Sandra Hill - [Jinx] (2 page)

“If you like your romances hot and spicy and your men the same way, then you will like
Tall, Dark, and Cajun. . . .
Eccentric characters, witty dialogue, humorous situations . . . and hot romance . . . [Hill] perfectly captures the bayou’s mystique and makes it come to life.”

—RomRevToday.com

“Downright laugh-out-loud funny. You’ll need to splash water on yourself between giggle fits. The novel has everything . . . to keep you interested from beginning to end.”

—BookHaunts.net

Also by Sandra Hill

The Cajun Cowboy

The Red-Hot Cajun

Tall, Dark, and Cajun

This book is dedicated with much appreciation to all those fans who have told me over these past ten years how much you appreciate my unique—okay, warped—sense of humor. You know who you are. You are teachers, pilots, therapists, ministers, housewives, Norwegian sailors, college students, nurses, men and women from all walks of life. I have been particularly touched by those of you who say my books have helped you through some life struggles and by those readers who are nobly serving in harm’s way in the military.

When I first started writing romance, I had no idea that humor could touch readers so strongly. I thought only books with serious messages helped people. The most extreme example I can offer is the precious fan of mine who died of cancer and asked to have one of my Viking books placed in her coffin so that, at the viewing, people would look and then smile. Yep, humor to the end. But I am equally touched by the working mothers who need a little humor in their lives at the end of the day.

Let’s face it, in these often depressing post-9/11 times, humor can make anyone’s life better.

Please visit my Web site where I have something FREE to offer you, in a show of my appreciation.

And be assured, Tante Lulu and Tee-John, those outrageous Cajuns, are along for the ride in this new treasure-hunting series.

Wishing you smiles in your reading,

Sandra Hill

www.sandrahill.net

Dear Readers
:

Welcome to my new Jinx series.

First off, let me introduce you to some of my friends, the main characters in
Pink Jinx.
Lawyer Veronica “Ronnie” Jinkowsky and her four-time ex-husband, Jake Jensen, a professional poker player, have been conned by Ronnie’s wacky, polka-playing grandfather into taking over Jinx, Inc., a treasure-hunting company.

There will be an ensemble cast in all the Jinx books, characters who will recur in subsequent books, but each with a different hero and heroine. We writers like to say that we create “worlds” with our series, whether they be vampires, Vikings, Cajuns, or historical families. When readers like a particular book, they tell us they want to come back to that “world.” So, welcome to my new world.

Those of you who have read my previous books will be pleased to know that Tante Lulu and Tee-John from my Cajun series are still around and spreading mischief. For the many of you who asked, yes, Tee-John will have his own story someday. Before that can happen, he’s got to get a few more years under his belt, literally.

It’s important to note that you do not have to have read the Cajun books to start the Jinx series. Likewise, the Jinx series is loosely linked, meaning the books can be read out of order.

A wise editor once told me that in the best of books, the writer makes the reader laugh as well as cry. Well, I can guarantee that Ronnie and Jake will tickle your funny bones, but I also hope your heartstrings will be tugged as well. These two love each other so much, but they just can’t get it right, as evidenced by their four divorces.

As a special thank-you to all of you who have been faithful supporters of my books, please visit my Web site, where I have a special, free surprise for you—a never-before-published novella called
Jinx Christmas
.

You can also look forward to reading about the ex-Amish, ex-Navy SEAL Caleb Peachey in the next Jinx book,
Pearl Jinx
.

Wishing you smiles in your reading and joy in your life.

Sandra Hill

www.sandrahill.net

[email protected]

Chapter
1

Her chips were definitely down. . . .

The scent of salt water always made her sick.

Which was really unfortunate for Veronica Jinkowsky, because not only was she being sucked into a venture that would place her on the high seas, but also here she stood on the boardwalk in freakin’ Atlantic City, the saltwater-taffy capital of the world. On a sucky scale of one to ten, her day was hitting about fifteen. And it was not yet over.

