Jinxed (2 page)

Rudy blared the limo’s horn, jerking the wheel left as a taxi veered too close. “Idiot.”

Afia sobbed into a handful of tissues.

“Not you, honey. The cabbie.” He edged over into the far lane behind an exhaust-belching bus. “What’s going on, Afia?”

She blew her nose and then glanced up, meeting Rudy’s concerned blue gaze in the rearview mirror. Dear, sweet Rudy. Her chauffeur. Her best friend. Her only link to sanity this past emotionally charged year. “I’m not sure.”

“Just remember, honey, everything happens for a reason. No matter how bad it seems, it could always be worse.”

Rudy had been spouting new-age assurances for three weeks now. Ever since he’d discovered the self-help section of
Amazon.com
. She wished he’d stop. The more he tried to lift her spirits, the more she drifted toward despair. Self-help suggested helping one’s self. Relying on one’s own judgment. Trusting one’s instincts. As her mother was fond of pointing out to Afia, following her instincts generally led her to disaster. Sick to her stomach, she picked up the phone and dialed her no-nonsense godfather.

He answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Harmon?”

“Afia? I’m in the middle of a golf game, Peanut. What is it?”

“Oh, Harmon.” She hiccupped twice before regaining control. “My credit cards. They … they …”

“What?”

“Mr. Glick. He … he …”

“What? What did Henry do? Where are you?”

“Manhattan. Oh, Harmon they … they …”

“They who? They what? Afia stop sobbing and tell me what’s going on.”

“They were so cute, the strapless Chanels, and I … I couldn’t buy them. I was …”
hiccup, sniffle,
“declined.”

Harmon groaned. “Go ahead,” he said to someone else. “I’ll meet you at the clubhouse. Afia.”

“What?”

“Where are you exactly?”

“In the limo.”

“With Rudy?”

She nodded.

“Peanut, I have the feeling you’re nodding. That doesn’t help.”

“Rudy’s driving,” she croaked.

“Put him on.”

She leaned forward, handed the phone to Rudy, and then rooted through her bag for more tissues.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Reece.” The metro bus stopped short. Rudy jammed on his brakes.

Afia flew forward, landing on the carpeted floor on all fours. “Darn!”

Rudy glanced over his big shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

She climbed back up into her seat and inspected her right knee. “Another run.”

He sighed and then focused back on the traffic. Putting the phone back to his ear, he answered, “She’s fine.” Again he glanced over his shoulder. “Mr. Reece said buckle up.”

She nodded and waved him off, contemplating her stockings. Ruined. Much like her life.

“To get home?” Rudy shrugged. “Two to three hours. I’m gridlocked. Yes, sir. As soon as possible.”

He passed the phone back to Afia. “Harmon?” She kicked off her three-hundred-dollar Prada pumps and peeled off her pricey sheer to waist hosiery. “Tell me I’m imagining the worst.”

“I have to make some calls. Did Rudy stock the mini-fridge?”

She pried open the door with her big toe. “Laurent Perrier ’76.”

“Drink up, Peanut. Kick back and don’t worry. Rudy will have you home in no time. I’ll meet you there.”

“You’re suggesting I tie one on at two in the afternoon, Harmon. That doesn’t coincide with
don’t worry
.”

“Then don’t think about it.”
Chirp.

Chirp
. She tossed the phone into her bag, cracked open the Laurent Perrier, and proceeded not to think about it.

For three hours and twenty-five minutes.

By the time they reached South Jersey, she was feeling no pain.

Rudy pulled into the circular drive of her second husband’s summer home. Odd, Frank had been gone for almost a year, and she still thought of the sprawling three-story stucco as
his
home. She’d never warmed to the ultra-modern design. In recent months she’d filled the stark, spacious rooms with nineteenth-century art and antique furniture. Anything old to offset the cold contemporary feel.

But for all the clutter the house remained hollow and lonely.

Like her.

She glared through the limo’s window at the offending architectural monstrosity, tensing when she saw Harmon waiting on the doorstep.

