Party Crashers

differently. So many questions orbited in her head, she could barely separate one from another. Was Gary involved with drugs? Who was the woman in his car? Had he been set up? And was she truly in danger?
    She sat back in the chair and pulled her knees up to her chin. She'd been alone most of her life—an only child, a solitary student, an introverted teenager, a reserved adult. And she'd never minded, not really. Loneliness had a comfortable, insular quality that could lull a person into feeling secure in a distorted kind of way...secure in the knowledge that she'd never have to expose herself to another person's failings. If she didn't trust, she'd never be betrayed, and if she didn't love, she'd never be rejected. In fact, she'd counted herself lucky, because while women around her seemed to be drowning in melodrama with their parents and their roommates and their boyfriends, she was immersing herself in school and work, positive she'd come out ahead on the other end.
    Except here she was at thirty-one, losing ground.
    Leann had once called her fatalistic, which was laughable now, considering the circumstances. But she'd preferred to think of herself as vigilant. She favored list-making, slow transitions, and backup plans. Then Gary had come along, with his winning smile and irresistible spontaneity and just enough detachment to make her believe that they had something in common. Except the side she concealed was emotional; and the side he concealed might be criminal.
    Jolie hugged her knees to her chest and fought the swell of tears that pushed at her throat. Crying wouldn't help anything. Her lapse in front of Beck Underwood had been so humiliating, she wasn't sure she could face him again. It wasn't like her to lose control, and certainly not in front of a virtual stranger. And of all the virtual strangers in the world, why did he keep popping up when she needed someone the most—and the least ?

Chapter Eight

    JOLIE TRIED TO HIDE a yawn behind a shoe box lid as she repacked a pair of Christian Dior "padlock" sandals. The right shoe sported a tiny silver-tone padlock, and the left shoe, the miniature keys. After a gander at the price tag, she understood the gimmick—if someone paid that much for shoes, they needed to keep them under lock and key.
    Fifteen minutes until her break, then she'd find a display to crawl under for a nap if she had to. She bugged her eyes, trying to shake herself awake, thinking that if she made it until the end of her shift, she was likely to fall asleep at the wheel on the way home. The lack of sleep was wearing on her—that and the strain of looking over her shoulder all day, after Gary's impromptu appearance last night. Her nerves were shot. Her neck ached and her eyes burned from constantly scanning the crowd for Gary, or anyone matching his build. If he had grown a beard, he might have done other things to change his appearance. Suddenly she felt a finger peck on her shoulder. Jolie stiffened and whirled around, her pulse skyrocketing.
    "Remember me?" a young woman asked, holding up a Neiman Marcus shopping bag. "Kate Spade slides, Via Spiga T-straps? My dad made me bring back the Prada flats."
    Jolie's memory stirred, then surfaced as her muscles relaxed. The coed from Monday who couldn't make up her mind. Jolie tried to maintain her cheerful smile. A return. The last time she'd handled a return, she'd accidentally processed a refund for over a million dollars. "Just a moment, I need to get a supervisor."
    She signaled Michael, who was helping an elderly woman find shoes that would work with her orthopedic inserts. He excused himself, then walked over and spotted the bag. "Will you be exchanging these today?" he asked the young woman. Always the salesman, trying to salvage the sale.
    "No. I'd like a refund," she said, then pointed to Jolie. "When she sold me the shoes, she said I could bring them back if I changed my mind."
    Jolie squirmed, but Michael gave the woman a tight smile. "Yes, if the shoes haven't been worn outside, you may have a full refund."
    "Oh, they haven't been worn outside," the girl said cheerfully. "Just in my house, trying to convince my dad how cute they looked with my outfit." Then her face fell. "But he didn't go for it."
    Michael removed the shoes from the box and inspected the soles carefully, then, apparently satisfied, nodded and talked Jolie through the refund as she punched the appropriate buttons on the computer terminal/cash register. When