Party Crashers

air-dry.
    "Hi," he said.
    "Hi," she squeaked.
    "She's free to go," Vanderpool said, all business.
    He reached out to clasp her hand. "Thanks, Pam."
    "You betcha," she said, then marched toward the exit as if she were accustomed to being summoned in the wee hours of the morning.
    Jolie listened to the sound of the woman's retreating footsteps as if they were a ticking clock...counting down the time until she was alone with Beck. When the door closed with a resounding echo, Jolie finally found the nerve to meet his gaze. Abject mortification bled through her that she had allowed herself to become involved in such a mess...and had involved her friends and Beck Underwood by association. She was speechless with humiliation and weak from exhaustion.
    He scanned her outfit with serious brown eyes. "How did they treat you in there?"
    "Okay," she said, then pressed her lips together. "Ms. Vanderpool arrived just in time—I don't know how to thank you."
    He winked. "We'll think of something. For now, let's get you home and in bed."
    Since she looked like a ghoul and reeked of chlorine and now had this little murder rap hanging over her head, she was relatively sure there was no innuendo intended. Still, that didn't keep her sleep-deprived mind from conjuring up a wonderful fantasy of crawling into bed with Beck Underwood and curling up next to his big body, reveling in the protection his presence and his name afforded.
    The Buckhead Bubble, as Gary had always called it. The working-class girl in her railed against the double standard, but the nearly-indicted girl in her longed to be included. She followed him to a side door, which he held open.
    "How do you know Pam Vanderpool?" she asked.
    But his answer was thwarted by the flash of a camera. "Mr. Underwood, over here!"
    Flash! Flash!
    Jolie blinked at the huddle of reporters and cameras gathered, her mouth opening and closing like a guppy's.
    "Are you Jolie Goodman?" someone yelled.
    "Are you under arrest for murder?"
    "Mr. Underwood, is this woman your lover?"
    "Come on," Beck growled, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, putting himself between her and the cameras. Frozen with shock, she stumbled to keep up with him, blindly walking forward to the parking lot until they stopped next to a dark-colored SUV. He swung open the door and helped her up into the seat. She didn't miss the concern on his face as he closed her door and glanced over his shoulder. The security guard had stopped the reporters at the mouth of the parking lot, but they were still shooting footage, and Beck would have to drive past them to get out of the lot. Dismay hit her like a slap when she realized how juicy a story it was for the media to cover one of their own. Rival networks of Underwood Broadcasting would be rubbing their hands with glee.
    She covered her mouth with her hand, choking back a sob. The man had gone above and beyond the call of duty to help her for no legitimate reason and at great professional risk to himself.
    He opened the driver's side door, climbed in, then slammed it shut.
    "I'm so sorry I got you involved," she said.
    " I got me involved," he said, his voice brusque. And regretful? "Put on your seat belt," he said, doing the same. "And look away from the cameras when we drive by."
    Sensing that talking would only make matters worse, she nodded and stared at her shaking hands. By the time they drove to the exit, reporters were on both sides, so Jolie looked down and shielded her face with her hands. Beck slowed enough to take the curve, then they were speeding away. At the street, he slowed and gave her a wry little smile. "Where do you live?"
    "Roswell," she said, pointing left, then gave him the street address and name of her apartment complex. She idly wondered how Carlotta and Hannah had gotten home, feeling yet another gush of remorse for involving them...and for trusting them. Their actions—and police records—made her look more guilty.
    Beck pulled into the sparse pre-predawn traffic, slowing to allow an indigent pedestrian to cross illegally. "Hope he makes it until morning," Beck said ruefully.
    With a start, Jolie wondered if that was how he saw her—as a poor person who needed a break? A handout? She gulped air. Pity? Waves of shame washed over her as they drove down the street. She didn't want the man's charity, but she was in no position to turn it down.
    "I assume this will make the news," she said quietly. "You with me, I mean."
    He shook his head. "Don't