Love Can Be Murder

finger-combed her hair and tucked it behind her ears, then straightened her clothing as best she could. There was no helping the lack of makeup, so she pasted on her best smile—the one that she thought showed too much gum, but that Gary had assured her made her face light up—and returned to the showroom.
    Her smile almost faltered, though, when Mr. Beck Underwood's bemused expression landed on her.
    She walked toward him, trying to forget that the man could buy and sell her a thousand times over. "I'm sorry again about running into you. Did you really want to try on this shoe or were you just being nice?"
    "Both," he said mildly. "My sister is going to be a while, and I need shoes, so this works for me."
    At the twinkle in his eyes, her tongue lodged at the roof of her mouth. Like a mime, she gestured to a nearby chair, and made her feet follow him. As he sat, she scanned the area for signs of Sammy.
    "She's behind the insoles rack," he whispered.
    Jolie flushed and made herself not look. The man probably thought she was clumsy and paranoid. She busied herself unpacking the expensive shoes. "Will you be needing a dress sock, sir?"
    He slipped off his tennis shoe and wiggled bare, brown toes. "I suppose so. I'm afraid I've gotten into the habit of not wearing socks." He smiled. "And my dad is 'sir'—I'm just Beck."
    She suddenly felt small. And poor. "I...know who you are."
    "Ah. Well, promise you won't hold it against me."
    She smiled and retrieved a pair of tan-colored socks to match the loafers. When she started to slip one of the socks over his foot, he took it from her. "I can do it."
    "I don't mind," she said quickly. Customers expected it—to be dressed and undressed and re-dressed if necessary. It was an unwritten rule: No one leaves the store without being touched .
    "I don't have to be catered to," he said, his tone brittle.
    Jolie blinked. "I'm sorry."
    He looked contrite and exhaled, shaking his head. "Don't be. It's me." Then he grinned unexpectedly. "Besides, under more private circumstances, I might take you up on your offer."
    Heat climbed her neck and cheeks. He was teasing her—his good deed for the day. Upon closer scrutiny, his face was even more interesting—his eyes a deep brown, bracketed by untanned lines created from squinting in the sun. Late thirties, she guessed. His skin was ruddy, his strong nose peeling from a recent burn. Despite the pale streaks in his hair, he was about as far from a beach boy as a man could be. When he leaned over to slip on the shoes, she caught a glimpse of his powerful torso beneath the sport coat.
    She averted her gaze and concentrated on the stitched design on the vamp of the shoe he was trying on, handing him a shoe horn to protect the heel counter. (This morning Michael had given her an "anatomy of a shoe" lesson, complete with metal pointer and pop quiz.)
    The man stood and hefted his weight from foot to foot, then took a couple of steps in one direction and came back. "I'll take them."
    A salesperson's favorite words. She smiled. "That was fast."
    He laughed. "Men don't have a complicated relationship with shoes."
    She liked his easy laugh, it was a happy noise that drew attention—including Sammy's, Jolie noticed. Her former boss came over, her pale brows knit in frustration. "Jolie, were you able to find the shoe I wanted?"
    Jolie glanced in Beck's direction. "Go ahead," he said. "I'll wait."
    "Give me just a minute," Jolie murmured, then manufactured a smile for Sammy. "A size seven, wasn't it?"
    "Yes." Sammy snapped her fingers. "And please hurry—I have a big closing in thirty minutes."
    Embarrassment flooded Jolie, setting her skin on fire. For the thousandth time, Jolie thought how attractive Sammy would be without her permanent smugness. "Yes, ma'am." She returned to the stockroom, her ego smarting.
    Despite the fact that she'd worked for the Sanders Agency for over a decade, it had been inevitable that she and Sammy would part on bad terms. Edgar Sanders had hired her as a receptionist right out of high school, and from the beginning she had clashed with the man's daughter. Sammy was a few years older than Jolie and on the fast track to realty royalty. She'd hated Jolie on sight. Mr. Sanders, on the other hand, had rewarded Jolie's hard work by moving her up through the company. The two women had developed an uneasy relationship based on avoidance. Jolie had managed to put herself through night school, to become an experienced agent, and