“It’s not your fault,” she said with a wry smile.
But he looked stricken. “You don’t have any family?”
“There are a couple of great-aunts, and a few stray cousins,” she said, trying to sound cheerful.
Concern clouded his eyes. “It’s strange, but I can’t remember having a conversation with my father that didn’t end in an argument, yet I can’t imagine him not being around.”
Was she supposed to offer commentary on his family dynamics? “Arguing is a form of communication, I suppose.”
He scowled, then lifted his glass. “I suppose you’re right.”
She walked to a window and looked out over the circular driveway. From this view she could see the rows of cars parked farther down the road, and distant lights from neighboring houses. “Are you like your father?” she asked, feeling brave.
He joined her at the window. “Everyone says so, but I don’t see it.” Then he looked contrite. “Don’t get me wrong: My dad is a brilliant businessman, but he was a terrible father and—” He stopped, as if he realized he was revealing too much. “Well, no family is perfect, is it?”
She shook her head. “What’s your mother like?”
“Oblivious,” he said, his voice wistful. “Mother has been in her own little world for some time now. We all sort of move around her.”
“I’m sorry,” Jolie said.
One side of his mouth lifted. “It’s not your fault.”
“You and Della seem close,” she ventured, feeling guilty that she was embarking on a fishing expedition.
“We are.”
“What does she do for your father’s company?”
“Besides sitting on the board, she’s very good with the publicity department, which basically means she does public appearances, shmoozes advertisers, that kind of thing.”
“And that doesn’t interest you?”
“Not in the least.”
“What does interest you?” She regretted the words before the vibration of them left her tongue.
His eyes trained on her, pulled at her. “You do, Jolie Goodman. You interest me, with your full-time dreams and your part-time job and your costumes and disguises and the little wrinkle of problems between your eyes that are normally hazel.” He shook his head. “I can’t figure you out, but I have a feeling there’s a lot about you that you don’t reveal to just anyone.”
She glanced up and felt her heart opening to him, beckoning. Look at me. Look at me and see me. Her chest rose and fell, wondering if this man had any idea how uncomplicated she was, how remote she felt most of the time, how much and how little she needed from him at this precise moment.
“Yes,” he murmured, as if she’d spoken aloud.
Even he seemed confused at his response as he leaned close, then closer. She had time to dodge the kiss, to step back or turn her head…but she didn’t. Tonight she didn’t have to be herself—and she decided to be the woman who was going to be kissed by Beck Underwood.
He lowered his lips to hers and she had the simultaneous impressions of champagne and warmth and firmness and desire. His hands were full, and she held her own glass out to keep from spilling champagne on Sammy’s rug. With just their lips touching, the kiss seemed to grow in intensity as they strained toward each other. He stopped suddenly and pulled back, and before disappointment could settle in, she realized from the look in his eyes that he was surprised…but at her response or his own, she couldn’t tell. Regardless, a split second later he was kissing her again, this time with hands-on features and sound effects.
And then slowly she began to grasp the fact that the sounds were coming from someone other than the two of them. They parted and Jolie looked up to see their hostess, Sammy, standing in the doorway of the bedroom with her arms crossed, looking, frankly, somewhat inhospitable.
Seventeen
“Why, Beck, I see you’re having a good time.”
“Great party, Sammy.” Either Jolie was imagining things, or Beck inched even closer to her side. Was he afraid Sammy was going to recognize her?
She was afraid enough for the both of them, Jolie decided. At that exact moment, her left contact lens decided to revolt, folding onto itself and obscuring her vision. Jolie blinked liked mad and the thing finally righted itself, to bring Sammy back into view.
With her low- and high-cut (respectively) leopard-print teddy, severe makeup, and killer high-heeled mules, the woman looked ready to bare her fangs and pounce. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was again?”
“Gwen,” Jolie murmured, trying to disguise her voice.
“I didn’t get your last name, Gwen.”
Jolie’s mind raced and came up with, “Yarborough.”