The rhythmic click of her high-heeled Christian Louboutin pumps on the boardwalk planks vibrated throughout her body and up to her head, which, not surprisingly, throbbed with a killer headache. Swinging through the back beachside door into the Taj Mahal, she blinked against the assault of cigarette smoke, raucous music, flashing lights, and the ching-ching-ching of slot machines. It was midnight, and the gamblers were out in full force. In the midst of all this “splendor,” she stood out like a sore thumb in her beige silk designer suit.

Distracted, Veronica bumped into a short, elderly woman with red curly hair carrying a purse the size of Idaho. The jolt forced the woman against a slot machine, which began to make loud noises: “Wheel . . . of . . . Fortune. Wheel . . . of . . . Fortune . . .”

Yikes!

At first, Veronica was alarmed. The woman, a combination of Sophia Petrillo from
The Golden Girls
and Granny Clampett from
The Beverly Hillbillies,
had to be at least seventy years old. That’s all she needed—to knock down some old lady in a casino.

But the old lady righted herself and asked in a heavy Southern accent, “You gots any idea where the Chippenduds is dancin’?” She was so short she had to crane her neck to peer up at Veronica.

Huh? Ohmigod, she must think I work here.

Then the old lady asked, “Are you a hooker?”

“I beg your pardon! Why would you ask such an absurd question?”

“You doan look like the other folks here. No offense. Some of my best friends is hookers down on Bourbon Street. Well, okay, one of them was . . . back in 1952. Marie Boudreaux, bless her heart. Anyhow, you look like yer high class, and I heard they has lotsa hookers here in Atlantic City, and I figgered you mus’ be one them call gals or sumpin’. You know, high-priced ladies of the night. Ain’t you ever seen that Elizabeth Taylor movie
Butterfield 8
?”

Veronica clicked her jaw shut. She hadn’t realized she’d been gaping.
Me? A hooker? Is she blind as well as batty?
Veronica refused to answer such a ridiculous question. “Back to your question—your
other
question. I’ve never heard of Chippendudes. Do you mean Chippendales?”

The lady furrowed her already-wrinkled brow. In fact, she had so many wrinkles she could probably screw a hat on.

“No. They’s definitely dudes, not dales.”

Veronica had to smile, despite her foul mood. “Are you looking for male strippers?”

“Tsk-tsk-tsk! Do I look like I could do anything with a nekkid boy toy?”

Not in a million years was Veronica going to answer that question.

“Now, Richard Simmons, thass another story. Hubba-hubba, that boy is ten kinds of sexy! Betcha he’s got a real nice hiney. Betcha it’s an onion butt. My niece Charmaine says an onion butt is a butt that’s so nice it brings tears to yer eyes.”

Good grief!

“Nope. I come all the way from Looz-ee-anna to rescue my great-nephew. He jist grad-je-ated from college and got hisself a summer job flashing his bee-hind in front of a bunch of horny wimmen. Talk about!”

Oh, boy! Leave it to me to find myself a looney bird after only five minutes in a casino. Why me?
“Sorry. I don’t know where there are any male strip shows. You might try asking at the front desk.”

“The rascal’s prob’ly hidin’ from me. That Tee-John allus was slicker ’n hog spit. But I’ll find him, guaranteed.”

“I’ve got to be going.” Veronica backed away. But her innate sense of kindness wouldn’t let her abandon the woman, who was clearly lost or, worse, stranded here. “Are you alone?”
Please, God, don’t let her be. I can’t solve my own problems, let alone someone else’s.

“I came with Henri Pinot. He said he’d be back quicker ’n a gator kin blink. That means in a minute. Henri is my third cousin. A widower. But his dead wife, Margie, talks to ’im all the time. Margie was a voodoo priestess. Henri went to the restroom. Between you and me, he has a little prostate trouble.”

Way more information than I need. Time to make a getaway.
“Uh, nice meeting you. Good luck.”

Granny Clampett had already turned around and was putting a paper voucher in a slot machine.

Veronica inched away. She felt a little guilty leaving the aged damsel in distress, but Veronica was a woman on a mission herself. And she damn well wanted to get it over with as soon as possible.

