Party Crashers (13 page)

“Wait—did you drive?”

She nodded.

“Valet?”

She shook her head, thinking he probably valeted his car at the mall. “I’m in the parking garage.” The cheap seats.

“May I walk you to your car?”

She remembered her earlier experience and swallowed her pride. “Yes.”

He seemed surprised, but fell into step next to her. His stride was one and a half times hers, but he paced himself, then held open the door. He had loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his snowy shirt. He was so handsome that she couldn’t look at him, and she couldn’t
not
look at him, which only made her feel more like a groupie.

“Am I taking you away from your sister?” she asked.

“No, I was just seeing Della off. I’m living at the hotel for now.”

“Oh.” Her mind spun at the thought of that bill.

“You can see why I need to find a place to live,” he said.

She looked up. “You still want to work with me?”

He grinned and pushed open the industrial door leading into the garage. “Are you a good realtor?”

“Yes,” she said as she passed under his arm. “Actually, I’m a broker.”

“So you work for yourself.”

“Yes. I’m hoping to open an office after the first of the year. For now, I’m working out of my apartment. I can give you a client reference list.” She stopped at the elevator and pushed the up button.

“No need,” he said. “Anyone who is willing to work two jobs must be trustworthy.”

In response, she fidgeted with the blunt ends of her wig. The man made her forget things, like how chaotic her life had become. And how numb her feet were.

The elevator doors opened and she walked inside, thinking when he followed how strange that since Monday, their paths had crossed so many times. She could say it was kismet, and Leann would chastise her for being gullible.

“I assumed your family already had a broker that you worked with.” She punched the button for the third floor.

“We do,” he said simply.

“Oh.” So he was going out of his way to give her his business. Hmm.

“Did you have a good time tonight?” he asked.

Strangely, she had—before the run-in with Roger LeMon, of course. She nodded. “Actually, I did, earlier in the evening. It’s obviously rote to you, but I thought it was
fascinating to see all those important people in one room and to mingle as if I were one of them.” She stopped, suddenly embarrassed at what she had revealed about herself—as if Beck Underwood would be interested in her private inadequacies.

A frown flickered across his face. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re just as important as anyone in that room.”

She tried to joke her way past her lapse. “You probably say that to all the girls.”

But he didn’t laugh. “No…I don’t. But then again, I find myself saying things to you that I’d never say to other…women. And I’m not quite sure why that is.”

He seemed to be studying her, his eyes filled with a curiosity she’d seen before. He was trying to figure her out. Silently she willed him to see what no one else could see—that she was a common woman looking for an uncommon connection, for a sign that life was more than random physical interactions. She waited, her breath coming in little spurts.

His lips parted, and just when he seemed on the verge of saying something, the elevator chimed its arrival at the third floor.

The elevator door opened and she walked toward her car, embarrassed that the Chevy was so…unremarkable, and irritated with herself that she cared what he thought. Their footsteps echoed against the concrete, and for some reason she liked the sound of it—their own pattern.

She closed her eyes briefly, reminding herself that there was no “their” anything. A “their” necessitated a “they,” and there was no “they.”

She walked up to the car and glanced in the backseat before unlocking the door. Empty. She turned back and smiled. “Thank you…for everything.”

“I only walked you to your car,” he said mildly. In the glare of the fluorescent lights, he looked tired. Which meant she must look like something from a crypt. In a wig.

“I mean thanks for…earlier,” she said. “Covering for me when Sammy was on the verge of recognizing me.”

“No problem,” he said, hands in the pockets of his dark slacks. “I got the feeling that it was important to you to hide your identity.” He wet his lips. “That there was more at stake than simply being able to crash a stodgy old party.”

He looked at her as if she were transparent. She couldn’t break away from his gaze.

“Are you interested in Roger LeMon?” he asked quietly.

Her throat convulsed. “Not in the way you think.” Again, the urge to confide…but again, the overriding urge to protect him, and herself. To protect him from association with a terrible crime. To protect herself from making Beck Underwood a confidante.

“In what way, then?”

Her mind raced. “It’s…business. Did things end badly between Roger LeMon and your sister?”

“I have no idea what she saw in the man, but I believe he broke her heart.”

Was LeMon the source of Della Underwood’s withdrawal from society years ago?

“What about you?” he asked.

She looked up. “What about me?”

“Did someone break your heart?”

Her lips parted. Gary’s disappearance had left her wary, but heartbroken? On the other hand, it was best to let Beck know that her heart wasn’t available, largely because of Gary. “There is a man,” she said softly.

He gave a little laugh. “There always is. Is he in trouble?”

She nodded.

