Love Can Be Murder

doesn't, and if he did, I'm not interested." Not interested in being a novelty for a man who moved easily in circles she had to crash.
    Carlotta pressed her lips together. "Are you still hung up on your boyfriend?" She made a rueful noise. "Of course you are, I didn't mean to be crass. You don't even know for sure if the man is dead or alive."
    "R–right." Jolie drained the remaining inch of white wine in her glass. "Did you find out anything about Kyle Coffee?"
    "Other than he can't hold his liquor? The only thing I noticed that was odd was that he and LeMon have the same tattoo."
    Jolie frowned. "The one on LeMon's wrist? I noticed it, but I couldn't make out what it was."
    "Kyle had one in the same place, but I could see his because the slob had lost a cuff link. It was some kind of crest—maybe a college fraternity thing?"
    Jolie splayed her hand. "It could mean nothing."
    "Did your boyfriend have one?"
    "No."
    "Hmm. Well, you're right—it could be nothing. I gathered that you knew Realtor Barbie from somewhere?"
    Jolie rolled her eyes. "Sammy is my ex-boss."
    Carlotta made a face. "Did she fire you?"
    "No. I quit."
    Carlotta raised her eyebrows, then grinned, revealing her retouched smile. "I like you, Jolie Goodman. You've got moxie."
    Warm surprise suffused Jolie's chest, and she conceded a little thrill to be accepted by someone like Carlotta, who was such an interesting character herself.
    They climbed a short set of carpeted stairs to another bar area where they swapped two more tickets for fresh drinks. "This is my limit," Jolie murmured, already feeling a little light-headed. On the other hand, the guilt of consuming free drinks seemed to dissipate with each one, Jolie noted, sipping the crisp chardonnay.
    Carlotta stopped a waiter and whipped out her British accent. "Pardon me, could you direct me to the smoking area?"
    He pointed. "Down this hall and to the right, out the doors onto a covered patio."
    She thanked the man, then pulled out her cell phone. "I'll tell Hannah where to meet us."
    While Carlotta called Hannah, Jolie realized the raised floor gave her a good vantage for spying. She slid a glance in the direction where they'd been standing earlier. Only Kyle Coffee remained, talking to a new group of people, none of whom she recognized. She picked out Beck and Della Underwood a few yards away, shaking hands with more nominees. Beck was hard to miss because he was at least a half head taller than most of the men in the room. His hand hovered at his sister's waist protectively and Jolie experienced a stab of envy over their closeness. If she ever became a mother, she would want more than one child to make sure they had siblings to grow up with and comfort and companionship after she and their father had passed on.
    Why those domestic thoughts were whirling through her head now, she couldn't fathom. She had to get through this chaos surrounding Gary before she could move on with her life. But as she watched Beck move, undeniable attraction curled in her stomach. She liked the way he carried his body—with the grace of a natural athlete. It was, she realized, easier to observe him from a distance. When the man was in her personal space, his presence played havoc with her senses.
    She wondered if he'd stepped in tonight for his powerful father, and if he'd minded. Was he the prodigal son returning home to pull his weight in the family conglomerate after whiling away a few years in paradise? Had he been summoned home?
    His noise about finding a house notwithstanding, would he stay in Atlanta, or be off on another adventure when things became too staid? That kind of freedom frightened Jolie, it was too...uncertain. She needed boundaries to be able to organize and guide her life, a measuring stick against which to gauge her progress—a by-product of her blue-collar upbringing, she was sure. She supposed it would be different if one were raised without financial limitations, which probably explained why money married money...being rich was as much a state of mind as it was a state of bank account.
    As she watched, a beautiful redhead engaged Beck in conversation. The woman was perfect in every way: perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect figure, perfect clothes, perfect carriage. She angled her body toward Beck in an unmistakable invitation, and he didn't turn away. He was, after all, a man. A rich man who was accustomed to having beautiful women throw themselves at him. Jolie's cheeks flamed that she