Jinxed (30 page)

“She’s hoping I’ll find an address book, a note, pictures, something that will ID the other woman. Figured since she had Rivelli over the weekend, now was the perfect time for me to search this place. Obviously, she’s desperate to know his secret.”

Afia sighed as she snapped on the gloves. “And he’s desperate to keep his secret. Now that we’re here, I’m feeling guilty.”

“Too late for that.” He jerked his head toward the hall. “You take the bathroom. I’ll take the bedroom. Touch as little as possible and don’t make any loud noises to alert the neighbors.”

She gave a cocky salute and tiptoed ahead of him, disappearing into a room on the right.

Jake gave the entire place a once over before beginning his search. Rivelli’s apartment was as clean and structured as his apparent life. Everything in its place. It took him fifteen minutes to find what he was looking for, and he didn’t find it in the bedroom. The man had stashed his goods behind an ingenious bookshelf that doubled as a closet.

Sequined gowns, velvet jumpsuits, corsets, and body stockings. Feather boas and rhinestone jewelry. Wigs. A supply of bust enhancers and hosiery, including fishnet pantyhose.

Afia came into the room carrying a fishing tackle box. “Bingo,” she said. “Eye shadow, false eyelashes, lipstick, nail tips, rouge … beard concealer.”

Jake jerked his head to the secret closet. “Six-inch platform shoes and thigh high boots, size fifteen. You were right,” he said with a proud smile. “Rivelli
is
the other woman.”

“You can’t tell Angela.”

Jake gripped the steering wheel and clenched his jaw. “That’s the third time you’ve said that, Afia. We’ve been through this. Angela Brannigan is my client. She hired me to find out if her fiancé is cheating on her. I have to report my findings.”

She wasn’t sure if he was irritated with her or the heavy Saturday evening traffic, but he sounded as cranky as she felt. The thrill of solving a mystery had been short-lived. Now she felt like a traitor. “Can’t you just tell her, no, he’s not seeing another woman? That wouldn’t be lying.”

“She wouldn’t believe me. She’s like a dog with a bone. She’d just hire another investigator.”

Sighing, she swept off her cap and brushed her bangs off of her forehead. “Do you have to show her the pictures? The wigs? The bust enhancers?” She’d nearly died when he’d whipped out a camera and started clicking away.

“She wanted visual proof. It’s not the kind she’s expecting, but it will put her mind at rest. She’s engaged to this guy. Don’t you think she has a right to know what she’s getting into?”

“But it’s so personal, Jake.” She clasped her hands in her lap, her body surging with indignation. “It should come from Rivelli, not from you. He’s not gay. He might not even be bi-sexual. There’s an entire faction of transvestites who are heterosexual, married with kids. You investigated him. Anthony Rivelli is an upstanding, hard working man.”

“Who likes to dress up in women’s clothes.”

She glanced sideways, miffed because she couldn’t see his eyes. Was he mocking Rivelli, or merely stating a fact? How could he be so unfeeling about this? “He’s an entertainer at heart,” she said with conviction. “Role reversal dates back to Shakespearian times. Milton Berle was a drag queen, for goodness sake. It’s a form of expression, a kind of escape. I bet the only reason Rivelli keeps it a secret is because the bulk of society doesn’t approve. Do you think he’d be the vice president of a casino if his peers knew that he likes to perform in drag?”

Jake scraped his hand along his jaw and massaged the back of his neck. “Afia, I’m not judging the guy.”

“But you’re prepared to ruin his life?”

“For Christ’s—”

“I’m just saying that he should at least be given the opportunity to come clean with Angela. Can’t you talk to him first? Give him a heads up?”

“And betray Angela’s confidence by letting him know that she hired me to investigate him? That she mailed me a key to his apartment so that I could snoop in his closets? Yeah, that’ll give their relationship a shot in the arm.”

“Oh.” Feeling a little foolish, she thunked her head back against the seat as he turned onto a side street. “Hmm.”

