Sandra Hill - [Jinx] (7 page)

“Oh.” He heard the relief in her voice. But then she asked, “Is . . . is Ronnie there?”

Women! Why can’t they just let things ride? Why do they have to prod and prod and prod till there’s an open wound? Then they wonder why men do stupid things, like tell them what they really think.
“Yes, Ronnie is here. Right now she’s on the other side of the room flirting with two deep-sea diving studs.”

Frank choked with laughter at his side. It must have been obvious that Jake was covering his ass.

He ignored Frank and told Trish, “You’re right. We need to talk this thing out.”

“I love you, Jake.”

He hesitated, which he knew instantly was a mistake, and said, “I love you, too.” It was a millisecond too late. “I’ll see you in an hour or so.” Taking a last swig of his beer, he told Frank, “I’ve gotta go.”

“Where?” Frank snapped, clearly not pleased.

“Home.”

That raised Frank’s eyebrows, but he didn’t ask where home was or who he shared it with, thank God.

“Tell Ronnie I had to go . . . home.”

Frank guffawed. “Tell her yourself.”

Not in a million years am I going near her.

“How you gonna get out of here? You left your car back at my house.”

“I’ll hitch a ride by boat.” Frank’s Long Beach Island house was just a short jaunt across Barnegat Bay.

Ever persistent, Frank asked, “Will you be coming back to help with the project?”

“Hell, no!” he said, immediately followed by, “Hell if I know!” as he slapped some bills on the bar. And that was the God’s honest truth.

Ronnie glanced up then, noting his handshake with Frank and apparent leave-taking. Their eyes held for a long while.

He broke the stare first and told Frank, who was watching closely, “I can’t come back. I mean, I shouldn’t come back. Son of a bitch! I just don’t know. It would be pure hundred proof insanity to . . .” His hand moved through the air with uncertainty.

Frank chuckled, then muttered under his breath as Jake walked away, “You’ll be back.”

Sometimes blood is not thicker than water. . . .

“If you leave now, the door will not be open for you when you come back,” Lillian Satler said in her corner office at Boston’s Satler, Satler, and Dilroy, Esq. “And you will come back. You always do.”

Veronica stared at her grandmother, who was sitting ramrod stiff behind her pristine mahogany desk, like the queen of bloody England. Wearing the same tailored gray suit she wore every day—she must have a dozen in her closet—the Boston Lawyer of the Year, four times over, could have passed for sixty, not the seventy-five she was. Her figure was as trim as when she’d been a teenager. Her perfectly dyed, short brown hair was the same as it had been when Veronica was a toddler, not a strand out of place or one single hint of gray. Her face was smooth, thanks to plastic surgeries and collagen injections. She wore pearls at her neck and pearl studs in her ears.

With dismay, Veronica realized she was wearing identical pearls, both family heirlooms.

Despite her fine outward appearance, Lillian was as hard as nails inside. Many an unsuspecting company lawyer had learned that fact over the years when they met her in court. Veronica had personally learned the lesson at a young age. She was sent off to boarding school when she was eight, never knew physical affection, was told what to do about everything right down to her brand of toothpaste.
No wonder I’m a mess!

She’d told her grandmother that she wanted to take off for a month to get her head straight, to decide if she wanted to continue practicing corporate law or some other related field. She had not mentioned—yet—why her grandfather had put all his property in her name.

“Why is this coming up now? Why, every time you see your grandfather, do you come back distressed? What did he say? Why do you give him so much power?”

“One, I hadn’t seen him in three years, so your use of the words
every time
is a misrepresentation. Distressed? I’m not distressed. Tired is more like it. As for power, hah! If he had power over me, I would have jumped at his offer to run his treasure-hunting company.”

Uh-oh! She hadn’t intended to give her grandmother all that information. With good reason.

