"Where did this cold weather come from?" Carlotta demanded, belting her own long coat—except hers was black cashmere, and stunning against her blonde wig.
"It's called winter," Hannah snapped. With her blunt page-boy wig, severe makeup and long black leather duster, she looked every inch the dominatrix.
Carlotta frowned. "If you're going to be in a bad mood all evening, don't come."
"Sorry," Hannah mumbled. "I expected Russell to call before now."
Carlotta sniffed and looked like she wanted to say something, but didn't. Jolie remembered that Hannah's married boyfriend was supposed to tell his wife he wanted a divorce sometime this weekend. It appeared he was leaning toward the "end" of the weekend.
She locked the apartment door behind them and, out of habit now, looked left and right as they made their way down the sidewalk to the parking lot by lamplight. "Do you want to ride with me, or are we driving separately?"
"I'm driving," Carlotta said, stopping next to a mirror-shiny dark Monte Carlo SuperSport parked in the handicap spot. "Like it?"
Remembering the woman's imminent rendezvous with the man who'd demanded two thousand dollars, Jolie's eyebrows went up. "What happened to the Miata?"
"I thought it was time to get a new ride."
The muscle car didn’t exactly suit Carlotta, but Jolie opened the back door of the spanking-new sedan and inhaled the new-car smell. "Nice."
They were settled inside and fastening seat belts when Hannah, who sat in the front passenger seat, looked over at Carlotta. "Aren't you going to tell Jolie the truth?"
Carlotta started the engine. "She won't approve."
Jolie frowned and leaned forward as far as her seatbelt would allow. "What do you mean, I won't approve?"
Carlotta twisted in her seat and backed out of the parking place, then pulled toward the entrance of the apartment complex. "Well...some dealers are allowing customers to keep a vehicle for twenty-four hours before they actually buy the car, so...I'm trying it out." She grinned.
Jolie gave her a wry look. "You have no intention of buying this car, do you?"
"This muscle-head wagon? None whatsoever."
She couldn't be too self-righteous, Jolie reminded herself, not while she wore over two thousand dollars' worth of jammies that she planned to return. She sat back in her seat, marveling over the way Carlotta connived to get what she wanted. On the surface, it didn't seem right...yet she wasn't doing anything illegal. Besides, was it really so different from bending the rules on tax returns?
A small part of her admired Carlotta's cheekiness. The woman's obituary was bound to be more interesting than her own.
From the backseat, Jolie gave directions to a north Buckhead neighborhood where the streets were narrow and the homes were enormous. Old money had built the McMansions, and new money had upgraded them. Sammy Sanders' house was an expansive two-story white home with yellow light blazing from the multitude of windows. The structure sported a dozen different roof angles, various verandas and offshoots of smaller buildings (the servants' quarters?) connected by breezeways, testimony to at least a half dozen additions.
"It's a freaking compound," Hannah murmured.
Jolie nodded her agreement. She remembered it being impressive in the daylight, but at night it was downright imposing. With its circular drive lit by dozens of lights, it resembled a country club more than a residence. "Looks like things are in full swing."
"One of the party-crashing rules," Carlotta said. "Never be the first person to arrive."
"Or the last person to leave," Hannah added.
"She has a valet," Carlotta said, her voice ringing with approval. She pulled up behind two other cars from which coated people were alighting. Jolie felt a tiny surge of relief that she wasn't the only person who felt compelled to cover her sleepwear in public, but she was starting to get nervous about crashing a private party...especially Sammy's party. She shifted, hoping the dress shields were protecting the expensive silk chemise from her nervousness.
A coated and gloved man was leaning down to address the drivers, then taking their invitations. The people two cars ahead appeared to have everything in order and were assisted from their car. The occupants of the Jaguar in front of them, however, after much head-shaking and shrugged apologies from the ticket-taker, were sent away. Jolie swallowed. "How did the invitations turn out?"
"My brother had to tinker with it some," Carlotta admitted. "The first pass looked better than Sammy's original, so he had to downgrade the print resolution."