Wending her way through the casino—past a city of slot machines and roulette, craps, and blackjack tables, she finally arrived at the poker room in the front of the hotel. A banner proclaimed, “U.S. Poker Championship.” A poster read, “No-Limit Texas Hold ’Em . . . $1 million Grand Prize.”

ESPN camera crews were there filming, and somewhere in the background, probably coming from another part of the casino, she heard that catchy country song by the duo Big and Rich. Coincidentally, the rowdy song was the lead-in to some of ESPN’s TV poker programs. Something about a guy who walks into the room, passing out hundred-dollar bills, buying the whole room a double round of Crown, and “it kills and it chills. . . .”

She shook her head in disgust, definitely chilled. Inside the room, spectators were cordoned off by velvet ropes from the finalists’ table about fifteen feet away. Six players were still in the game with piles of chips in front of each of them. The tour director was calling out the action: “Sabato bets . . .” “Molene raises . . .” “Here comes the river . . .”

She didn’t recognize the middle-aged guy in the cowboy hat or the young Vietnamese fellow, but she did know the others.

Grace O’Brien was a cynical ex-nun. Correction—a cynical ex-nun with a sense of humor. The first time Veronica had met her, four years ago, Grace had cracked a joke: “What do you call a one-legged nun? Hopalong Chastity.” Veronica had been to Grace’s Cape May cottage several times and liked her a lot.

Mark Molene was a Denver oncologist who’d given up his high-stress medical practice a couple years back. Mark was dark and a little scary, giving new meaning to the word
unsociable.

And Angel Sabato. Veronica had to smile, seeing the guy with the long ponytail who was famous for his collection of Harleys—and Harley groupies. She recalled a harrowing trip she’d taken with him one time down the Garden State Parkway. Angel, not surprisingly, had posed for
Playgirl
last year. His photos had appeared below the suggestive headline, “His Poker Is Hot.” She wouldn’t admit it to just anyone, but Veronica had checked out the issue—only because she’d wanted to see if he really did have piercings in his penis, as had been rumored. He did. And, yep, it was hot.

Then there was the last player. You
could
say that she was acquainted with him. Well acquainted. He was her ex-husband, Jake Jensen.

Actually, he was her fourth ex-husband.

Okay, he was her only ex-husband. They had married and divorced four times, each of the marriages ending in a standoff and Jake ultimately leaving.

Trying to have a sense of humor about their multiple weddings—it was either laugh or cry—she and Jake had given names to their four marriages.

First was the Sappy Marriage, where they had been so much in love it practically leaked from their pores. They’d foolishly thought love conquered all. The wedding had involved a church service and a lavish reception, despite her grandmother’s disapproval of Jake. The marriage had lasted a record three years.

Next had come the Cowboy Marriage. Hey, what woman could resist a guy in Aruba wearing cowboy boots, a cowboy hat, and the sexiest grin this side of the Texas panhandle? All she knew was that she’d somehow landed in the honeymoon suite of a local hotel with Jake, him wearing nothing but cowboy boots and an open snap-button shirt and her wearing nothing.
Whew!
She got shivers just thinking about that one. Too bad it had ended two years later.

Third came the Tequila Marriage. Think Mexico and a gallon of tequila. Enough said! One year for that mistake.

Fourth was the Insanity Marriage. They had actually gone into that one with their eyes wide open. No heated rush. No booze. Just a pathetic hope that they could make it work. That marriage went out with a roar in a pitiful three months.

Thus, four marriages and divorces.

It was embarrassing, really. She was a corporate lawyer, albeit a burned-out, bored one. Presumably intelligent. She was sensible to the max. And yet she didn’t have the sense to stop marrying and divorcing the same guy over and over.

She continued to watch Jake as he played.

Some people thought he looked like a leaner, younger George Clooney. She thought he looked better. The years gave her cellulite; they gave Jake charisma. Her heart skipped a beat then hammered against her chest, making her breathless. That was the reaction she always had on first seeing her sinfully handsome ex. You’d think the hair-trigger attraction would have faded in the two years since she’d seen him last.

Not that any of that mattered.

Veronica shook her head to clear it of the unwelcome temptation.