Lillian hissed in indignation. “How dare he? You do not have the talent to run such a crackbrained enterprise. You are much too smart to even consider such lunacy. You carry Satler blood in your veins. You would not demean our name. Of course you refused.”

Actually, she had refused, but Lillian’s assessment of her capabilities rankled. And why did she always ignore the fact that Veronica had Jinkowsky blood in her veins, too? “Not necessarily,” she lied. “I told him I would think about it.”

“Unacceptable!”

“It might be fun to try it . . . for a few weeks . . . a month at most.”
The salt air must have infected my brain. I could not actually be considering . . . No! Never!
Still, she blundered on, pride driving her. “I could clear my calendar to accommodate the absence. Besides, I haven’t taken a vacation in years. Since my last wedding, if you must know.”

Not surprising that the suggestion went over like baked beans at a Boston society wedding. Her grandmother’s face turned red. “I should have known when you said you wanted a few weeks off that it was more than that. Well, that justifies what I said earlier. Leave this job for even a few days and you won’t have a job.”

Veronica hadn’t seriously considered taking her grandfather up on his offer—until now, when her grandmother egged her on. To say that her job was on the line if she took off for a few weeks was outrageous. “I think Frank needs me.” That was as much as she would disclose about her grandfather’s problems. Lillian would pounce on that weakness and flog it to death. Even the obnoxious old coot didn’t deserve that.

“So that’s why he put all his property in your name. A ploy to get you into his camp.”

Camp? This is not a battle of exes. I am not some prize for them to fight over.
“Be reasonable.”

Her grandmother’s steely expression told Veronica loud and clear that there would be no concessions. “Veronica, please, think about this. You are not a risk-taker. You are a serious businesswoman. At heart, you are just like me.”

“I am not!”

Instead of taking offense at Veronica’s vehement denial, her grandmother gave her a sweeping glance. And, yes, Veronica was wearing a trim tailored suit with a white blouse, just like Lillian, except hers was navy blue, not gray. Veronica’s hair was long—something Lillian had always objected to—but she’d pulled it back off her face in a neat coil.
Am I really turning into my grandmother? No! That’s impossible. I won’t stand for it.

“You would be such a fish out of water on a treasure hunt. It’s laughable.”

Suddenly, Veronica recalled an argument she’d had once with Jake.
During the Cowboy Marriage, I think.
He’d accused her of becoming a clone of her grandmother, that she never took chances, that she wanted guarantees in life. In other words, she was boring.
I am not boring. I’m not.
Her fingers touched the pearls at her neck.
Oh, shit! I’m going out and buying a red dress after I leave this office. And maybe even a bikini. And a thong. Yeah, a thong. Victoria’s Secret, here I come.

Veronica was making jokes with herself, but she really felt like crying.

“Are you paying attention to me?”

You’d think I was twelve instead of thirty-two the way she talks down to me.

“Call the bum’s bluff,” Lillian persisted. “Take the business, house, and personal property and run. Sell them first chance you get. You don’t owe the bastard a thing.”

Oh, that would be ethical!
“I have no plans to take over his business or anything else. It would only be a temporary arrangement.”
I don’t believe it. She is forcing me to do something I never intended to begin with. Me? A treasure hunter?

“It’s a goddamn trap. He’ll turn you into a bimbo just like that slut girlfriend of his.”

“Flossie is not a slut.”

Her grandmother threw her hands up. “See? You’re already siding with your grandfather.”

“This is not a competition between you and Frank.”

Lillian raised her eyebrows a fraction.

Veronica was accomplishing nothing, arguing with her grandmother when the subject was her grandfather. It was surprising that Lillian had even given her son—Veronica’s father—the Jinkowsky name when he was born. Veronica suspected her grandmother had been forced to do so for legal reasons or because of a bribe from her grandfather.

“I mean it, Veronica. Go to work with your grandfather, and you lose your job here.”

Veronica blinked rapidly to avoid tears. Her grandmother hated crying. To her, it was the supreme act of feminine weakness. “I can get a job elsewhere.”