“Ah. And does this party-crashing have something to do with it?”

She nodded again.

He averted his gaze, then looked back. “So…when can you and I get together? To talk about what I’m looking for. In a house, that is.”

Despite her best efforts to be immune to him, her tongue felt gluey. “H–how about here, Sunday afternoon?”

“One o’clock?”

“One o’clock is fine,” she said, her heart thumping erratically.

He grinned. “How will I know you?”

She grinned. “Look for Jolie Goodman.”

His grin faltered for a second. “I will.”

Something happened then…an exchange of ions between them. She felt the charge of her body drawing energy from his, and the accompanying carnal tug. From his eyes, she knew he felt it too. She was old enough to know that to Beck, a tug was a tug; but in her confused state, a tug was open to wide misinterpretation, and she couldn’t risk giving in to the temptation of his attention.

Jolie hastily opened the car door and lowered herself into the seat, closing the door with more force than necessary. Then she started the engine, backed up, and drove away with a wave. Capturing a glimpse of Beck Underwood in her side mirror, she mulled over the written warning.
Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.

Hmm.

“J
olie, thank God. I thought you’d never get here.” Michael Lane’s anxiety was evident in his voice and in his hand-ruffled hair. “Customers are already starting to arrive.”

Jolie stepped back to keep from being mowed down by a salesclerk who had jogged into the stockroom to grab more Manolo Blahnik shoe boxes. She looked at her watch. “Three hours early?”

“These people are rabid.”

Jolie held up the box of Mui Mui shoes. “I had to bring these back.”

He frowned and lifted the box lid. “Wrong size?”

She swallowed and tried not to fidget. “Just wrong for my feet.”

He glanced at the pristine soles, then shrugged and tucked her receipt in his pocket. “I’ll process your refund as soon as I get a minute. Meanwhile, I’ll put them back in inventory.”

Jolie nodded, relieved and a little remorseful for taking advantage of Michael’s trust.

He handed her two silver poles with a fat black velvet rope strung between them. “Chain these on where I left off, then start waiting on customers.”

Eager to assuage her guilt, she took the hardware, then emerged from the stockroom. Sure enough, a small crowd of people had already gathered on the edge of the shoe department, where signs had been posted to advertise the appearance. The women were tall and leggy, dressed in black so the eye was drawn to their Manolo Blahnik shoes. Both sides of the checkout counter were three-deep with shoppers holding MB boxes, and the floor was a flurry of activity. Jolie groaned inwardly, thinking this did not bode well for her blistered feet. She looked down to make sure none of the dozen or so adhesive bandages she’d applied this morning to toes and heels had crept over the sides of her sensible pumps, then shuffled forward, dragging the poles with her.

The women in line gave her superior looks—ironic, considering she was putting up gates to confine
them
. She pasted on her best sales smile and thanked them for coming, then limped back to the sales floor and waited on women who at the eleventh hour had succumbed to the temptation to own a pair of the infamous shoes so that they could have them signed by the creator. For two hours she sold shoes as fast as she could tote them from the showroom. She kept her mind off her aching feet by concentrating on the commission she was earning. She had just slid off one of her pumps to massage her heel when Sammy Sanders walked up wearing a tight black dress and a pained smile.

“Jolie, do you work on Saturdays
too
?”

Jolie bit the end of her tongue, then nodded.

“Wow, that doesn’t leave you much time to sell real estate, does it?”

Jolie tasted blood.

“And, oh, you poor dear…I heard about Gary’s car being pulled out of the river—with a woman inside!”

Jolie nodded.

Sammy’s eyes were large and shocked. “Do you know who it is?”

Jolie shook her head.

“Do they think Gary is dead, too?”

Jolie pursed her mouth. “Did you need some help, Sammy?”

Sammy sniffed. “I understand—you can’t talk about it while you’re on the clock.” She released a musically sympathetic sigh. “Well, I closed a big, big deal this week, and decided to splurge and buy myself another pair of Manolos, something really special. I figured the least I could do was to let you have the commission.”

Jolie’s cheeks burned, but Sammy seemed ready to spend a lot of money. Being in no position to turn away business, she suddenly had a bright idea. She smiled and removed the glass case key from the cash register. “I know just the thing—we have only a couple of pairs left, and the size seven is on display.”

As Jolie expected, Sammy fell in love with the pink-and-rhinestone shoes that Carlotta had worn to the High Museum party a few nights ago.

“I’ll take them,” Sammy announced, then looked up. “I saw another pair of shoes while I was here the other day…silver-colored pumps with cutouts?”

Jolie’s mouth twitched—the shoes she herself had worn
last night. “I believe I know which ones you’re talking about. Just a minute.” She went to the stockroom and returned with the box she’d given to Michael earlier. “These?”