“Gwen Yarborough,” Sammy said, then shook her head. “When did we meet?”
“Gwen was at the media reception last night,” Beck broke in. “The two of you must have met there.”
“That’s right,” Jolie said. “You were wearing the most lovely pink dress.”
Sammy’s expression eased a smidgen. “Gwen, dear, you spilled champagne on my rug.”
Jolie looked down in horror to see a wet spot next to the tip of her burgundy satin mule. In truth, though, she was relieved she hadn’t spoiled the expensive shoes.
“I did that,” Beck said quickly. “My apologies, Sammy.”
The woman gave a dismissive wave. “I’ll send someone to soak it up. That’s why I don’t serve red wine at my parties. Things tend to get a little…out of hand.”
She stared at Jolie and she took a half step forward. “Are your eyes two different colors?”
Jolie’s palm felt sweaty against the glass she held. “Uh—”
“Yes,” Beck said. “Isn’t that something? I’d heard of people having different-colored eyes, but I’d never met anyone who did, until Gwen.”
Sammy was still staring at her and Jolie couldn’t look away, like prey prior to being caught and eaten. Sammy’s mouth parted slightly and something flickered in her eyes, then vanished. Suddenly, she smiled, then straightened. “Enjoy the tour, then come down and join the rest of the party around the pool. The games will begin soon.”
“Games?” Beck asked.
“What’s a party without games?” Sammy wet her lips, then turned on her five-inch heels and strode out, her sheer robe floating out behind her like a cape.
Jolie shivered, and the bad feeling she’d had when they’d first arrived descended over her again.
“Whew,” Beck muttered. “That was close.”
Jolie nodded absently, then glanced down. “I don’t suppose you could help me find my contact lens?”
“Don’t move. It’s probably on that fuzzy robe that’s covering practically every inch of you,” he teased, setting down his glass and bottle. “This might require a little hands-on search.” He lifted his eyebrows, waiting for her permission.
She pressed her lips together, then gave a curt nod. Why hadn’t she worn a bra?
He took her glass of champagne and set it next to his. Then he gave her a sexy grin and skimmed his hands over her neck and shoulders in a slow sensual caress that made her wish the heavy garment wasn’t between her skin and his hands. She swallowed hard against the pull of him, the memory of his kiss still on her lips. Longing pooled in her stomach, thighs. He must have felt it too, because his grin faded when he brought his hands down over her breasts, and his breathing increased.
Her nipples budded and she closed her eyes briefly. He continued to stroke his hands down the robe, spanning her waist and smoothing his hands over her hips, then down her thighs. When he crouched to lift the flowing hem of the garment for a closer inspection, cool air hit her exposed legs.
He took advantage of the opportunity to peek, grunting in satisfaction. She gave into a little thrill of pleasure, thanking God that she’d shaved. “Did you find it?” she asked.
“Find what?” he said, still peeking.
Exasperated, she reached down to close the botto
m of her robe. “My contact lens, did you find it?”
“No,” he said sadly, then stood and reached for her champagne glass. “Oh, but what do you know—there it is, floating in your bubbly.” He grinned. “You would’ve thought I’d have seen that before I patted you down.”
“Ooh!” She swatted at him and he clasped her hand, pulling her against his chest, stealing her breath. Beneath her palm, the hair in the opening of his robe felt coarse, and his heart thudded his intention. She looked into his eyes and realized miserably that Beck Underwood would be so easy for her injured heart to fall for. He was just the man to take her mind off her problems, to sweep her into his world, where his name opened doors and no material thing was out of reach. It would be so easy…and so dangerous, heaping heartache upon heartache when he tired of her or resumed his adventures.
Before he could kiss her again, she stepped back and inhaled deeply. “We should see the rest of the upstairs, then join the other guests.”
