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didn’t know which had shocked Dora Simmons and Frances Beck more: that she was broke, or that she was living with her ex-chauffeur.
    Doormat
.
    Is that how the world viewed someone who chose not to make waves?
    Clutching the folders to her chest, she padded to what she assumed was her desk, thinking back on her interview with Jake. He’d cussed when she’d dropped the files, insulted her clothes and hair, and had ordered her to acquire another mode of transportation. He’d walked all over her, and she hadn’t said boo.
    Groaning, she plopped down on a black-cushioned swivel chair, placed the folders on what had to be her desk, and idly fingered her twelve charms while scrambling for a positive slant.
    Better a doormat than a jerk
.
    The least he could have done was introduce her to that distraught woman before tossing her out. Perhaps she could have offered comfort: a sympathetic ear, a cup of tea … her charm bracelet. Blondie was in for seven years of bad luck.
    Unless it had been Jake who’d broken the mirror.
    She almost smiled at the thought. It would serve him right for making fun of her.
    Jinx.
    He definitely knew who she was. Afia St. John-Harper-Davis, the Jersey socialite who’d lost a father and two husbands in separate, yet equally bizarre, accidents. AKA “The Black Widow.”
    It occurred to her then that Jake wasn’t superstitious. Nor did he put stock in gossip, believing that she’d offed (was that appropriate detective lingo?) the men in her life for financial gain. Otherwise this morning he would have shown her the door and ushered in the next applicant.
    Unless there were no other applicants. Maybe he’d scared them all away.
    She commiserated. Three weeks ago he would have scared her away too. She wouldn’t have survived ten minutes with the intimidating man, let alone an entire interview. But things were different.
She
was different. She wanted her money back and, more importantly, her dignity. Jake could be as surly as he wanted as long as he taught her a few tricks of the trade.
    Like tracking a missing person.
    That, she decided, was that. “He needs a hand,” she said noting the phone’s blinking message light. “I need a dick.”
    “Don’t we all.”
    Afia started as a pregnant woman shuffled over the threshold. She hadn’t even heard the door click open.
    “It’s been a month, and I’m horny as hell.” The husky-voiced blond grinned, revealing a deep dimple in her left cheek. “The downside of getting knocked-up. Where’s Jake?”
    Afia eyed the candid woman with interest. Generic capri jeans, a pale blue maternity blouse, and navy-blue boat shoes. Golden skin buffed to a natural glow. Shoulder-length hair tied in a low ponytail, topped with a NY Yankees baseball cap. She lacked style and polish, and yet Afia was transfixed. The woman had entered the room as though she owned the building.
    Or the boss.
    She squirmed in her seat, wondering if this woman was Jake’s other half. For some reason the notion bothered her. Maybe because he was behind closed doors with another attractive blond. “Umm …” she pointed to his office. “He’s with a client.”
    Blond number two glanced at Jake’s private door. “Man? Woman? What’s the name?”
    Flip to intense in two seconds flat. Afia cleared her throat, hoping mother-to-be wasn’t violent … or hormonal. “I’m not at liberty to say.” Not to mention, she didn’t know.
    Instead of striking out, the stranger laughed. “You just might last longer than the others.” She thrust out her hand in greeting. “Joni McNichols.”
    What others, Afia wanted to ask, but instead stood and clasped Joni’s hand. “Afia St. John.”
    One eyebrow rose. “Oh. I’m sorry, I just assumed …” She frowned. “Damn, I’m slipping. I thought you were Jake’s new assistant.”
    “I am.”
    “Really.” She pursed her naturally rosy lips. “Hmm.”
    Afia could see the woman’s wheels turning. Stroking her bracelet, she braced