The Jinx. Jennifer Sturman

it felt like an eternity. It was hard to believe that I had only known him since August. Our meeting had been less than auspicious, taking place during a disastrous wedding weekend. Peter was supposed to be the best man. But Richard, who was to marry my old roommate, Emma, ended up dead before the ceremony could take place. By the end of the weekend, I’d managed to fall in love with Peter, decide he was a murderer, turn him into the police, realize I was completely wrong about him being a murderer, and force a confession from the actual killer, who’d tried to kill me twice.

      The entire series of events hadn’t cast me in my most attractive light, but Peter hadn’t seemed to mind. The past five months had been nearly perfect, marred only by the difficulties inherent in a long-distance relationship.

      I heard a knock at the door, and I rushed to throw it open. There he was, in the flesh.

      He enveloped me in a long hug accompanied by a delicious kiss. “Mmm. You smell good.”

      “I just took a bath. You smell good, too.”

      “You smell better.” He kissed me again.

      “No, you smell better.”

      “No, you do.” Another kiss.

      “You do.”

      “Let’s not fight about it. We both smell really good.”

      “Agreed.” And yet another kiss.

      “Can I come in?” We were still standing in the doorway.

      I laughed. “Absolutely.” I waited impatiently while he put down his bags and tossed his coat over the back of a chair. He looked so cute in his standard Silicon Valley wear—khakis and a navy sweater, his sandy hair slightly mussed from the long flight. I hurried to pour him a glass of wine from the half bottle I’d opened. He took it from me, set it on the coffee table and pulled me down on the sofa next to him.

      “Good trip?” I asked.

      “Fine,” he said, running his hands through my hair. If I were a cat, I would be purring.

      “Four nights,” I said.

      “Four nights,” he replied with a grin. “And a suite. How did you pull that off?”

      “I have my ways.”

      “You definitely do,” he said, moving in for another kiss. And then his cell phone rang. “Crap. I should take this.” He jumped to his feet and dug the phone out of his coat pocket. “Peter Forrest.”

      He was silent for a moment, listening. “That’s great, Abigail. Thanks for letting me know…yes…no…sure…I agree.” He began pacing as he talked.

      I stood and crossed to the window. The room had a view across the small park to the river, which was still and dark in the moonlight. A vague feeling of unease settled over me as I listened to Peter’s one-sided conversation. Peter had hired Abigail to be his head of business development a few months ago, and even though I was more secure in this relationship than any I’d ever been in before, it was hard not to feel a tiny bit threatened by the knowledge that my boyfriend spent most of his waking hours with a woman who was brilliant, accomplished and bore more than a passing resemblance to Christy Turlington.

      Peter finished his call after a few minutes and came to stand behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on the top of my head.

      “What’s going on?” I asked, leaning back into his embrace. “Is everything all right?”

      “Um, yeah. It’s just that we’re, uh, trying to sign up a new client. They’ll be at the conference.”

      “That’s good, right?”

      “Yes. The only problem is that there are a couple of other companies trying to beat us out, and they’ll be at the conference, too. Abigail and I have been working pretty hard on our pitch—it’s going to be a hectic few days.”

      “How’s Abigail?” I asked, striving for a casual tone.

      “She’s great. A real firecracker. Hiring her was one of the best decisions I’ve made in a long time. She’s been instrumental in going after this new business.”

      “I’m glad,” I said, trying to sound like I was. But I would have been a lot more glad if I didn’t know what Abigail looked like. Or if she’d been a man. Or gay. Or, at the very least, only brilliant and not beautiful.

      “Anyhow, enough work talk. I brought you something.”

      “A present?” I spun around to face him, thoughts of Peter’s brilliant, beautiful, model-material colleague nearly forgotten. “Where? What is it?” I loved gifts. Especially surprise gifts.

      “Don’t get too excited. Just a little something from the airport.” He unzipped his suitcase and began rummaging through it, extracting a paper bag. He handed it to me.

      I shook it. “Hmm. It doesn’t rattle.”

      “Good. It’s not supposed to.”

      I opened the bag and withdrew an oversize bar of Ghirardelli chocolate. “Yum.” Peter had known me long enough to recognize that I considered chocolate to be one of the four major food groups, along with caffeine and alcohol. I always forgot what the fourth one was. “Should we eat it now or later?”

      “I’m thinking later,” he said, a gleam in his eye. He had hold of the dangling end of my bathrobe’s belt and was pulling me toward the bedroom.

      It occurred to me that perhaps I should be annoyed that Peter’s gift hadn’t shown much forethought, but instead had been picked up at the newsstand on his way to catch the plane. But he quickly put any such peevish thoughts right out of my head.

      Four

      I was sleeping like the proverbial baby, sweetly tangled in Peter’s arms, when he gently untangled himself and got out of bed.

      “Where are you going?” I asked, still half asleep.

      “Shh. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

      “Then come back.”

      “I can’t. I have to meet Abigail before the conference starts. We need to go over the pitch we’re making one more time.”

      “But it’s dark out.” There was only the faintest glimmer of murky light coming through the windows.

      “It’s nearly seven. I’m supposed to meet her at the convention center at eight.”

      “She won’t mind if you’re late.”

      “Yes, she will. And I will, too, if we don’t get this client signed up. The company we’re pitching is hot.”

      “But how can you even be effective if you’re sleepy?”

      “I can’t be sleepy when I’m this stressed.”

      “You’re stressed?” Peter? My calm, unflappable, good-smelling Peter was stressed?

      “A little. Nothing to worry about.” He leaned down and kissed my forehead.

      “I know an excellent way to relieve stress,” I offered, holding out my arms.

      “I’m sure you do.” But he was already out of reach. “I’m just going to jump into the shower.”

      I leaned back against the pillows. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

      “Funny.”

      “You can’t expect great wit in the middle of the night.”

      “It’s not the middle of the night,” he protested, then thought better of trying to argue with me before I’d had any caffeine. “Never mind. Go back to sleep.” I heard the bathroom door shut behind him and the sound of the shower running.

      I rolled over, trying to recover the nice dream-state I’d been