless.”

“Do they still live in Georgia?”

“No, Mom passed away a few years ago and Dad just last year.”

“I’m sorry.” His gentle murmur warmed her blood. Deep compassion reverberated in his dark eyes and it stirred those stomach ants back into dance. Nodding her acceptance, her cheeks heated. He was sweet.
Gawd help me
.

Frannie stuffed herself with two slices of pizza then sat and listened to Jinx talk about his family while he ate. His voice rolled over her skin like heated oil, soothing and sensuous. Having just returned from an extended Thanksgiving visit, he had plenty of fresh stories to tell. The vivacious humor in his eyes enthralled her. His animation and energy filled the room and she laughed along with him, drawn in by his teasing banter. More similarities came to light amidst shared memories.

Their first pets were both named Snoopy although neither was a dog. Each had teachers named Mr. Butts. They attended high schools named for presidents, although in different states, and both had graduated summa cum laude from different colleges. After slicing two pieces of cheesecake, hers less than half the size of his, she went to the coffeemaker. When she offered him a cup, he agreed but a dare seeped into his tone.