He pursed his mouth, then nodded and handed her the glass with a wink. She retrieved the contact lens and stored it in the case in her bag. Beck disappeared into the connecting bathroom and emerged with her glass, empty and rinsed, which he replenished from the bottle. He didn’t press her about what had happened between them, and she felt torn about the foregone chance to explore the chemistry. The irony was that Beck Underwood was intrigued by her aloof and bizarre behavior, but her aloof and bizarre behavior had been precipitated by Gary’s disappearance, and it was Gary’s disappearance that had left her in such emotional disarray.
But Beck was nothing if not resilient. Two minutes later, when they resumed the tour, he was whistling tunelessly under his breath, his gait easy, his smile ready. Jolie couldn’t help feeling a little put out that one minute he was kissing her and the next he seemed unaffected. His behavior made her feel better about her decision to nip their budding attraction…but only a tad.
They crossed the landing to reach the second hallway. Laughter, music, and the occasional popped cork sounded from downstairs. Sammy had to be spending a fortune on champagne, Jolie decided. On this new corridor, they passed the converted coat check room and two additional opulent rooms before they reached the open French doors leading into Sammy’s bedroom, a suite as large as a cottage.
White carpet, white walls, white linens, white built-in cabinetry, white leather upholstered furniture, a white-light chandelier. To the left, a doorway into a bathroom hinted at more of the same. A red ribbon had been secured across the opening as a polite reminder to guests that they could look, but not touch—or use—the facilities. To the right, a white door leading to yet another room was closed.
“I feel really creepy about being in her bedroom,” Jolie whispered, although it was clear the woman intended for people to look—and to be in awe.
“I know what you mean,” Beck said, then wagged his eyebrows. “Let’s go look in her medicine cabinet.”
“What? No.”
“I’m kidding. But there is one thing I wanted to show you, the sitting room off to the right. I like the fireplace.”
Apparently, he’d gotten the behind-the-scenes tour. She wondered perversely if he were the least bit interested in Sammy—beyond said fireplace. Especially now that Jolie had given him a bit of a brush-off.
Which, in hindsight, was starting to feel like a foolish decision.
Jolie followed him, but practically tiptoed across the snowy carpet.
Beck opened the door leading into the room that appeared to be another office—this one more functional by the looks of the complicated phone system. Most real-estate agents had home offices, and Sammy was no different—hers was just nicer than most. A massive, gleaming white desk and two white wood file cabinets to match, a white leather executive chair on rollers, 20-inch flat-screen monitor, with an impressive CPU tower on the floor. And the fireplace was indeed incredible—floor-to-ceiling gray stone facing with white masonry grout. Beck set down his glass and the bottle to inspect the hearth. No surprise, he also admired the on-wall plasma television and speaker system.
A five-by-seven picture frame on the desk caught Jolie’s eye, and she circled behind it, curious as to whom Sammy would think enough of to display on her workstation. Her parents? Mrs. Sanders had died when Sammy was young, which was why Sammy was so close to her father. When Jolie saw the photo, though, she laughed to herself—only Sammy would have a picture of herself on her desk. The only surprise was that it wasn’t a Miss America shot—instead Sammy was outdoors, dressed in a turtleneck, jeans, and sturdy boots, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, and she was sitting on a rock.
A familiar-looking rock.
Jolie picked up the frame and jammed her face closer. She studied the photo and tried to conjure up in her mind the photo of Gary sitting on a rock, mugging for the camera. Was it the same place, the same day? Was it possible that Sammy had been the woman who’d taken the photo of him? Her mouth went dry—did Sammy and Gary have a romantic history, or was this photo a mere coincidence? She recalled introducing them at the agency and hadn’t noticed anything more than a polite exchange. Ditto on the tube-float down the river. In fact, she’d gotten the feeling that Sammy thought he was unsavory because she’d commented once that someone who drove a nice car with no apparent signs of employment was either a trust-fund kid or a criminal.
Jolie scoured the photo, looking for any details that might help prove or disprove her wild theory, but in truth, the photo could have been taken anywhere, on any rock. She couldn’t check the back for photo finishing details unless she took the whole thing apart…and that would take some privacy. She glanced at Beck, who was still mesmerized by a beautifully sculpted chrome remote control. Feeling like a bona fide crook, she slid the photo into her standard “biggish” party-crashing purse.