Lillian refused to budge.

Well, stubbornness ran in the family. Therefore, Veronica replied, “So be it.”

That shocked the old lady. She’d expected Veronica to tuck tail and do her bidding, as usual. “You would risk your career, risk a chance at full partnership, to work with that . . . that good-for-nothing?”

“You’ve been holding that partnership apple over my head for three years now. The only way I’m ever going to get a bite is over your dead body.”

Lillian inhaled sharply with shock. “That is not true.”

“Yes, it is, Grandma.”

Her grandmother inhaled sharply again, but this time with disgust. She hated being called Grandma. “Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am” were the preferred replies.

“I’ll never be awarded even a junior partnership while you’re still actively working here. You like too much the prestige of being the only female partner in a firm your great-uncle founded.”

“I find your attitude offensive.” Lillian stood and leaned forward, her hands braced on the table. “You should be grateful for all I’ve done for you, young lady.”

I’ve been on my own for ten years, and I’m still “young lady” to her. Yeah, I’m going to be made partner real soon. Next will come the guilt trip: “I raised you when your mother died. I stood by you through all your divorces. I’ve been the only steady anchor in your life.” Yada, yada, yada.
“I’ve worked hard for this firm,
Grandma.
Every perk I’ve received has been earned and deserved.”

“I know you’ve done a good job, Veronica.” Lillian sat back down and visibly tamped down her temper. “That is not the point.”

“What is?”

“Your association with that . . . man.” She couldn’t have said it any plainer.

“Why do you hate Frank so? It’s been fifty years, for God’s sake. Did you ever love him? What did he do to make you so bitter?”

“Everything.” Her grandmother’s voice was so sharp it could have cut ice.

“Did you ever love him?”

Lillian, who had never remarried, drew herself up even straighter. “I will not discuss that man or my personal history with you. Not now. Not ever.”

“Well, then, I have no choice but to help him.”
She is backing me into a corner. She could very well force me to do the thing she does not want me to do.

“Don’t you dare blackmail me.”

“It’s not blackmail. I’m just laying all my cards on the table.”
It’s just me seeing the light.

“Cards! That’s the kind of thing your ex-husband would say.” Her grandmother narrowed her eyes at her. “Is Jacob involved in this disaster?”

God! She’s got to be the only person in the world who calls Jake Jacob. Veronica would have liked to deny Lillian’s suspicion, but her heated face gave her away.

“Oh, God! Will you never learn?”

“Apparently not,” Veronica said as she turned and walked out the door. With alarm, she realized that she’d just made a decision. God help her!

I. Am. Going. To. Be. A. Freakin’. Treasure. Hunter. Aaarrgh!

Chapter
6

Don’t let the door hit you in the . . .

A week had passed since Jake’s meeting with Frank and Ronnie, and his life couldn’t get any worse.

He prided himself on the fact that he hadn’t gone back to Frank’s place, but little else.

Sitting in the La-Z-Boy recliner in his Brigantine apartment, he watched a NASCAR race on his wide-screen plasma TV. And he watched Trish as she made a big production out of moving out to live with a fellow pre-med student in Cherry Hill.

It was a very modest apartment, considering his means these past few years, but he intended to change that soon with the purchase of a beachfront cottage. It would cost a small fortune but was a really good investment. Plus, being on the ocean would pretty much preclude Ronnie ever being there, with her water phobia. Sort of an insurance that he wouldn’t ever talk her into a fifth marriage.
Hmmm. I wonder if my engagement to Trish is . . . was . . . the same kind of insurance. Cutting off all avenues for me to lose my head over Ronnie again. But I digress. Digress? What kinda highbrow word is that for talkin’ to myself in my head? Yikes! I better not smile.