Jolie bit back a smile as they pulled up and Carlotta zoomed down her window. "Hello," she said in a perfect imitation of the Buckhead bourgeois.
"Good evening, ma'am," the man said. "Invitations, please—one for each guest."
"Of course," she cooed, handing over the cards.
The man glanced at them, then nodded and smiled. "Leave your key in the ignition and the valet will park your car." He opened Carlotta's door, then tore off a ticket and handed it to her when she stepped out.
The man stepped back and opened Jolie's door. She gave him her hand and stepped out into the night air that fell around her like a cold sheet, raising chill bumps...and concern. Suddenly spooked, she turned to look at the car behind them, half expecting to see Gary following her. But the driver was female...and wearing a fur coat, she noted wryly.
Because the winters in Atlanta were so short-lived, women who could afford fur broke them out at the first frost, without fear of the paint-throwing PETA people who targeted soirees in New York and Los Angeles. Jolie suspected the animal rights activists subscribed to the belief that everyone south of the Mason-Dixon Line was armed and anyone who flung red paint on a Southern woman's coat might get themselves shot.
Which probably wasn't too far off the mark, she thought, remembering the handgun tucked into Sammy's designer purse. She smoothed her hand over her trusty all-weather coat—so old, it bordered on retro. Unless there was a group of polyester activists she wasn't aware of, she was safe from paint slinging.
When they started up the steps to the glowing manor house, Jolie's nerve faltered. On the other side of the tall windows, people mingled, holding glasses and moving in that "let me slip through here" way that people use to sidle through parties.
"Come on," Carlotta hissed, waving her forward.
"I have a bad feeling about this," Jolie murmured, stepping up. Assailed again by the feeling that she was being watched, she turned to look back to the driveway, but no other guests had arrived. Then headlights from the street caught her eye. A car sat at the end of the sloping driveway, its nose jutting out past the brick pillars that flanked the entrance. In the darkness, she couldn't tell the model or the color. Gary? A lost driver, perhaps? A guest fumbling for their invitation? Or simply someone who had pulled to the side of the street to make a phone call? A dozen harmless possibilities, and one that unsettled her, yet seemed highly unlikely...especially in light of her paranoid scene at the drive-through today.
"What's wrong?" Carlotta asked. She turned her head in the same direction, then frowned and reached for Jolie's arm. "Come on, let's go inside."
The woman's fingers bit into the back of her upper arm through the multiple layers of fabric. Carlotta herded her toward the door, on the heels of Hannah, and Jolie picked up on her unease. Had she recognized the car? Was it the man to whom Carlotta owed money, or perhaps someone else?
Carlotta released her hold on Jolie's arm, the gargantuan door opened, and Jolie watched as she morphed into a gracious guest, her smile wide and ready. A finger of disquiet nudged Jolie: If the woman could transform herself so quickly, who was the real Carlotta Wren?
Her thoughts were cut short by the haunting music and the sporadic blasts of voices and laughter. And blessed heat. Jolie looked up to see Sammy standing in the doorway, wearing a revealing leopard-print teddy topped by a long, transparent robe. Long, tanned legs ended at five-inch-high leopard-print satin mules. Her cleavage was precarious, and she
looked perplexed as she glanced over the trio. "Hello," she said with a little squint. "I'm Sammy Sanders."
Carlotta laughed gaily. "I'm Carly, and these are my friends, Hallie and...Gwen." Sammy's gaze flitted over the other two women. Jolie nodded, but Sammy had already looked away. With a start, Jolie realized that she needn't have worried about Sammy recognizing her. The female bulldozer had never given Jolie credit, had never seen her for who she truly was. To recognize someone, you had to first know them.
Her former boss wavered, stealing a helpless glance toward the valet stand as another group of guests alighted from their car. Although it was clear Sammy had no idea who they were, Jolie suspected that neither did she want to create a scene. She knew they couldn't have gotten in without an invitation, so she was trapped.
Carlotta whipped a wrapped gift from her bag—the essential hostess gift. "Candles," she said sweetly.
