Party Crashers

happened?" he said, inspecting the car.
    She opened her mouth and burst into tears—God, that was the second time she'd done that around him.
    "Hey, hey," he said, taking her bag and drawing her against his chest. He walked her toward the lobby. "You're safe now. Let's go in. Pam will be here as soon as she can."
    She blubbered her story to him, letting the day's stress ooze down her cheeks. He wiped her tears with his thumbs, his expression troubled. "Did you call the police?"
    She nodded. "But I think Detective Salyers is ready to lock me up just so I'll leave her alone."
    "And you're sure it was the same guy you saw here?"
    "I'm sure. He gave me the heebie-jeebies, so I didn't get into the parking garage elevator with him. I was going to wait until I saw him drive away before going to my car, but he came back down and supposedly was having car trouble. The concierge called an auto service for him"
    "But you think that might have been a ploy?"
    She shrugged.
    "Come with me."
    He walked across the hotel lobby to the concierge desk. Jolie recognized the attractive woman behind the counter. Her instant perkiness when she caught sight of Beck was familiar...Jolie had seen that same look in her own mirror.
    "Hello, Mr. Underwood. How can I assist you?"
    "Can you help me track down some information about a man for whom you called an auto service Friday evening?"
    She frowned. "That was at the end of the reception, wasn't it?"
    He nodded.
    She opened a log and ran her finger down a list of entries. "I don't have the gentleman's name, but here's the service I called—want me to write it down for you?"
    "Please."
    She gave him the information, then glanced at Jolie's duffel. "Will you be needing extra linens for your guest?" she asked slyly.
    Jolie's face flamed.
    "I'll let you know," Beck said easily, then guided Jolie toward the elevator bay. "Sorry about that."
    "No problem," she murmured, following him into a mahogany-lined elevator.
    When the doors closed, he lifted her hand in his. "You're bleeding again."
    "I broke it open during the car-chase scene," she said with a little smile. His warm touch sent little thrills up her arm that made her forget the itchy pain.
    He winked. "We'll get you fixed up."
    They rode to a floor that was exclusive enough to require guests to insert their room key just to gain access. Jolie followed him down a plushly carpeted hallway and into a suite that was twice as big as her apartment, and decorated in a style that was at least two decades more current. Cocoas and creams and beiges and black, very masculine, very posh. His bed was enormous...she tingled with embarrassment over the thought of him bunking down on her lumpy sofa.
    "Wow," she said, feeling a tad out of place standing there with her shabby duffel bag.
    "The place is a little much," he said sheepishly, "but it's one of the company's corporate apartments, and since it sits empty most of the time, I thought I'd hang out here until I...decide what to do."
    She looked up at him. "You mean until you decide if you're going to stay in Atlanta?"
    He nodded, then pointed toward a door off the entryway. "There's a first-aid kit in the bathroom, let's take a look at your hand."
    She followed him into a high-ceilinged, lavish cream-and-gold room. He found the first-aid kit and spread the items he needed on the vanity, then sat on a low stool and pulled her hand toward the sink. She stood and pivoted her head like a tourist while he carefully removed the bloodstained bandage from her hand.
    "It looks puffy," he said. "It might be a little infected."
    She sucked air through her teeth when he held her hand under a gentle stream of cold water from the faucet.
    "Maybe you should go to the emergency room and get stitches."
    "It'll be okay," she said. "I'll just be more careful."
    "I'll put antibiotic cream on it," he said, then dabbed it on so carefully, she could barely feel it. The man was a paradox, raised in luxury but plainly uncomfortable with the idea of having so much. He could probably live the rest of his life off his trust fund, but his hands were calloused from physical work. And by right, no man so masculine should be so gentle. He wrapped her hand with a fresh bandage and taped it into place.
    "There," he said, sandwiching her mended hand between his.
    "Thank you," she murmured. "I feel like I'm always saying thank you to you."
    He gave her a little smile. "You're welcome. You don't like asking for help, do you?"
    "I don't like