“We probably should go,” she said abruptly.
He turned and nodded. “You’re right—Sammy might think we’re snooping.”
A shamefaced flush climbed her cheeks as she left the office and strode across the bedroom. Amidst all the white, the edge of Sammy’s green Kate Spade bag was especially noticeable sticking out from under the bed’s dust ruffle. She detoured from her straight path to push the purse beneath the bed, thinking that would help assuage her guilt. She nudged the green bag with her shoe, but it wouldn’t budge. She lifted the bed skirt, saw the bag was caught against a leg of the bed frame and reached down to push it out of sight. Just in case there were unscrupulous people about.
Party crashers, for instance.
“Something wrong?” Beck asked from the door.
“Nothing,” she murmured, standing. Then she spied the bathroom. “Um, actually, I need to powder my nose. Do you think it would be okay to—”
“I’ll be your lookout,” he cut in, his tone as grave as a spy’s.
The “keep out” ribbon had been affixed with tape. She unfastened one end, then entered the bathroom and closed the door behind her. The expansive whiteness was blinding—tiled floor, floating sink, slick cabinets, shiny garden tub, long, white sheers at the windows. Leann had once told her that white was a prestigious color among her clients because of the implication that one had to have money to maintain anything white. So true.
Jolie pulled the picture frame from her bag and studied the photo again. Hopefully she would find some innocuous description on the back like “Me and Dad at Yosemite,” then she’d feel foolish and return it to Sammy’s desk.
She turned over the frame to find the back held together with small screws. Cursing under her breath, she rummaged in her purse to find anything that would suffice as a tool. The screw heads were too small to be turned with a coin, and a paperclip wouldn’t work. She needed a metal nail file or tweezers or something similar. She pulled out cabinet drawers, aware of the time ticking away. Lots of beauty products, combs, curlers, hair appliances, but nothing she could use as a screwdriver.
Jolie glanced toward the wide mirrored cabinet over the floating sink, reme
mbering Beck’s suggestion that they snoop in Sammy’s medicine cabinet. She sighed and gingerly pulled open the mirrored door.
A second later, a shelf in the cabinet collapsed, sending its contents toppling and setting off a horrific, crashing chain reaction as bottles and jars and other personal toiletries landed in the sink. She cringed and counted to ten.
A quiet knock sounded. “Everything okay in there?” Beck asked, his voice muffled…and concerned.
“Fine,” she returned shakily. “Just a little…accident. I’ll be right out.”
She slipped the shelf back into place with shaking hands, then scooped up the items and situated them back onto the shelves wherever they would fit. Men’s toiletries were mixed in with the feminine items (a diaphragm, ew) and Jolie told herself that more men than Gary used Zirh brand premium shave gel. And old-fashioned razor blades. She fingered the packet and realized suddenly that a blade was thin enough and strong enough to loosen the screws on the picture frame.
Carefully, she removed a blade from the package and was successful in loosening one screw before the blade slipped and slashed the fatty pad of her left palm. She dropped the blade, instinctively pressed her hand to her chest, and puffed out her cheeks, knowing before she looked that the cut was deep…and bloody.
When she pulled it away, not only did the bleeding resume exuberantly, but the pain lit up her entire arm. She sucked air through her teeth, and looked for something to wrap around her hand. A stack of white fingertip towels sat on a cabinet. She grabbed one and held it against her hand until the bleeding slowed. Upon closer observation, the cut was only an inch long, but it throbbed unmercifully. Remembering the package of adhesive bandages she’d seen in a drawer, she appropriated three to cover the wound. Luckily, the damage was to her left hand, so she was able to restore order to the medicine cabinet, although Sammy would have to be in a stupor not to realize that things had been rearranged.
She returned the picture frame to her purse, deciding it would go home with her. If it turned out to be unrelated to Gary’s photo, she would return the picture to Sammy anonymously.
Party Crashers Page 18