After a brief pause, Sammy rearranged her face into a polite expression, stepped back and swept her arm toward the cavernous foyer. "Welcome, ladies. I hope this is a night you won't soon forget."
Jolie walked by Sammy and into the black-and-white checkerboard tile foyer of the palatial home. Her gaze traveled upward to the enormous chandelier, which looked as if it might have once belonged in a theater. She tried not to gape at the contemporary paintings on the soaring walls. Secretly, she'd hoped that Sammy would have tacky taste, and although her style was a little ostentatious, it was spectacular, in quality and in scale.
Meanwhile, her entire apartment would fit nicely within this entryway.
"May I take your coats?" a tuxedoed man asked a few feet inside.
Jolie unbuttoned the inexpensive navy coat and relinquished it self-consciously in return for a ticket. She turned the corner and glanced into a colossal great room where guests stood in happy clumps, clinging to champagne glasses and to each other. From this spot she could see the entrance to what appeared to be a French Country dining room, and across the great room, a wall of glass doors was open, leading to an indoor pool. Chlorine and perfume stung her nose.
She recognized a few faces from the night before, but she couldn't place them. The two attractive blondes standing next to the fireplace were sisters, she remembered, although she couldn't recall if their name was York, or if they were from New York.
The woman who had complimented her on the jumpsuit was talking to a man half her age, the man who had laughed at her joke talking to a woman half his age. Of course, they'd never recognize her in this getup.
Everyone, it appeared, had adhered to the suggested dress code. Most of the men wore silky pajamas—striped or paisley—and short robes or smoking jackets. The women, on the other hand, put a tad more skin on display. Teddies, tap pants and camisoles, shortie nightshirts, long gowns with high slits, gossamer robes. Breasts and Botox abounded. There were a few elaborate caftans (adult onesies), but for the most part, Jolie felt overdressed. Still, when the lower part of her robe gapped and air rushed over her bare legs, she shivered and pulled the robe closer around her.
"Please, don't obstruct the view," a man said next to her.
Her nipples knew that voice.
Jolie turned to find Beck Underwood smiling down at her legs. He wore a plain black cotton robe a la Target that hit him mid-shin, and flip-flops that looked to be on their last flop. In one hand, he held a champagne flute that looked diminutive between his big fingers; in the other he held a bottle of champagne by the neck. The V of his belted robe revealed dark chest hair with golden ends. She'd bet her last dollar that the man had never worn a robe in his life. Obviously, he wasn't a pajama man. Jolie's gaze dropped lower and she couldn't help but wonder what, if anything, was underneath the robe.
When she looked up, Beck was staring at her as if she were his personal party favor.
Chapter Sixteen
BECK UNDERWOOD WALKED CLOSER, his mouth pursed in an ironic smile. "I had a feeling you might be here."
Jolie glanced around. Carlotta and Hannah were standing a few feet away, their heads close in conversation. Sammy was greeting more guests. Jolie looked back to him and shook her bewigged head. "How do you always recognize me?"
He shrugged, then leaned in. "Did you crash?"
She crossed her arms, then nodded sheepishly.
He threw his head back and laughed. "That's great. Someday you're going to have to tell me how you do it."
Jolie bristled at the thought of being the man's entertainment.
"Who are you tonight?" he whispered.
Feeling more foolish by the minute, she mumbled, "Gwen."
"Ah. Well, Gwen," he said, picking up a lock of her long fake, red hair, "I've always had a thing for blondes, but in your case, I might make an exception."
Her heart fluttered irrationally until she realized that he was probably well on his way to emptying the bottle of champagne that he held. "You really shouldn't flirt with the person who might become your real-estate agent."
His teeth flashed white against his tan. "Why not?"
Jolie managed a watery smile that she hoped passed for coy. "Because she might take advantage of you."
He lifted one eyebrow. "Careful, Gwen, you give a man hope."