Humor was the last thing he needed to display right now. That didn’t mean he couldn’t get a little male revenge. Every time Trish slammed the front door, he turned the volume up louder on the TV. She was in the process of carrying boxes filled with her belongings out to her car. To say she was pissed would be like saying sex was a little bit fun.

Slam, bang.

Vroom, vroom.

Slam, bang.

Vroom, vroom.

He didn’t know who was being more immature. Okay, he’d probably win that contest hands down. So, he decided to take the high road. The next time Trish came storming back into the apartment, he turned the volume down, stood, and tried to talk to her. “You don’t have to do this, honey.”

“Yes, I do.”

There was fire in her blue eyes, which should have been a warning to back away and shut up, if he was smart. Which he apparently wasn’t.

“Listen, all I said was I need some time to get my head straight.”

“Why don’t you stick your head straight up your you-know-what while you’re at it?”

Okaaaay!
“You’re the one who said I should go get Ronnie out of my system.”

“And you thought I meant it?”

Well, yeah.
“Be reasonable. All I said was—”

“Screw you.”

“That, too,” he tried to joke.

She snarled. He was pretty sure that meant she was not amused.

“You’re still wearing my ring. You should stay.”

“I moved the ring to my right hand.”

Uh-oh, there must be some hidden female message that I missed here.
“And that means . . . ?”

“We are not engaged anymore until you prove I’m the only one.”

“Right, left, what’s the difference?”

“Pfff! You are such a stupid prick.”

“I may be stupid, but not stupid enough to hook up with Ronnie again. Just because I was stupid four times doesn’t mean I’m going for five. Give me some credit.” He reached for her, and she swatted his hands away.

“Don’t you dare touch me—not while you’ve got your ex-wife on your mind.”

“Who says I have Ronnie on my mind?”

“Jake, you’ve had a hard-on ever since you saw her last week.”

“How do you know it’s not for you?”

“Give me a break.”

Time for a new tactic.
“I thought you loved me.”
For chrissake, that’s the kind of thing women say—or wussy men.

“I do love you, but not enough to play ménage-a-Ronnie.”

“I never suggested any such thing,” he protested. He’d been with Trish for more than a year. He’d finally gotten over his last round with Ronnie. He couldn’t let his life fall apart . . . again. “I do love you, Trish. Honest, I do. But—”

“But you love your ex-wife, too,” Trish finished with a sigh.

“I think I’ll always have feelings for Ronnie, but I won’t willingly jump off that cliff again. Give me some time.” He figured
willingly
gave him a bit of wiggle room if he should somehow be dumb enough to succumb. Thank God for the artful dodge.

“Will you be fucking Ronnie while you’re taking that time?”

He cringed at her crudity, not because the word offended him. He used it often enough himself, but Trish didn’t.

“Listen, Jake, sooner or later, you are going to leave me—
unless
you resolve your issue with Ronnie. Consider this a preemptive breakup.”

“Preemptive?” he sputtered. “What is this, a baseball contract or something?”

“Or something.”

She was so angry, her nose was flaring like a draft horse, not that he would mention that fact.

“Excuse me,” someone said behind them. “I’ve been knocking.”

Saved!
he thought.

He and Trish both swiveled and saw his friend Grace O’Brien standing in the open doorway.

A reprieve! Hallelujah!
He walked over and gave her a hug. Grace was an Irish redhead, an ex-nun and a world-class poker player. Grace sometimes played in the same tournaments that he did, including last week in AC. She had come in a respectable fourth.

“Another woman!” Trish exclaimed, throwing her hands up in disgust.

“Huh?” he and Grace said.

“Oh, no, you don’t understand—” Grace started to say.

“This is Grace. You’ve heard me mention Grace before. Grace
was
a
nun,
for God’s sake,” he explained, as if that was any kind of explanation. Trish had never met Grace before, but she had to have seen her at the tournament yesterday. She just wasn’t thinking clearly; that was the only explanation Jake could imagine.

