Love Can Be Murder

hours in Beck's arms.
    Jolie came back to earth with a thud. The man was half drunk, after all. And it was up to her to protect her heart from a man who was undoubtedly just passing through—literally and figuratively. "We could," she said carefully, "but we won't."
    His shoulders fell. "Okay. Can't blame a man for trying. I've been in the jungle for a few years."
    She angled her head. "Something tells me you weren't lonely."
    He gave a little laugh. "I've been lonely my entire life."
    Jolie looked up, surprised to see the seriousness on his handsome face. She panicked—his teasing banter was so much easier to dismiss. In an effort to restore the light mood, she smiled. "Is that a pick-up line?"
    He straightened, his solemnity gone. "Of course. Is it working?"
    She smiled. "No, I don't feel the least bit sorry for you."
    He made a rueful noise, then asked, "So, Gwen , where did you grow up?"
    If he had planned to catch her off guard, he'd succeeded. She instantly missed the sexual tension. "Dalton."
    "Really? On a farm?"
    "No, although we did raise a small vegetable garden. Lots of green beans."
    He smiled. "I like green beans."
    "That's probably because you've never had to pick and string them."
    "You could be right. Do you get back there often?"
    She shook her head. "My parents are both gone, and I don't have any siblings."
    His mouth parted slightly. "I'm sorry."
    "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. "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, schmoozes 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 part-time job and your full-time dreams 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."
    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.