Party Crashers

by Stephanie Bond

  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 one-sies), 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.

  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. “B–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 was raised 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.”

  It was as if she weren’t wearing a 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.
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  “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 wall treatment on the massive curved wall. Despite the fact that she and Beck were in 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, um, 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 that 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’ seye 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 her. On the other hand, this house was enormous—maybe she could simply avoid him all evening.

  “Feeling better?” Beck asked.

  She nodded and tried to act normal. “Lead the way.”

  From the landing, two ten-foot-wide hallways split off in opposite directions. Honey-colored hardwood was covered with plush oriental-style carpet runners. Down the hallway to the right, a man and woman walked away from them, peering into rooms, apparently also enjoying a self-guided tour. The man who had collected her coat walked by, his face obscured under a mountain of coats—mostly furs. He disappeared into a room that she assumed had been set aside for a coat check. In the distance, doors opened and closed, voices oohing and aahing. The house appeared to go on forever, an astonishing amount of square footage for one resident.

  She followed Beck down the hall to the left and glanced into a room that was perhaps an office or a den, although it was ornate to the point of distraction.

  “The décor is too busy for my tastes,” he murmured, “but I like the lines of the ceiling.”

  Jolie nodded. She’d learned to withhold her own opinion when working with a potential client, to listen as their likes and dislikes were revealed. Sometimes clients were unaware of their own tastes, although Beck Underwood did not strike her as a person who waffled. About architecture, anyway.

  The next room was a feminine guest room with a daybed and overstuffed upholstered chairs. The textured wallpaper was perfectly coordinated to the comforter. “Why do people do that?” he whispered, his mouth close to her ear. “You have my permission to shoot me if I ever wallpaper a room to match a bedspread.”

  As if she would be around to witness his hypothetical case of hyper-decorating.

  He walked to the next doorway and peered inside. “I believe Sammy said this was her spa room.”

  Tiled floor, ambient lighting, double massage tables, a whirlpool tub, ceiling fans and an abundance of plants. “Is this something you would be interested in having?” Jolie asked.

  “Me? No way. The plants are nice though.”

  All told, on the hallway were four bedrooms and three den-ish rooms of ambiguous purpose but crammed with oversized furniture and electronic toys. One room was lined with glass display cases for Sammy’s collection of crystal houses, most of them reproductions of famous buildings or antebellum homes. Jolie did some mental arithmetic and estimated the woman had tens of thousands of dollars invested in the fragile knickknacks. The outrageousness of it bordered on vulgarity, but before righteous indignation could set in, Jolie looked down at the twelve-hundred-dollar robe she was wearing and flushed with shame.

  No more borrowing clothes, she vowed, and no more party crashing, no matter what.

  The next room was a decidedly masculine guest bedroom stocked with beautiful hardwood furniture and expensive bed linens and curtains in muted animal prints. The walls were cocoa brown. She followed Beck into the room, although there was something distinctly intimate about being in this bedroom with him while they were both wearing pj’s. She surveyed the windows, carpet, the faux finish on the walls—anything to keep from looking at the giant four-poster bed that sat in the room like a big pink elephant.

  “Nice,” he said vaguely, then turned and gestured toward the bed. “It’s a little tall, don’t you think?”

  She glanced at the bed sideways. “It’s tall,” she agreed.

  He stared at the bed. “I prefer sort of falling into bed versus having to climb up.”

  She took a drink from her glass. “Do you already have furniture that you’ll need to fit into your home?”

  “Such as?”

  “Family heirlooms? A bed, perhaps?”

  “A few things—a chest of my grandfather’s, a bookcase I built when I was a teenager, but nothing big.”

  “You didn’t bring things back from Costa Rica?”

  “What little I accumulated there, I left there. It’s a much simpler place to live.”

  “It sounds nice.”

  He nodded. “It is. I miss it. I felt like I was doing some good there.”

  She angled her head. “And what exactly was that?”

  He drained his glass and refilled it from the bottle. “I was a teacher.”

  She couldn’t keep the surprise from her face. “Really? What did you teach?”

  “English, economics, math.”

  She pursed her mouth. “Is that your background?”

  “No. My diploma from Duke says I’m an environmental engineer. But since Costa Rica has a greater need for teachers than for environmental engineers, I thought I’d give it a try.”

  “And?”

  He shrugged. “And I’m pretty good at it.”

  She smiled, trying to visualize him in front of a chalkboard, pounding home an idea. “I’m sure you are. Will you teach here?”

  He shook his head. “No, it’s time to make amends with my father and step into the family business. My dad’s going to retire soon, and I’ve left Della to carry the burden for too long.” His laugh was dry. “Cry me a river, right?”

  Bolstered by the champagne and his openness, she shrugged. “I guess most people would think that being heir to a family fortune isn’t such a bad thing.”

  He nodded. “But what do you think?”

  Her tongue stalled. “I…don’t have an opinion. Besides, I have a vested interest in seeing you remain in Atlanta.”

  His eyes lit up. “You do?”

  “My commission, remember?”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “Shall we continue?” Jolie asked, eager to return to a larger group. She wasn’t afraid of Beck, but she was afraid that the little twinges in her chest when she looked at him were bubbles warning her of emotional quicksand.

  A little-boy smile climbed his face and h
e nodded toward the bed. “We could hang out in here.”

  Her thighs twinged, and her heart jumped with the optimism that every woman feels when she tries to justify the urge to let a man have his way with her: If the physical attraction is so strong, there must be feeling behind it. For him to be looking at her with such longing, he had to be feeling the same, overwhelming sense that he’d never been so attracted to another person, and never would be again. That sex with this person would be different. A religious experience. Lasting.

  That with Roger LeMon afoot, she had a good reason to kill a few hours in Beck’s arms.

  Jolie came back to earth with a thud. The man was half drunk, after all. And it was up to her to protect her heart from a man who was undoubtedly just passing through—literally and figuratively. “We could,” she said carefully, “but we won’t.”

  His shoulders fell. “Okay. Can’t blame a man for trying. I’ve been in the jungle for a few years.”

  She angled her head. “Something tells me you weren’t lonely.”

  He gave a little laugh. “I’ve been lonely my entire life.”

  Jolie looked up, surprised to see the seriousness on his handsome face. She panicked—his teasing banter was so much easier to dismiss. In an effort to restore the light mood, she smiled. “Is that a pick-up line?”

  He straightened, his solemnity gone. “Of course. Is it working?”

  She smiled. “No, I don’t feel the least bit sorry for you.”

  He made a rueful noise, then asked, “So, Gwen, where did you grow up?”

  If he had planned to catch her off guard, he’d succeeded. She instantly missed the sexual tension. “Dalton.”

  “Really? On a farm?”

  “No, although we did raise a small vegetable garden. Lots of green beans.”

  He smiled. “I like green beans.”

  “That’s probably because you’ve never had to pick and string them.”

  “You could be right. Do you get back there often?”

  She shook her head. “My parents are both gone, and I don’t have any siblings.”

  His mouth parted slightly. “I’m sorry.”