Love Can Be Murder

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.
    "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 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 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 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's-eye 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. 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