“You have to consider all of the angles. You’re not giving Angela any credit. She’s going to be damned relieved that her fiancé isn’t cheating on her. Will she be shocked that he’s a cross-dresser? Probably. Will she desert him because of it? Maybe, maybe not. What if she approaches Rivelli with an open mind and heart? What if she wants to understand and to work things out? Maybe he’ll be able to come out of the closet, so to speak, at least with her. Wouldn’t that be a relief for Rivelli?

“I’m sure it would.” She massaged her temples. “This is very confusing.”

He reached over and squeezed her thigh as he swung the car into his driveway. “Listen, we can’t do anything about it until Angela contacts me and that won’t be until Monday. Let the matter rest for now. Case solved. As soon as we walk through that front door we’re done talking business. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” she said, suddenly exhausted.

He smiled, took off his sunglasses and tossed them on the dash and then climbed out and rounded the car to open her door.

Afia groaned as she stepped out into his arms. This had been an emotionally charged day, and it wasn’t over. She’d yet to tell him her news. Maybe she should wait until tomorrow. “I’m tired. Are you tired?”

“I’m hungry.” He whipped around his baseball cap so that it sat backwards and dropped his forehead to hers. “How about if I make us something to eat, and we curl up on the sofa and watch an old movie?”

She couldn’t think of anything she’d rather do. Except … “Can I take a bubble bath first?”

He smiled. “Have I told you
my
number one fantasy?”

Jake relaxed against the back of the claw-footed tub and soaped up Afia’s long hair with her jasmine shampoo. She sat with her back to him, cradled between his legs, sipping champagne amongst a cloud of sudsy bath bubbles. “I like the smell of your shampoo,” he said.

“I like the taste of your champagne.” She took another long sip, before setting the fluted crystal next to his on the wicker table he’d pulled alongside the tub. Scented candles flickered all around the wainscoted room. The sensual beat of a salsa tune drifted from the radio on the vanity. She moaned with pleasure as he eased back her head and rinsed her hair with cup after cup of warm water. “I think we got our fantasies mixed up,” she whispered.

He pulled her flush against him and kissed the top of her ear. “I think we got it just right.” Enjoying the feel of her slick, naked body, he smoothed a washcloth over her shoulders, across her collarbone then over her perfect breasts. His pole hardened just thinking about what he was going to do to her later in bed. She was sexy, beautiful, kind, and clever, and he was goddamned dizzy in love.

She’d impressed him by solving the Rivelli mystery, and though she’d irritated the hell out of him with her views on the outcome, he respected her opinions and the fact that she’d fought to get her way. Six days ago she would have avoided the heated exchange. He found it hard to believe that a person could change so fiercely in so little time, which led him to believe that the tigress had always been lurking. She’d just needed someone to lure her out into the jungle of life.

She sighed as he smoothed the washcloth over her ribs and across her taut stomach. Her limbs grew heavy, her breathing shallow. He half expected her to fall asleep in his arms. But then she surprised him by sitting up and swiveling around to face him.

Not so bad. Now he had a prime view of those perfect breasts.

“I never got to ask my questions.” She swiped water from her thick lashes and cocked her head. “You know, the interview game.”

“Ah.” He forced his gaze from her rosy buds to her sable eyes.

“Don’t look so worried. I only have two questions.” She grinned. “For now anyway.”

Okay, she’d piqued his curiosity. He raked back his wet hair and took a bracing drink of champagne. “Fire away.”

She traced a finger along the small, jagged scar on his cheekbone. “How’d you get this?”

His skin sizzled beneath her gentle touch. “It’s not very glamorous. Bar fight. I was young, drunk, and—”

“In love?” Her eyes rounded to the size of chocolate medallions. “Were you defending your girlfriend’s honor or something?”

He smiled. “I was going to say hotheaded. I’ve never been in love.”

Now she looked stricken.