Trish gave him a look that pretty much accused him of wanting a ménage-a-four, or whatever it was called in French. With a nun yet! Or ex-nun . . . same thing.

Before he or Grace had a chance to further protest Trish’s assumption, Trish picked up one of the three suitcases left in the hallway and walked out the door in a huff.

“What’s going on?” Grace asked him, retrieving a couple of towels from the floor, which Trish must have dropped on one of her Road Runner trips through.

“Trish’s dumping me.”

“For good?”

“It depends, I guess.”

“On what?”

“Me.”

“Uh-oh. I smell wife in this picture.”

Although Grace no longer belonged to any religious order, she still retained some of the Catholic church’s values, including the sanctity of marriage. She’d told him on more than one occasion that Ronnie was still his wife, despite all the divorces.

“No, Ronnie is not in the picture,” he said, which wasn’t really a lie. “Trish thinks she is, but she’s not.”

Grace arched her eyebrows at him.

“Listen, there’s a saying that applies perfectly to me: ‘Marriage is a three-ring circus—the engagement ring, the wedding ring, and the suffering.’”

“What’s your point?”

“I’ve had suffering up to my eyeballs.”

“Oh, please! Do you want balloons for your pity party?”

Grace did have a way of grounding him at times. Good friends did that, he supposed.

With a sigh of resignation, he walked into the kitchen and got himself and Grace a beer. “What brings you here? Not that you need an excuse.”

Grace followed him and took a glass out of the cupboard. She poured carefully to avoid too much foam. After taking a taste and licking her lips, she said, “It’s a beautiful day, and Angel stopped by to take me for a ride on his motorcycle. He’s down in the parking lot now, checking his crankbox or crank-something.”

That accounted for Grace’s hair and outfit. Her hair was short and bright red, usually combed back neatly off her face. Today it stood up in spikes like a rocker’s. Plus, she wore jeans, boots, and an oversized Harley-Davidson leather jacket—probably Angel’s.

“I’m thinking about getting a tattoo,” she told him.

He grinned. “Where? On the butt?”

“No. That’s too much of a cliché. Maybe the back of my neck.”

“Ouch!”

“Angel says I really should do it—throw caution to the wind, be a free spirit.”

“Figures that Angel would have something to do with this. Just so you don’t get a piercing anywhere near . . . um . . . erotic zones.”

It was hard to embarrass Grace, even though lots of people tried, her being an ex-nun and all. Then again, he’d heard stories about Grace back in her nun days. Grace had not been a typical nun, by any means. Now, she tilted her head, trying to picture those piercings in erotic zones.

Everyone knew that Angel Sabato had had his cock pierced. Talk about insanity! But Angel claimed it enhanced sex. Jake couldn’t imagine how, and he didn’t want any graphic explanations.

“Okay. No piercings,” Grace replied belatedly.

He and Grace walked into the living room. She sat down on the sofa, and he went to the window. Angel was down there, talking to Trish. Rather, Trish was doing all the talking, gesticulating wildly as she spoke. Probably cutting Jake to pieces while Angel just nodded and patted her on the shoulder occasionally.

Within minutes, Trish was gunning the motor on her Mazda Miata with its small U-Haul trailer, and squealing out of the parking lot. She would probably come back later to get the rest of her stuff. He hoped. Maybe he hoped. Yep, he hoped.

Angel came in a few minutes later, shaking his head at Jake. “Man, you are in such deep shit, they oughta name a fertilizer after you.”

“Tell me about it,” Jake said after he went into the kitchen and came back with a beer for Angel.

“She’s really hot . . . and nice,” Angel remarked as he settled his butt into the La-Z-Boy and turned the volume up on the NASCAR race.

“Don’t tell me you were hitting on Jake’s fiancée.” Grace tsk-tsked her disapproval to Angel.

He just grinned. “She told me she and Jake aren’t engaged anymore.” Then he turned to Jake. “Do you mind if I date her?”

“Hell, yes!”

