Party Crashers

window in the past few days."
    Her lungs squeezed as she remembered the finger swipe in the dust on her bookshelf headboard. She really needed to dust more often.
    "Have you noticed anything missing?"
    "No." Although she hadn't looked. She gasped and hurried to her hand-me-down dresser, lifting the lid of her jewelry box with trepidation. Her shoulders fell in relief when she removed the little felt bag holding her pearl choker. "Everything's here," she said.
    She turned to find him studying her, and she flushed when she realized how meager her "everything" must seem to him. "They were my mother's," she murmured.
    He nodded, then gestured vaguely toward the other rooms. "Any stereo equipment missing? Computer? Cash?"
    She shook her head. "There's only the computer on my desk, and it's almost as outdated as my television. And...I don't keep cash here."
    Nor in her bank account, but that was off-topic.
    He scratched his head, then spotted the fire extinguisher on her nightstand. "Have you had a fire recently?"
    She flushed to the roots of her gritty hair. "That's the closest thing I had to a weapon."
    He looked incredulous. "You've been sleeping here alone and afraid, with a fire extinguisher to protect you?"
    She sagged onto the foot of her bed. "I didn't feel as if I was in imminent danger." She nodded toward the window. "If someone was in my apartment, they obviously didn't mean me harm."
    "This time," he added, his mouth drawn downward. "I've probably obliterated any prints," he said, but used the hem of his sweatshirt to refasten the window. The movement gave her a glimpse of the planes of his brown stomach, and she remembered the way he'd looked climbing out of Sammy's pool, his boxers clamped to his body, water streaming off his powerful shoulders. A wholly inappropriate pang of lust hit her, and she stood abruptly to distract herself, turning her back to remove one of the two pillows from her bed.
    "You should report the entry to the police," he said, coming up behind her.
    "I will," she said, then turned and smiled up at him. "Thank you for...thank you." She handed him the pillow and their fingers brushed. His eyes were dark with concern and other emotions she didn't want to investigate—regret? The most eligible bachelor in Atlanta probably could have found a more entertaining way to spend his evening, and with a less complicated partner. Or two.
    "Try to get some sleep," he said. "But yell if you suspect anything is wrong."
    Everything was wrong, but Jolie nodded. He walked out, leaving the bedroom door ajar and a warm feeling of assurance in the cool air. She flipped off the light and crawled on top of the bed covers fully clothed. Hugging her remaining pillow, she willed her body to indulge in as much rest as possible, because she suspected the light of day would only reveal more and bigger dilemmas.
    The dilemma sleeping on her couch notwithstanding.

Chapter Twenty

    JOLIE AWOKE TO A SOUND alien to a single person—the shower running. Adrenaline shot through her, bringing her upright. Then she saw the "Property of Fulton County, Georgia" sweats she was still wearing, and the horrific events of the previous evening came crashing back down on her. Her first instinct was to pull the covers over her head, but her mother had once told her that the only thing that went away faster if a person ignored it was time.
    The clock read 11:47 A.M. The day was already almost half gone.
    She pushed herself up and took stock of her physical condition, running her finger over the knot on her forehead—better, but tender. The bandage on her hand seemed a little tighter, but the absence of dried blood indicated that the wound had not reopened during the night. Her throat and adenoids felt raw from the pool water she'd ingested and expelled violently.
    She dared a glance in the mirror and cringed. Her fine, frizzy hair had exploded to new heights, and there wasn't enough concealer in Neiman's makeup department to neutralize the circles under her eyes. The sweat suit hung off her like a feed sack on a scarecrow.
    She had never been a woman who rolled out of bed looking particularly good, and this morning was especially unkind.
    She straightened the covers on her bed and ventured into the hall. The shower was still going full blast and she hurried past so as not to dwell on the fact that Beck Underwood was standing naked in her shower, using her soap and her towels. Her face burned when she thought about the relative