“Yes, those are lovely.”

Jolie removed the cardboard stays that had so distressed her feet, then knelt and eased them onto Sammy’s perfectly pedicured puppies. Sammy stood and beamed her satisfaction. “I’ll take these, too.” She lifted her hands. “Gee, Jolie, you seem to have a real gift for retail sales.”

Jolie wanted to kick her, but sucked up the backhanded compliment and repacked the pricey shoes. She was, after all, using Sammy to dispose of the shoes that she and Carlotta had “borrowed.” “Thanks…Sammy.”

When they reached the counter, the woman tossed her hair, then said, “The Singer deal fell through.”

Jolie looked up. The deal she’d quit over. “Oh?”

“You didn’t know?”

Jolie frowned. “How would I have known?”

Sammy shrugged. “I just wondered if anyone had…contacted you, asking questions.”

Her mind raced—questions meaning someone had suspected Sammy was playing both sides against the middle? “No,” she said evenly, and began ringing up the sale, sending inconspicuous glances in the direction of the woman for whom she used to work. Sammy seemed agitated, touching her face a lot, stroking her hair. Jolie had never before seen Sammy rattled. It was kind of…leveling.

Jolie announced the total of the sale—over twenty-four hundred dollars, thankyouverymuch. When Sammy opened her small, green Kate Spade bag, Jolie caught a glimpse of metal and remembered with a jolt that Sammy had a permit to carry a concealed handgun. Jolie
conceded that being a female real-estate agent could land a woman in remote locations with strangers, but she’d always wondered if Sammy had ulterior motives for being armed, such as protecting herself from anyone she might have double-crossed.

Sammy withdrew a pink lizard-skin wallet and removed a wad of hundreds. Jolie wasn’t completely surprised—it would be just like Sammy to keep some of the agency’s business off the books and pocket the cash.

Jolie counted the hundreds carefully, then said, “You gave me five hundred too much,” and slid the extra bills back toward Sammy.

“That’s for you,” Sammy said, her expression completely still.

Jolie blinked. “Excuse me?”

Sammy pushed the money back toward Jolie. “Call it severance.”

Astonishment bled through her limbs even as her mind was screaming,
Take it! Take it!
She could buy a copier, stationery, a ticket to Cancun. “I…can’t take that money, Sammy.”

“Sure you can.”

A bribe in case someone came around asking questions about Sammy’s business practices. Jolie hardened her jaw and pushed the money back with finality. “But I
won’t
.”

Sammy gave a little laugh and folded the extra cash back into her wallet. “That’s always been your problem, Jolie—you can’t see that sometimes the right thing to do is the easy thing to do.”

Swallowing the words that jumped to her throat, Jolie finished ringing up the sale and passed Sammy her change. She reached for the boxes to bag them, and Carlotta materialized by her side.

“I’ll do that,” she said, then smiled at Sammy. “Nice shoes.”

Sammy tilted her head. “Aren’t they?”

“Yes,” Carlotta said, handing her the shopping bag. “Thank you for shopping at Neiman Marcus. Enjoy the event.”

“I will, thank you.” Sammy glared at Jolie. “I hope they catch your boyfriend.” Then she whipped around and stalked off.

“Brrr,” Carlotta said. She was dressed in a black jacket that was longer than her black miniskirt, dark tights, and a pair of black-satin-and-embroidered stiletto demi-boots with tassels around the top. Vintage Manolo. She offered a gapped grin. “I can’t
wait
to crash her party tonight. Did I see her trying to give you
money
?”

Jolie nodded. “Hush money.”

“You didn’t take it?”

“Nope.”

Carlotta emitted a dry laugh. “Well, tell me whatever it is and she can pay
me
hush money.”

Jolie bit into her lip, knowing her friend was thinking about the money she owed in a few days’ time to the man who’d come to see her at work.

“I see you sold our shoes,” Carlotta said, changing the subject. “I take it Michael didn’t give you any problems?”

“No,” Jolie said. “But I feel terrible.”

“It’ll pass. Christ, this place is a zoo.”

Jolie looked up to see Michael directing the placement of enormous bouquets of white helium balloons. Thumping music played over the speakers at a volume that Jolie had never heard in the store. Nervous energy crackled in the air as the conversation level rose from a hum to a dull roar. Black suits abounded as senior management arrived
and store security multiplied. The press had been funneled into an area near the front of the line so cameras could capture the frenzy. Reporters interviewed the women standing in line. She saw Sammy put on her Sanders Realty badge and mug for a camera.

“Where’s the jumpsuit?” Carlotta murmured.