Her heart skipped a beat, and she told herself he was teasing her, maybe looking for a rendezvous after the party...or during the party. And while she couldn't deny that she was incredibly attracted to the man, she wasn't about to put herself in the position of being one of Beck Underwood's groupies. She'd had casual sex before, but this situation was different. Besides the fact that she needed the man's business, she was dangerously close to caring what he thought of her. A caution flag rose in her mind, warning her that there might be more at stake here than a missed commission.
"Is your sister here?" she asked, to change the subject.
He nodded. "Della's by the pool."
"Ah, yes, the pool."
"I suppose you've been here before."
"No, but Sammy talked about the pool, um...occasionally at the office."
"Ah. Then allow me to take you on a tour. It's quite the place." He winked. "Sammy gave me the full treatment earlier."
Jolie hesitated, then glanced over his shoulder and saw Sammy watching them with a proprietary eye on Beck, a warning eye on her. Revenge sparked in Jolie's chest and she looked back to Beck. "A tour would be nice. Maybe you can point out some things you do and don't like."
His gaze raked over her. "I like short, silky nightgowns and silly house shoes."
She was suddenly grateful for the ten-pound velvet robe. "I meant what you like in a house," she added quickly, then nervously licked her lips. "Do you think I could have some of that champagne?"
His mouth curved into a grin and he flagged a passing waiter. "You, interesting lady, can have anything I've got. But," he added in a conspiratorial tone, "we need to work on getting rid of that troublesome boyfriend of yours." He juggled his own bottle and glass to snag a clean champagne flute from the waiter's tray, then held it out to her as if he were laying a kingdom at her feet.
Jolie swallowed. Why had she told him she had a boyfriend who was in trouble? She stared into his shining brown eyes and her knees felt loose, and then she remembered why she'd told him she had a boyfriend who was in trouble: To create enough distance to circumvent any possibility of developing a crush on him.
Giving herself a mental shake, she took the glass and held it with amazingly steady hands while he filled it with pinkish-gold liquid from his personal bottle.
"Why don't we start upstairs?" he suggested, and gestured toward the wide staircase—red carpet on white marble made the staircase itself a work of art. Other guests were walking down the stairs, returning from their own tours, she presumed, so she agreed. But she felt Sammy's stare when they moved away from the crowd.
As she climbed the stairs, Jolie sipped the champagne, cool and fizzy against her tongue, and studied the gold foil treatment on the massive curved wall. Despite the fact that she and Beck were i
n their bedclothes and drinking bubbly, Jolie was determined to be professional. "Is this the size home you'll be looking for?"
He lifted his big shoulders, straining the cotton fabric of his inexpensive robe. "I really hadn't thought about it—that's why I need you."
She refused to read anything into that statement. "I saw you on the news last night. You didn't sound as if you were going to stay in Atlanta long enough to buy a home."
A pink stain crawled over his tanned cheeks. "Slow news night. Besides, if I buy a house and decide not to stay in Atlanta, I'll lease it out."
Hearing him say he might not stay in Atlanta shouldn't have bothered her, but it did. Yet it was even more reason, she told herself, not to buy into his flirtation. Beck Underwood was looking for something to pass the time until he moved along, and she didn't want to be another short-term project.
At the second-floor landing, they stopped for a bird's-eye view of the magnificent chandelier and the grand entryway. Sammy was welcoming a male guest who was dressed in a red velvet smoking jacket reminiscent of the Rat Pack era, all the way down to the arrogant way he held himself. Jolie froze—she knew that pose. While she stood staring down, Roger LeMon looked up, directly at her and Beck. She gasped and stepped back.
"Is something wrong?" Beck asked, turning.
She couldn't very well tell him that Roger LeMon had reported her to the police, especially since Beck himself was aware of her tendency to stalk the man.
"Um...the height," she lied with a laugh. "I had a sudden bout of vertigo." Her mind spun. Would LeMon recognize her tonight and accuse her of following him? Tell Sammy who she was? Call the police again? She looked around. On the other hand, this house was enormous—maybe she could simply avoid him all evening.
Love Can Be Murder (boxed set of humorous mysteries) Page 16