Hell. He’d meant he’d never been in love before
now
. “I meant to say—”

“Don’t say anything!” she squealed, covering his mouth with her hand.

Why the hell did she keep doing that? He raised his eyebrows, and she removed her hand.

“Question number two.” She polished off her champagne. “Why did you leave the police force?”

Fair question that deserved an answer, but he wasn’t in the mood just now to get into a grim discussion about the lowlifes of the world and the shit they sometimes get away with because of the system. “Let’s just say that I don’t always like to play by the rules.”

She hugged her knees to her chest and shivered. “You mean you saw bad people do bad things, but you didn’t always see justice served.”

Beautiful and intuitive. “That about sums it up.” He reached past her and turned on the faucet, giving the cooling water a hot blast.

She nodded. “I understand. Believe me, I’ve heard lots of horror stories. I’ve been surrounded by judges and lawyers my whole life. My godfather’s a lawyer.”

Dammit
. He cranked off the faucet and refilled their champagne glasses. “Harmon Reece.”

Her eyes lit up. “You know him?” She tipped the flute to her lips.

“I’ve done some work for him.” Dammit to hell, he did not want to have this discussion here. Now. He leaned forward and stroked his finger along her sudsy jaw. “Listen, Afia. I need to tell you something.”

“Wait!” She set down her glass. “I have to tell you first. Before you say it. Before you think it’s the liquor and not me.” She framed his face in her hands, regarded him intently.

He waited … and waited. His heart hammered against his chest as he waited for the words that would make him the happiest man on this freaking earth.

“I love you.”

Thank you, Jesus.

She smiled and continued to caress his face as the candles flickered and the music played. As his entire world tilted. “I want you to know that I’ve never said that to anyone before. That is, I’ve never been the first to say it. And it wasn’t like this. It’s never been like this.

“I’m in love with you, Jake. I love you so much it hurts.” She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips, a tender kiss that wrapped around his soul and made his heart sing. “I didn’t scare you, did I?”

He smiled, gazing at her with the love of a thousand Romeos. “You just made me very happy.” He pulled her to her feet, wrapped her in a fluffy towel, and carried her to his bed. Laying her on the mattress, he sealed their love with a kiss and a vow. “Nothing and no one will ever come between us.”

Sunday waffled into a blur. A beautiful, magical, romantic blur.

Afia had awoken in erotic bliss with Jake inside of her murmuring promises of the day, the night, and a lifetime beyond. By the time he was through with her she’d barely been able to crawl out of bed. And he called
her
insatiable.

She’d retaliated by making and serving him breakfast. Naked.

Up to the challenge, he’d duly nailed her on the kitchen table. It was the stuff of her X-rated dreams. Only there wasn’t anything raunchy or tawdry about it. She was in love, and as corny as it sounded, all was right with the world.

Of course, her world would shift slightly the moment her mother returned. Giselle St. John-Tate considered money, status, and power to be extremely important. It was the reason she’d married the bonbon baron, and the reason she’d hate Jake.

Afia had never understood her mother’s motives. Giselle believed that her daughter was doomed to a life of misfortune. There had never,
ever
, been any doubt of that, and yet she continually manipulated Afia into relationships that she swore would bring
good
fortune. Maybe it was just the fortune part that mattered. Maybe Giselle truly thought that money could buy happiness.

It occurred to her in the midst of searching E-bay for Victorian furniture with Jake that she hadn’t seriously thought about retrieving her inheritance in days. It was almost as if Henry Glick had done her a favor. By stealing her money he’d given her life. She’d never been happier, never felt stronger.

It was so hard to believe that she had existed before this past week. Who was that person who’d shrunk at the slightest cross-eyed look?
I haven’t done anything wrong
. As if she deserved scrutinizing simply for being born on Friday the thirteenth. The notion filled her with disgust. Her mother filled her with disgust. Only now did Afia recognize the woman’s superstitious harping for what it was—emotional abuse. Giselle had molded her into a frightened, insecure target for mishap.