“In my locker in the break room.”

“Let me have it, and I’ll process your return while no one is around.”

Carlotta followed her into the stock room, quizzing her.

“No stains, right?”

“Right.”

“Did you run it through the dryer on air to get out the cigarette smoke?”

“Yes.”

“How are the tags?”

“Perfect.”

She unlocked the locker and withdrew the black dress bag. “Thanks, Carlotta. I felt like Cinderella last night.”

Carlotta pshawed, but Jolie could tell she was pleased. “You didn’t leave anything in the pockets, did you?”

Jolie covered her mouth. “Oh my God—his business card. I can’t believe I forgot about the card.”

“LeMon’s?”

Jolie nodded and unzipped the bag. “It might have fallen out in the dryer—no, here it is.” She pulled out the card and turned it over to see if the “private” number he’d written was still legible. It was…and so was the note he’d scribbled.

I know what you want.

She inhaled sharply, then showed Carlotta the card. “He must have recognized me.”

Carlotta squinted. “Wait…He gave you the card just as the Underwoods walked up. If he knew who you were, he hadn’t figured it out at that point…had he?”

“I don’t know.” Jolie touched her temple, trying to remember the series of conversations and events.

“Maybe the jerk meant it as a come-on, as in ‘I know what you want: me.’ ”

Jolie’s shoulders dropped. “You’re probably right,” she said, trying to convince herself. “Else, why would he have written his number?”

“Right.”

“Right.” Jolie tucked the card inside her jacket pocket and zipped the garment bag with a shaking hand.

“Jolie,” Carlotta said, her voice tinged with concern. “Have you told the police about LeMon?”

“I’m going to call the detective on the case this afternoon.” She checked her cell phone—Salyers had called again.

“Jolie!” Michael yelled into the stockroom. “A totem-beaded mule in size six, and a Carmine ankle-tie pump in size nine! Hurry!”

Carlotta hooked her fingers into the hanger and slung the garment bag over her shoulder. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

Jolie nodded, then scrambled to get the shoes that Michael needed, trying to put Roger LeMon out of her head. When she emerged with the shoes, she was confronted with a crowd that had grown exponentially—the sales floor was a solid mass of bodies, and the line to meet Manolo Blahnik snaked out of the department and through the belly of the store. Jolie handed the requested shoes to Michael, then glanced around to see what she
could do to help in the confusion. A bearded face in the crowd caught her attention. Gary?

Her pulse spiked as she stepped to the side to get a better look. But the crowd shifted too, and the face was lost in a sea of shuffling bodies. A droning noise sounded, like a swarm of killer bees, as a murmur moved through the crowd. The mob of shoppers turned collectively to see Manolo Blahnik stride in, flanked by security and his “people.” A cheer went up and the older gentleman raised his hand and smiled in greeting. He was a striking figure dressed in a dark suit, his thinning white hair combed back, his jet-black eyebrows setting off inquisitive eyes.

Jolie’s first thought was that he looked like a banker. But when the crowd pressed forward and his security inched closer, her next thought was that anything could happen in a crowd like this—shoplifting, pick-pocketing…or worse. She scanned the crowd frantically, looking for the face she thought was Gary’s. Manolo Blahnik began to speak to the press, and someone jostled her from behind as everyone surged forward for a better spot. She jerked around, jittery now and a little claustrophobic. The air conditioner hadn’t caught up with the crush of bodies, and her underarms and neck were moist. She fanned the neckline of her blouse and decided to move toward the front to get more air.

With whispered apologies, she elbowed and sidled through bodies until she was standing a few feet behind the shoe designer. Lights glared on him and cameras rolled, reminding her of last night when Beck Underwood had been interviewed at the reception. She’d sat up like a groupie to catch the fifteen-second spot on the local news.

“Beckham Underwood, son of Lawrence Underwood and heir to the Underwood Broadcasting empire, was on
hand to honor the award nominees of the Broadcasters and Journalists of Georgia. Mr. Underwood, who has been living in Costa Rica for the last few years, says he’s glad to be home, but is cagey about whether or not he’ll stay to take over his father’s company.”

“I love Atlanta,” Beck had said. “But I enjoyed the work I did in Costa Rica, helping to build the infrastructure to support a broadcasting venture there. I haven’t ruled out going back. It’s important that we support communications growth in developing countries.”

He had looked so handsome, she was sure hearts were breaking all over Atlanta at the news that he might not stick around for long.

Not my heart, of course,
she thought while easing around the perimeter of the crowd. Her heart was perfectly intact and beating wildly at the thought of Gary being close by. Was he watching her, worried about her? Did he have a message for her?