He was thirty-five years old, wore a baseball cap over his short black hair, and sported day-old whiskers. He had on his lucky gray T-shirt with the logo “Up that!” She’d bought it for him sometime during the Tequila Marriage. Dark sunglasses covered his compelling, pale blue eyes.

“How much are each of those chips worth?” she asked the elderly gentleman next to her.

“This is the cadillac of poker tournaments, so . . . Let me see, the orange ones are one thousand each. Gray ones, five thousand each. Buy-in fee was ten thousand dollars.”

“Holy moly!” Stacked in front of Jake was about—she did a rough mental calculation—four hundred thousand dollars. He sure had come up in the world, if gambling one’s life away could be considered an achievement. There was an old Armenian saying: “What the wind brings, the wind blows away.” She and Jake had been in more windstorms than she could count.

She must have spoken louder than she’d thought because Jake’s head shot up and turned right to her. He lowered his sunglasses down his nose and peered over them to get a better view of her. Then a slow grin crept across his lips, just before he slid the glasses back up.

Instantly, he morphed into his zen mode, something he’d perfected over the years. Focus, focus, focus—that’s what was needed to be a winning poker player in the Bible According to Jake. He gave away no “tells” once he was in that mode—not a blink, grimace, or gesture, nothing to indicate whether he held a winning or losing hand.

Everyone at the table seemed tense. She knew from living with Jake that in no-limit Texas hold ’em, fortunes could change from hand to hand. Some pros refused to enter this kind of game because of the heart-stopping swings.

The three flop cards were already on the table. As spectators looked on, the dealer flipped the turn card, which left only Jake, Mark, and the Vietnamese guy in the hand. Mark bet $400,000, enough to put Jake and the Vietnamese player all in. Jake folded some thought, but the Vietnamese called and was disgusted to see that he was “drawing dead.” As the meaningless river card hit the felt, Mark scooped up his winnings, and the tournament clock hit zero, indicating the end of the level and a short break for the remaining players.

Jake immediately made his way toward her, which she’d expected. He knew she wouldn’t step foot into a casino, or come searching for him after all this time, unless it was important. People kept patting him on the back and shaking his hand, but he merely nodded at them and continued on his way. Even the ESPN reporter was waved off.

When he got to her, he took her elbow and steered her down a side corridor labeled “Employees Only.” Not a word did he utter. But then she was a bit speechless herself.

He stopped and stuck one hand into his jeans pocket, something he did reflexively when he was nervous. No one but she knew that he was probably fingering the silver worry beads she’d bought him during their Sappy Marriage. Or was it the Cowboy one? Taking off his sunglasses, he leaned his left shoulder against the wall. “Hey, Ronnie,” he greeted her in that low, husky voice that made her melt. Had made her melt
at one time,
she amended.

“Jake,” she said back, matching his husky voice.

It was a greeting routine they had played often in the past. To her surprise, he didn’t appear pleased. “What’s up?” he asked with equal measures of irritation and concern.

She leaned her right shoulder against the wall, facing him. Forget old feelings of tenderness . . . or lust. She was angry once again. “My grandfather,” she snapped.

He arched both eyebrows. “Frank?”

“Yeah, Frank.” Veronica had called her grandfather Frank from the time she was only a few years old.
Grandpa
or
Gramps
was too soft for the man, even then.

“What’s the old geezer done now? Did he find any more gold toilets?”

Her grandfather owned a treasure-hunting company, Jinx, Inc., a play on his last name, Jinkowsky. A
treasure detective,
that’s what he called himself. Sort of like Clive Cussler’s Dirk Pitt, she supposed. Sometimes his projects involved deep-sea expeditions, sometimes archaeological digs, and sometimes just tracking down mysterious, missing objects. While he supposedly had a great reputation among historians, scholars, and museum curators for having made some important discoveries, he was known to take on infamous cases as well. Last year, he recovered a solid-gold toilet once owned by Mussolini. Some Italian prince paid a million dollars for the stupid thing. The story made all the newspapers. Frank had been quoted as saying something about even Mussolini needing a crapper and other unsavory observations. Her Boston family was not amused.