wide-eyed, vulnerable waif persona was an act? What if she’d seduced both of her husbands with that angel aura only to sprout horns? Two rich, older husbands. Two freak accidents. A missing fortune. A hot, young lover.
Black Widow
.
Jake rolled his eyes and reached for a bottle of aspirin. He really had to stop watching late night film noir.
His door slammed open, and Afia skidded into the office wearing a preppy summer outfit, big black sunglasses, and a panicked expression. Her hair was unbound and tousled, her cheeks flushed. She’d either sprinted to work or just tumbled out of bed. Again, he wondered about her sleeping arrangements. Again, his left eye twitched.
She stood poised on his threshold, one hand pressed to her heart as she caught her breath. “I’m so … so sorry … to be late,” she said in between pants. “There was an … incident.”
Jake raised one eyebrow, waiting for her to elaborate.
“So,” she said, ten seconds later as she moved forward and gingerly sat on the edge of an opposing chair. “Where do we begin? What would you like me to do?”
Jake chased three aspirin with a swallow of cold coffee, winced and then tossed the empty cup in the trash.
Afia clasped her hands in her lap, fingered her charm bracelet. Her leg started to bounce. “Would you like me to make a fresh pot of coffee? Check the messages? File some … files?”
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you going to wear those sunglasses all day?”
She pushed them higher up her pert nose. “It’s a little bright in here.”
“Late night?”
“Rough morning.” Her leg bounced faster.
He didn’t know what that meant, but he didn’t like the possibility that it involved sex. Jake stood, reached up under his retro bowler’s shirt, and repositioned his gun. “Let’s roll.” He walked past a wide-eyed Afia, trying not to notice how sexy she looked with all that rumpled hair.
“Where are we going?” she called, chasing after him.
“To start your training.”
She let out a musical squeal.
Jake suppressed a wicked grin. She’d be singing a different tune once she got a load of her first assignment. He stopped short, turning to explain the concept of “low profile” at the same time she tripped, stepped out of her strapless green slip-ons, and tumbled forward.
He caught her in his arms, all one-hundred pounds of her, feminine and flustered and smelling of cinnamon. His mouth watered. His pulse raced. “Afia.”
She tilted her face up, moistened her lips, and he thanked God those sunglasses shielded her puppy dog eyes. “Yes?” she whispered.
“Do something with that hair.”
Chapter Nine
“You can’t be serious.”
“Dead serious.”
Afia squinted through her sunglasses to where Jake pointed, her nostrils flaring at the odor of rotting vegetables. “But it’s disgusting, not to mention rude.”
“It’s an old and proven means of gathering valuable information.” Jake tugged down the brim of his baseball cap and glanced over his shoulder. “We’ve got about an hour before the disposal truck comes by. Chop, chop, baby.”
Afia knotted her hair into a low bun and cursed her chosen footwear. The backless slip-ons were pretty but impractical. Not that there was anything practical about “dumpster diving,” as Jake had so eloquently tagged her appointed task. Mental note: Buy a pair of cheap sneakers. “Invading someone’s privacy is a serious offense, you know.”
“It’s part and parcel of being an investigator.” He slid his hand into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a pair of disposable, latex gloves. “So do you have what it takes or don’t you?”
Afia bristled at the challenge and the implication that she considered herself above a little dirty work. She wasn’t a snob, and she certainly wasn’t a wimp. She did, however, have scruples. Fighting her honest nature, she nabbed the gloves and snapped them on, ignoring
Black Widow
.
Jake rolled his eyes and reached for a bottle of aspirin. He really had to stop watching late night film noir.
His door slammed open, and Afia skidded into the office wearing a preppy summer outfit, big black sunglasses, and a panicked expression. Her hair was unbound and tousled, her cheeks flushed. She’d either sprinted to work or just tumbled out of bed. Again, he wondered about her sleeping arrangements. Again, his left eye twitched.
She stood poised on his threshold, one hand pressed to her heart as she caught her breath. “I’m so … so sorry … to be late,” she said in between pants. “There was an … incident.”
Jake raised one eyebrow, waiting for her to elaborate.
“So,” she said, ten seconds later as she moved forward and gingerly sat on the edge of an opposing chair. “Where do we begin? What would you like me to do?”
Jake chased three aspirin with a swallow of cold coffee, winced and then tossed the empty cup in the trash.
Afia clasped her hands in her lap, fingered her charm bracelet. Her leg started to bounce. “Would you like me to make a fresh pot of coffee? Check the messages? File some … files?”
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you going to wear those sunglasses all day?”
She pushed them higher up her pert nose. “It’s a little bright in here.”
“Late night?”
“Rough morning.” Her leg bounced faster.
He didn’t know what that meant, but he didn’t like the possibility that it involved sex. Jake stood, reached up under his retro bowler’s shirt, and repositioned his gun. “Let’s roll.” He walked past a wide-eyed Afia, trying not to notice how sexy she looked with all that rumpled hair.
“Where are we going?” she called, chasing after him.
“To start your training.”
She let out a musical squeal.
Jake suppressed a wicked grin. She’d be singing a different tune once she got a load of her first assignment. He stopped short, turning to explain the concept of “low profile” at the same time she tripped, stepped out of her strapless green slip-ons, and tumbled forward.
He caught her in his arms, all one-hundred pounds of her, feminine and flustered and smelling of cinnamon. His mouth watered. His pulse raced. “Afia.”
She tilted her face up, moistened her lips, and he thanked God those sunglasses shielded her puppy dog eyes. “Yes?” she whispered.
“Do something with that hair.”
Chapter Nine
“You can’t be serious.”
“Dead serious.”
Afia squinted through her sunglasses to where Jake pointed, her nostrils flaring at the odor of rotting vegetables. “But it’s disgusting, not to mention rude.”
“It’s an old and proven means of gathering valuable information.” Jake tugged down the brim of his baseball cap and glanced over his shoulder. “We’ve got about an hour before the disposal truck comes by. Chop, chop, baby.”
Afia knotted her hair into a low bun and cursed her chosen footwear. The backless slip-ons were pretty but impractical. Not that there was anything practical about “dumpster diving,” as Jake had so eloquently tagged her appointed task. Mental note: Buy a pair of cheap sneakers. “Invading someone’s privacy is a serious offense, you know.”
“It’s part and parcel of being an investigator.” He slid his hand into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a pair of disposable, latex gloves. “So do you have what it takes or don’t you?”
Afia bristled at the challenge and the implication that she considered herself above a little dirty work. She wasn’t a snob, and she certainly wasn’t a wimp. She did, however, have scruples. Fighting her honest nature, she nabbed the gloves and snapped them on, ignoring
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