he’d hired her because he felt sorry for her. The last thing she needed was yet another man coming to her rescue.
“Your life is out of control because you have no control in your life.”
Suddenly all she wanted was to get back to the office.
“You can answer the phone, right? Make coffee?”
Thinking back, Jake’s comments had been as insulting as Harmon’s incredulous expression when she’d announced her intention to get a job. As if she were a fluff-brained idiot. Although that’s exactly what the manager of the casino boutique had called her when she’d been unable to master the computerized cash register. Not that the buttoned-up, pinch-lipped woman had taken the time to properly train her. One quick overview and she was expected to understand. Questions annoyed the standoffish manager, and when Afia unintentionally ticked off a casino high-roller by asking for identification before accepting a check, she’d been terminated on the spot. She’d taken the humiliation in stride, much like her heated dismissal from the hectic themed restaurant.
She hadn’t deserved to lose either job. She certainly hadn’t earned the insults. Rudy was right. She should have spoken up in her defense because obviously her indignation had been festering. Just now her stomach churned like an active volcano, and she didn’t think it was because of the mass quantities of junk food. Although that was a possibility.
“It was very kind of you to buy me lunch,” she said, her voice as cool as her devoured custard, “but you mentioned you had someplace to be, and I’d hate to keep you from work.” She pulled a moist towelette from her purse, squared her shoulders, and wiped her sticky hands.
“I’m exactly where I need to be, and believe it or not, I am working.”
His expression was unreadable and because of those darned sunglasses, she couldn’t tell if he was looking at her, the Carnevale Casino, or the flock of seagulls attacking an abandoned bag of popcorn. “You don’t look like you’re working.” He looked like any one of the surrounding tourists, relaxed and enjoying a humid-free day on the boardwalk.
The corners of his mouth curled into an arrogant grin. “That’s because I’m good.”
I’ll bet.
Her cheeks burned. She scrubbed her hands harder as if it would cleanse her dirty thoughts. Darn him for being so charismatic. Darn
her
for being susceptible. As Rudy had pointed out, this wasn’t like her at all. Lusting after a straight, under-forty, blue-collar male.
Lust.
The word was almost as foreign to her as poor. Yes, she wanted to break old patterns, but not with a married man. Not with her boss. Her anxiety simmered toward boil. “So what exactly are you doing?”
“Observing Anthony Rivelli.”
“Who’s Anthony Rivelli?”
“The man I’m observing.”
She swallowed an exasperated huff. “Do I look like a fluff-brained idiot?”
He angled his chin at that, and she cursed herself for broadcasting her insecurity. “He’s over your right shoulder,” he said. “Leaning against the boardwalk railing, having a smoke with a couple of co-workers.”
She started to turn, but Jake lazed forward and grasped her chin. Her skin tingled as he brushed his thumb over her lower lip. Propriety dictated she jerk back, but her brain short-circuited. “What are you doing?”
“Wiping custard from the corner of your mouth, and,” he leaned closer, lowering his voice to a husky drawl that lulled her into a glassy-eyed stupor, “stopping us from getting burned.”
Burned? She was already singed to the bone. His touch worked like tinder to a starving fire. His masculine scent swirled around her, spicy and wildly erotic. Salsa music pulsed from a nearby pavilion, igniting a vivid image of her and Jake engaged in the horizontal Lambada.
Oh, God
.
“If you turn around, he might catch you staring. I don’t want Rivelli to know he’s being watched. Hence the term covert surveillance.”
Her mouth
“Your life is out of control because you have no control in your life.”
Suddenly all she wanted was to get back to the office.
“You can answer the phone, right? Make coffee?”
Thinking back, Jake’s comments had been as insulting as Harmon’s incredulous expression when she’d announced her intention to get a job. As if she were a fluff-brained idiot. Although that’s exactly what the manager of the casino boutique had called her when she’d been unable to master the computerized cash register. Not that the buttoned-up, pinch-lipped woman had taken the time to properly train her. One quick overview and she was expected to understand. Questions annoyed the standoffish manager, and when Afia unintentionally ticked off a casino high-roller by asking for identification before accepting a check, she’d been terminated on the spot. She’d taken the humiliation in stride, much like her heated dismissal from the hectic themed restaurant.
She hadn’t deserved to lose either job. She certainly hadn’t earned the insults. Rudy was right. She should have spoken up in her defense because obviously her indignation had been festering. Just now her stomach churned like an active volcano, and she didn’t think it was because of the mass quantities of junk food. Although that was a possibility.
“It was very kind of you to buy me lunch,” she said, her voice as cool as her devoured custard, “but you mentioned you had someplace to be, and I’d hate to keep you from work.” She pulled a moist towelette from her purse, squared her shoulders, and wiped her sticky hands.
“I’m exactly where I need to be, and believe it or not, I am working.”
His expression was unreadable and because of those darned sunglasses, she couldn’t tell if he was looking at her, the Carnevale Casino, or the flock of seagulls attacking an abandoned bag of popcorn. “You don’t look like you’re working.” He looked like any one of the surrounding tourists, relaxed and enjoying a humid-free day on the boardwalk.
The corners of his mouth curled into an arrogant grin. “That’s because I’m good.”
I’ll bet.
Her cheeks burned. She scrubbed her hands harder as if it would cleanse her dirty thoughts. Darn him for being so charismatic. Darn
her
for being susceptible. As Rudy had pointed out, this wasn’t like her at all. Lusting after a straight, under-forty, blue-collar male.
Lust.
The word was almost as foreign to her as poor. Yes, she wanted to break old patterns, but not with a married man. Not with her boss. Her anxiety simmered toward boil. “So what exactly are you doing?”
“Observing Anthony Rivelli.”
“Who’s Anthony Rivelli?”
“The man I’m observing.”
She swallowed an exasperated huff. “Do I look like a fluff-brained idiot?”
He angled his chin at that, and she cursed herself for broadcasting her insecurity. “He’s over your right shoulder,” he said. “Leaning against the boardwalk railing, having a smoke with a couple of co-workers.”
She started to turn, but Jake lazed forward and grasped her chin. Her skin tingled as he brushed his thumb over her lower lip. Propriety dictated she jerk back, but her brain short-circuited. “What are you doing?”
“Wiping custard from the corner of your mouth, and,” he leaned closer, lowering his voice to a husky drawl that lulled her into a glassy-eyed stupor, “stopping us from getting burned.”
Burned? She was already singed to the bone. His touch worked like tinder to a starving fire. His masculine scent swirled around her, spicy and wildly erotic. Salsa music pulsed from a nearby pavilion, igniting a vivid image of her and Jake engaged in the horizontal Lambada.
Oh, God
.
“If you turn around, he might catch you staring. I don’t want Rivelli to know he’s being watched. Hence the term covert surveillance.”
Her mouth
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