Love Can Be Murder

in the pockets of his dark slacks. "I got the feeling that it was important to you to hide your identity." He wet his lips. "That there was more at stake than simply being able to crash a stodgy old party."
    He looked at her as if she were transparent. She couldn't break away from his gaze.
    "Are you interested in Roger LeMon?" he asked quietly.
    Her throat convulsed. "Not in the way you think." Again, the urge to confide...but again, the overriding urge to protect him, and herself. To protect him from association with a terrible crime. To protect herself from making Beck Underwood a confidante.
    "In what way, then?"
    Her mind raced. "It's business. Did things end badly between Roger LeMon and your sister?"
    "I have no idea what she saw in the man, but I believe he broke her heart."
    She wondered if LeMon was the source of Della Underwood's withdrawal from society years ago.
    "What about you?" he asked.
    She looked up. "What about me?"
    "Did someone break your heart?"
    Her lips parted. Gary's disappearance had left her wary, but heartbroken? Hardly. On the other hand, it was best to let Beck know that her heart wasn't available because of her entanglement with Gary. "There is a man," she said softly.
    He gave a little laugh. "There always is. Is he in trouble?"
    She nodded.
    "Ah. And does this party-crashing have something to do with it?"
    She nodded again.
    He averted his gaze, then looked back. "So...when can you and I get together? To talk about what I'm looking for in a house, that is."
    Despite her best efforts to be immune to him, her tongue felt gluey. "How about here, Sunday afternoon?"
    "One o'clock?"
    "One o'clock is fine," she said, her heart thumping erratically.
    He grinned. "How will I know you?"
    She grinned. "Look for Jolie Goodman."
    "I will."
    Something happened then...an exchange of ions between them. She felt the charge of her body drawing energy from his, and the accompanying carnal tug. From his eyes, she knew he felt it too. She was old enough to know that to Beck, a tug was a tug; but in her confused state, a tug was open to wide misinterpretation, and she couldn't risk giving in to the temptation of his attention.
    Jolie hastily opened the car door and lowered herself into the seat, closing the door with more force than necessary. Then she started the engine, backed up, and drove away with a wave. Capturing a glimpse of Beck Underwood in her side mirror, she mulled over the written warning. Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.
    Hmm.

Chapter Thirteen

    "JOLIE, THANK GOD. I thought you'd never get here." Michael Lane's anxiety was evident in his voice and in his hand-ruffled hair. "Customers are already starting to arrive."
    Jolie stepped back to keep from being mowed down by a salesclerk who had jogged into the stockroom to grab more Manolo Blahnik shoe boxes. She looked at her watch. "Three hours early?"
    "These people are rabid."
    Jolie held up the box of Mui Mui shoes. "I had to bring these back."
    He frowned and lifted the box lid. "Wrong size?"
    She swallowed and tried not to fidget. "Just wrong for my feet."
    He glanced at the pristine soles, then shrugged and tucked her receipt in his pocket. "I'll process your refund as soon as I get a minute. Meanwhile, I'll put them back in inventory."
    Jolie nodded, relieved and a little remorseful for taking advantage of Michael's trust.
    He handed her two silver poles with a fat black velvet rope strung between them. "Chain these on where I left off, then start waiting on customers."
    Eager to assuage her guilt, she took the hardware, then emerged from the stockroom. Sure enough, a small crowd of people had already gathered on the edge of the shoe department, where signs had been posted to advertise the appearance. The women were tall and leggy, dressed in black so the eye was drawn to their Manolo Blahnik shoes. Both sides of the checkout counter were three-deep with shoppers holding MB boxes, and the floor was a flurry of activity. Jolie groaned inwardly, thinking this did not bode well for her blistered feet. She looked down to make sure none of the dozen or so adhesive bandages she'd applied this morning to toes and heels had crept over the sides of her sensible pumps, then shuffled forward, dragging the poles with her.
    The women in line gave her superior looks—ironic, considering she was putting up gates to confine them . She pasted on her best sales smile and thanked them for coming, then limped back to the sales floor and