Love Can Be Murder

reached down to close the bottom of her robe. "My contact lens, did you find it?"
    "No," he said sadly, then stood and reached for her champagne glass. "Oh, but what do you know—there it is, floating in your bubbly." He grinned. "You would've thought I'd have seen that before I patted you down."
    "Ooh!" She swatted at him and he clasped her hand, pulling her against his chest, stealing her breath. Beneath her palm, the hair in the opening of his robe felt coarse, and his heart thudded his intention. She looked into his eyes and realized miserably that Beck Underwood would be so easy for her injured heart to fall for. He was just the man to take her mind off her problems, to sweep her into his world, where his name opened doors and no material thing was out of reach. It would be so easy...and so dangerous, heaping heartache upon heartache when he tired of her or resumed his adventures.
    Before he could kiss her again, she stepped back and inhaled deeply. "We should see the rest of the upstairs, then join the other guests."
    He pursed his mouth, then nodded and handed her the glass with a wink. She retrieved the contact lens and stored it in the case in her bag. Beck disappeared into the connecting bathroom and emerged with her glass, empty and rinsed, which he replenished from the bottle. He didn't press her about what had happened between them, and she felt torn about the foregone chance to explore the chemistry. The irony was that Beck Underwood was intrigued by her aloof and bizarre behavior, but her aloof and bizarre behavior had been precipitated by Gary's disappearance, and it was Gary's disappearance that had left her in such emotional disarray.
    But Beck was nothing if not resilient. Two minutes later, when they resumed the tour, he was whistling tunelessly under his breath, his gait easy, his smile ready. Jolie couldn't help feeling a little put out that one minute he was kissing her and the next he seemed unaffected. His behavior made her feel better about her decision to nip their budding attraction...but only a tad.
    They crossed the landing to reach the second hallway. Laughter, music, and the occasional popped cork sounded from downstairs. Sammy had to be spending a fortune on champagne, Jolie decided. On this new corridor, they passed the converted coat check room and two additional opulent rooms before they reached the open French doors leading into Sammy's bedroom, a suite as large as a cottage.
    White carpet, white walls, white linens, white built-in cabinetry, white leather upholstered furniture, a white-light chandelier. To the left, a doorway into a bathroom hinted at more of the same. A red ribbon had been secured across the opening as a polite reminder to guests that they could look, but not touch—or use—the facilities. To the right, a white door leading to yet another room was closed.
    "I feel really creepy about being in her bedroom," Jolie whispered, although it was clear the woman intended for people to look—and to be in awe.
    "I know what you mean," Beck said, then wagged his eyebrows. "Let's go look in her medicine cabinet."
    "What? No."
    "I'm kidding. But there is one thing I wanted to show you, the sitting room off to the right. I like the fireplace."
    Apparently, he'd gotten the behind-the-scenes tour. She wondered perversely if he were the least bit interested in Sammy—beyond said fireplace. Especially now that Jolie had given him a bit of a brush-off.
    Which, in hindsight, was starting to feel like a foolish decision.
    Jolie followed him, but practically tiptoed across the snowy carpet.
    Beck opened the door leading into the room that appeared to be another office—this one more functional by the looks of the complicated phone system. Most real-estate agents had home offices, and Sammy was no different—hers was just nicer than most. A massive, gleaming white desk and two white wood file cabinets to match, a white leather executive chair on rollers, 27-inch flat-screen monitor, with an impressive CPU tower on the floor. And the fireplace was indeed incredible—floor-to-ceiling gray stone facing with white masonry grout. Beck set down his glass and the bottle to inspect the hearth. No surprise, he also admired the on-wall plasma television and speaker system.
    A five-by-seven picture frame on the desk caught Jolie's eye, and she circled behind it, curious as to whom Sammy would think enough of to display on her workstation. Her parents? Mrs. Sanders had died when Sammy was