Angel and Grace both smirked at him.

“Trish and I have hit a rough patch. That doesn’t mean we’re through for good.”

“Couldn’t you have talked her into sticking around so you could work things out?” Grace asked him.

He could feel his face flush.

“Uh-oh!” Angel and Grace said at the same time.

“I might not be around for the next few weeks,” Jake surprised himself by saying. When had he come to that decision?

“Uh-oh!” Angel and Grace said again.

They probably thought he was hooking up with Ronnie again. They’d certainly witnessed it before.

“This is not about Ronnie.”

Angel laughed and made a mooing sound.

“What does that mean?”

“I’m suffering from a bit of déjà moo,” Angel explained. “As in, I’ve heard this bullshit before.”

Jake rolled his eyes and Grace did the same.

“Dear St. Anthony, come around,” Grace prayed. “Something’s lost and can’t be found. Jake’s sanity.”

Grace was like a dog with a bone when it came to him and Ronnie. According to Grace, St. Anthony was the patron saint of lost things—a lesson she’d taught them in the past when things had come up missing, like an earring or a poker chip. It was a stretch to ask St. Anthony to find his sanity.

“I
might
be going treasure hunting,” he announced before they could ask more questions about Ronnie—or Trish. He should have kept his trap shut because he really hadn’t made a decision. Really. Not.

“No shit!” Angel exclaimed.

“What kind of treasure?” Grace asked, equally impressed. “Pirate treasure?”

He shook his head. “Mafia treasure,” he blurted. His trap must be stuck in yap mode. “I can’t say anymore,” he added. “In fact, I haven’t made any decision. But if I did, I’d be working for a few weeks with my ex-grandfather-in-law, Frank Jinkowsky. He operates a treasure-hunting business.”

“Wow!” Grace was staring at him as if he’d suddenly turned into Batman and had just driven up in his Batmobile.

“And here I was planning to talk you and Grace into a cross-country motorcycle trip. It’s either that or let my agent book me for a nude calendar.”

Jake and Grace gaped at Angel.

“You know that
Playgirl
spread I did? Well, apparently, some poster company wants me to do a calendar.” He shrugged, indicating it was no big deal.

It would be a big deal to me.

“Can I attend the photo shoot?” Grace stared at Angel in total seriousness, as if trying to picture him without clothes. She was probably kidding, but then, maybe not.

“Honey, I will give you a private viewing,” Angel told her.

“Promises, promises.”

“Back to this road trip . . . ,” Jake prodded Angel.

“Oh, yeah. I was thinking about a cross-country road trip, with a few stops along the way for poker tournaments. We would end up at the World Series of Poker in Las Vegas. But, man, that would be tame compared to treasure hunting.”

Instead of scoffing at the suggestion, Grace said, “That sounds great, but I don’t own a motorcycle.”

Jake gaped at her, then clicked his mouth shut. “Me neither.” He added a silent prayer of thanks that they’d gotten off the subject of him, Trish, and Ronnie.

“I rode my bicycle across Ireland one time,” Grace said.

“Not quite the same thing, Red.” Angel smiled at Grace in an indulgent manner that caused her to stick out her tongue at him. If Jake didn’t know better, he would think they had something going on.

“Actually, a road trip would be a great way to clear your head about Ronnie and Trish,” Grace offered.

“Yeah,” Angel agreed. “There’s this shop up in Asbury Park where you two could buy bikes at a discount. Hey, we’re all flush after that last tournament. Are you game?” He looked at Jake and then Grace.

Hmmm, not a bad idea! Get away from Trish—and Ronnie. Forget treasure hunting. What better way to clear my head than being on the open road? Maybe I’ll get a tattoo, too. “Free at Last!” That’s what it would say. And a piercing . . . but only in my ear.

Another part of his brain had a different opinion.
You’re running away again, just like Ronnie says. Maybe I should stick around this time. See what happens.