Rudy opened the car door. Refusing his help, she climbed out with four shopping bags looped over her toned, creamy arms, and, on shaky legs, wove her way to the polo-shirted lawyer’s side. “Give it to me straight, Harmie. I can take it.” She’d spent the last few hours bolstering herself with vintage champagne and Rudy’s guru advice. The more she drank, the more he sounded like the Dalai Lama. Who wouldn’t take heart under the Dalai Lama’s guidance?
Everything happens for a reason. No matter how bad it seems, it could always be worse.
“How much did Glick embezzle?”

Grim-faced, Harmon pulled her into his arms and whispered in her ear.

Rudy was wrong. It couldn’t be worse.

“I’ll fix this, Peanut.”

Afia dropped her bags and clutched her chest, her alcohol-induced bravado obliterated. “I’m
broke
.”

“Financially challenged,” Harmon countered. “A temporary inconvenience. Wait until your mother hears about this. Henry better pray that it’s me who tracks him down.”

“Mother’s somewhere in Tahiti,” she said, half dazed. “On her honeymoon. She left specific instructions not to be disturbed.” Weary of widowhood, Giselle had married Bartholomew Tate, a pompous bonbon baron who seemed intent on widening the already canyon-sized gap between mother and daughter. Could Harmon fix that, too?

“She’d want to know.”

“She’s already put out with me. Absolutely not.”

“All right then. You’ll stay with Viv and me while we figure this out.”

“Thank you, but no.” She turned her back on both men. Stepping onto the manicured lawn, she circled the rose bed in a liquor-fogged daze. “I’m
poor
.” She’d been born into money. Married money. Now she couldn’t afford a bubble bath let alone a day at the spa.

“You’re staying with me,” Harmon insisted.

She was tempted. Harmon would take care of her. Somehow, some way, he’d make everything all right. Rudy’s self-help preaching rang in her ears.
The sooner you stop looking to others to fix your problems, the sooner your problems will disappear
. “I couldn’t impose,” she heard herself saying.

“I’m your godfather.”

“I’m in between roommates,” Rudy said.

“You need someone to share the rent,” Afia said, still circling. “I can’t do that. I don’t have any money. Or credit.” She swept aside her blunt-cut bangs to massage a dull throb at the center of her forehead. “What about my charities?”

Harmon spread his hands wide. “If you’re that concerned—”

“Of course, I’m concerned!”

“You could donate your time instead of money,” Rudy suggested.

“She already donates her time,” Harmon said, clearly annoyed.

Intoxicated as she was, Afia knew what Rudy meant. Serving on a committee was all well and good but there were other ways to help. Still, the thought of not being able to make her usual monetary contributions made her nauseous. Thanks to Henry Glick she was not only unable to provide for others but she was also unable to provide for herself. “How am I going to pay off my shopping debts?” The furniture, the paintings, the
clothes
.

Rudy shrugged. “You could get a job.”

Harmon snorted. “That’s just crazy.”

Afia frowned, rebellion rumbling in her belly. Or maybe it was the champagne. She threw back her shoulders and on second try successfully crossed her arms over her insignificant chest. “Why is that crazy?” She freed one hand and smacked Rudy’s impressive pecs. “That’s an excellent idea. I’ll get a job.” Definitely the champagne.

Harmon gawked. “You haven’t worked a day in your life. What would you do?”

Afia nudged Rudy, and together they collected her designer shopping bags. “I have skills,” she informed her godfather. “Now come inside and help me figure out what they are. You too, Rudy.”

“This could take all night,” the older man mumbled, reaching out to steady her as she staggered toward the mansion’s front door.

She shrugged off Harmon’s help along with the hurt of his lack of faith. Something had snapped inside of her on the tense ride home. She’d spent her entire life being sheltered and maneuvered. Being told that others knew what was best for her. She’d believed them, too. Right up until today. When a man she’d trusted implicitly because her mother had told her to, stole her every cent.

Her life was out of control because she had no control in her life. At least that’s what Rudy had said midway down the Garden State Parkway. “I’m going to track down Henry Glick and get my money back,” she declared as she struggled to punch the security code into the keypad. “Starting tomorrow I’m taking responsibility for my life.”

The door swung open. Miscalculating the foyer steps, she tripped and tumbled flat out on the polished Italian marble. Heart pounding with determination, Afia pushed herself up on her elbows, blew her bangs off of her forehead, and hiccupped. “Tomorrow I’m getting a job.”

“Jake Leeds to see Harmon Reece.”

