Party Crashers

probably never have to worry about."
    "Humor me. If you had the money, is this the kind of house you would choose to live in?"
    "I...probably not. I have to admit that large houses seem daunting to me. All that space demanding to be used." She blushed, thinking she'd probably offended him since the Underwood family home was near the governor's mansion in Buckhead, but was twice the size. She rushed to explain. "But what I think is missing most in this house is personality. Yes, it's beautiful, but it feels more like a showcase than a home. Anyone might live here. As a broker, I'm probably not supposed to say this, but owning a home is more than buying an address and filling it up with nice stuff. It should be personal, unique, symbolic even." She flushed because she thought she'd overstepped her bounds. After all, the man was probably looking for a tax shelter.
    But instead of laughing at her, he looked at her in that dangerous fall-for-me way. "Do you have your own home?"
    "Not yet," she said. "But someday."
    "You're hired."
    She grinned, but her pleasure over a potentially huge commission was cut short by a commotion on the first floor—Carlotta, flailing her arms, asking guests, "Have you seen a woman with long red hair?"
    "Carlot—" Jolie stopped and cleared her throat. "Carly, I'm up here."
    Carlotta looked up, then disappeared, apparently coming up after her. When she reached the landing, she was out of breath.
    "What's wrong?" Jolie asked.
    "There's been a little...complication."
    Jolie frowned. "What?"
    "Russell is here."
    "Who?"
    "Hannah's boyfriend."
    "Oh."
    "With his wife."
    "Oh."
    "Right," Carlotta said, her voice grim. "I tried to get Hannah to leave, but she wouldn't. She said she was going to make a scene. She was headed to the pool where they were, and I'm afraid someone's going to get hurt."
    "What can I do?" Jolie asked.
    "Find our coats, and meet me down there." Carlotta looked at Beck. "Would it be too much to ask you to run interference?"
    "Who are we talking about?" he asked, scratching his head.
    "Our friend Hannah, who came with us," Jolie explained. "She's been dating a married man, and apparently he's here—with his wife."
    Beck winced. "Who's the stupid guy?"
    "Russell Island," Carlotta supplied.
    "I know him," Beck said. "And his wife. This won't be pretty." They started down the stairway and Jolie jogged toward the coat check room, thinking Hannah was likely to blow their cover and Sammy would toss them all out on their party-crashing behinds. Maybe even have them arrested for trespassing.
    The coat check attendant was gone, so Jolie undid the familiar and ineffective ribbon across the doorway and started her own search. The nicer coats—the furs, the leathers, the brocades—were hanging on portable racks. The jackets, hats, shawls, and assorted cheap coats had been draped over the bed—ten dollars said that's where her all-weather standby had been relegated. It was difficult to maneuver with her injured hand, but after searching three racks, she spotted Carlotta's black cashmere coat and pulled it off the rack. Hannah's leather duster was more elusive, but she finally found it. Then she turned to the bed to dig for her Sears special.
    She displaced a dozen hats and wraps and pulled three navy coats out of the tangle that weren't hers. Frustration hurried her hands and she touched something unexpectedly solid. Jolie frowned and pushed aside a pile of coats, then was struck mute with shock...terror...disbelief.
    It was Gary. And from the bloody hole in his chest, he appeared to be...checked out.

Chapter Eighteen

    THERE ARE TIMES in every person's life when they find out what they're made of. Looking down on Gary Hagan's body—lifeless eyes, gray pallor, unnatural position—Jolie discovered that she was made of soft, gooey, blubbery stuff. The only thing that kept her from collapsing entirely was the knowledge that if she did, she'd fall on a dead person.
    She tried to scream, but no sound came out of her constricted throat. She stumbled backward on her high-heeled house shoes, twisting her ankle and ricocheting off the doorframe and out into the hall. Her mind reeled, rejecting what her eyes had just seen, and she was distantly aware that she was keening like a small animal.
    She half staggered, half fell down the vacated stairs, grateful to the red carpet for sparing her knees from the marble beneath, and at one point thinking it would be faster if she just rolled down. Her hand