Party Crashers

wallpaper was perfectly coordinated to the comforter. "Why do people do that?" he whispered, his mouth close to her ear. "You have my permission to shoot me if I ever wallpaper a room to match a bedspread."
    As if she would be around to witness his hypothetical case of hyper-decorating.
    He walked to the next doorway and peered inside. "I believe Sammy said this was her spa room."
    Tiled floor, ambient lighting, double massage tables, a whirlpool tub, ceiling fans and an abundance of plants. "Is this something you would be interested in having?" Jolie asked.
    "Me? No way. The plants are nice though."
    All told, on the hallway were four bedrooms and three den-ish rooms of ambiguous purpose but crammed with oversized furniture and electronic toys. One room was lined with glass display cases for Sammy's collection of crystal houses, most of them reproductions of famous buildings or antebellum homes. Jolie did some mental arithmetic and estimated the woman had tens of thousands of dollars invested in the fragile knickknacks. The outrageousness of it bordered on vulgarity, but before righteous indignation could set in, Jolie looked down at the twelve-hundred-dollar robe she was wearing and flushed with shame.
    No more borrowing clothes, she vowed, and no more party crashing, no matter what.
    The next room was a decidedly masculine guest bedroom stocked with beautiful hardwood furniture and expensive bed linens and curtains in muted animal prints. The walls were cocoa brown. She followed Beck into the room, although there was something distinctly intimate about being in this bedroom with him while they were both wearing pj's. She surveyed the windows, carpet, the faux finish on the walls—anything to keep from looking at the giant four-poster bed that sat in the room like a big pink elephant.
    "Nice," he said vaguely, then turned and gestured toward the bed. "It's a little tall, don't you think?"
    She glanced at the bed sideways. "It's tall," she agreed.
    He stared at the bed. "I prefer sort of falling into bed versus having to climb up."
    She took a drink from her glass. "Do you already have furniture that you'll need to fit into your home?"
    "Such as?"
    "Family heirlooms? A bed, perhaps?"
    "A few things—a chest of my grandfather's, a bookcase I built when I was a teenager, but nothing big."
    "You didn't bring things back from Costa Rica?"
    "What little I accumulated there, I left there. It's a much simpler place to live."
    "It sounds nice."
    He nodded. "It is. I miss it. I felt like I was doing some good there."
    She angled her head. "And what exactly was that?"
    He drained his glass and refilled it from the bottle. "I was a teacher."
    She couldn't keep the surprise from her face. "Really? What did you teach?"
    "English, economics, math."
    She pursed her mouth. "Is that your background?"
    "No. My diploma from Duke says I'm an environmental engineer. But since Costa Rica has a greater need for teachers than for environmental engineers, I thought I'd give it a try."
    "And?"
    He shrugged. "And I'm pretty good at it."
    She smiled, trying to visualize him in front of a chalkboard, pounding home an idea. "I'm sure you are. Will you teach here?"
    He shook his head. "No, it's time to make amends with my father and step into the family business. My dad's going to retire soon, and I've left Della to carry the burden for too long." His laugh was dry. "Cry me a river, right?"
    Bolstered by the champagne and his openness, she shrugged. "I guess most people would think that being heir to a family fortune isn't such a bad thing."
    He nodded. "But what do you think?"
    Her tongue stalled. "I...don't have an opinion. Besides, I have a vested interest in seeing you remain in Atlanta."
    His eyes lit up. "You do?"
    "My commission, remember?"
    "Oh. Right."
    "Shall we continue?" Jolie asked, eager to return to a larger group. She wasn't afraid of Beck, but she was afraid that the little twinges in her chest when she looked at him were bubbles warning her of emotional quicksand.
    A little-boy smile climbed his face and he nodded toward the bed. "We could hang out in here."
    Her thighs twinged, and her heart jumped with the optimism that every woman feels when she tries to justify the urge to let a man have his way with her: If the physical attraction is so strong, there must be feeling behind it. That sex with this person would be different. A religious experience. Lasting.
    That with Roger LeMon afoot, she had a good reason to kill a few