The prim-suited secretary scanned her appointment book and then Jake. Her hazel gaze hovered below his silver belt buckle a full five seconds before drifting up and over his shoulders, settling at last on his face. She smiled. “Mr. Reece will be right with you. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”

Me
? Jake read her playful grin and flashed a one-dimpled smile. “No, thank you, Miss …”

“Givens. Marla Givens.”

“Miss Givens.”

“Marla.”

Marla had one of those throaty voices, the kind that caused a man to sit up and take notice. The fact that she dressed like a librarian only heightened the allure. “No thank you, Marla.”

Too anxious to play a witty game of innuendos, he excused himself with a wink and then turned and feigned interest in the seascape photographs lining the law firm’s walls. Normally, he would’ve taken advantage of Marla’s interest, charmed her, and asked her out on a date. She was a looker, regardless of her buttoned-to-the-neck blouse and mid-shin-length skirt, and he could use a contact here in the office. But there was nothing normal about this moment.

Harmon usually doled out assignments over lunch and scotch. Being summoned to the offices of Reece, Mitchell and Cooper tweaked his suspicions. He sensed a juicy case with a fat fee.

Perfect timing.

“Mr. Reece will see you now.”

Jake thanked the dreamy-eyed woman with a practiced smile then strode to the ornate mahogany door displaying Harmon’s engraved nameplate. Sliding into corporate-private-eye-mode, he tugged at the cuffs of his single-breasted dove-gray jacket and straightened his gray and burgundy striped tie. He would have preferred a mock tee and leather blazer to this monkey suit, but when in Rome … He knocked.

“Come in.”

He entered, arm extended. “Harmon.”

“Jake.” The esteemed lawyer rose, shook the proffered hand, and then motioned him into a rustic brown leather chair. “How’s Joni?”

He froze midway to relaxing against the high-backed seat. Harmon’s interest in his sister surprised him. “Happily married and seven months pregnant.”

“That’s nice.” Harmon reclaimed his seat behind his massive antique desk. For all the space, only necessities occupied the polished desktop. Laptop. Phone. Lamp. A blotter, free of scribbles and doodles. Nice and neat. Just like Harmon. “Last time we spoke you still hadn’t replaced her.”

Still wondering at the man’s angle, Jake stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankle. “I’ve been through four temps, each one worse than the one before. I’m beginning to think Joni was one of a kind.” His kid sister had been his secretary and undercover sidekick rolled into one. His partner at Leeds Investigations for the last three years. Until an abnormal ultra-sound had forced her to bed rest. Although the crisis had passed, she was still under orders to take it easy.

His expression intense, Harmon rested his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers.

Here it comes
. Jake used to care more about the case than the cash, but not these days.

“I know another one-of-a-kind,” the lawyer said. “Afia St. John.”

“Your goddaughter?”

Harmon nodded. “She’s looking for a job, and I want you to hire her.”

“Why? She’s rich.” Compliments of her daddy and two husbands, one a legal eagle, the other the president of a pharmaceutical company.

“Not any more. Between you and me, and I mean it Jake, I don’t want to read about it in the papers tomorrow, she was screwed over by her business manager.”

“How much?”

“All of it.”

“That’s—”

“A small fortune.”

Jake whistled. “Sonuvabitch skip the country?”

“Looks that way.”

“Contacted the cops?”

“No.”

Intrigued, he unfolded his legs and leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs. “No cops. No press.”

Harmon nodded.

“Any leads?”

“A couple.”

Jake waited for details. Waited for Harmon to put him on the case.

“I’m worried about her,” the older man said. He spread his hands flat on the ivory blotter. “She won’t take any money from me, and she won’t let me contact her mother. Thanks to the damned creditors Afia’s living with a friend.”

Jake shifted in his seat. He knew all about creditors.

“She’s displaying an independent streak that has me baffled and, quite frankly, worried. I think she’s having a nervous breakdown.”

“Just because she wants to get a job? Seems the reasonable thing to do when you have no money.”

“She has money,” he said, toying with a sterling silver pen. “It’s just in another man’s hands. Something I’m in the process of rectifying.”

Why the hell was Harmon beating around the bush? “That’s why you sent for me,” Jake said, helping him out. “You want me to track the guy.”

Harmon shook his balding head. “I hired someone else to do that.”