Love Can Be Murder Box Set

by Bond, Stephanie

  "Feeling better?" Beck asked.

  She nodded and tried to act normal. "Lead the way."

  From the landing, two ten-foot-wide hallways split off in opposite directions. Honey-colored hardwood was covered with plush oriental-style carpet runners. Down the hallway to the right, a man and woman walked away from them, peering into rooms, apparently also enjoying a self-guided tour. The man who had collected her coat walked by, his face obscured under a mountain of coats—mostly furs. He disappeared into a room that she assumed had been set aside for a coat check. In the distance, doors opened and closed, voices oohing and aahing. The house appeared to go on forever, an astonishing amount of square footage for one resident.

  She followed Beck down the hall to the left and glanced into a room that was perhaps an office or a den, although it was ornate to the point of distraction.

  "The décor is too busy for my tastes," he murmured, "but I like the lines of the ceiling."

  Jolie nodded. She'd learned to withhold her own opinion when working with a potential client, to listen as their likes and dislikes were revealed. Sometimes clients were unaware of their own tastes, although Beck Underwood did not strike her as a person who waffled.

  About architecture, anyway.

  The next room was a feminine guest room with a daybed and overstuffed upholstered chairs. The textured 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 hours in Beck's arms.

  Jolie came back to earth with a thud. The man was half drunk, after all. And it was up to her to protect her heart from a man who was undoubtedly just passing through—literally and figuratively. "We could," she said carefully, "but we won't."

  His shoulders fell. "Okay. Can't blame a man for trying. I've been in the jungle for a few years."

  She angled her head. "Something tells me you weren't lonely."

  He gave a little laugh. "I've been lonely my entire life."

  Jolie looked up, surprised to see the seriousness on his handsome face. She panicked—his teasing banter was so much easier to dismiss. In an effort to restore the light mood, she smiled. "Is that a pick-up line?"

  He straightened, his solemnity gone. "Of course. Is it working?"

  She smiled. "No, I don't feel the least bit sorry for you."

  He made a rueful noise, then asked, "So, Gwen, where did you grow up?"

  If he had planned to catch her off guard, he'd succeeded. She instantly missed the sexual tension. "Dalton."

  "Really? On a farm?"

  "No, although we did raise a small vegetable garden. Lots of green beans."

  He smiled. "I like green beans."

  "That's probably because you've never had to pick and string them."

  "You could be right. Do you get back there often?"

  She shook her head. "My parents are both gone, and I don't have any siblings."

  His mouth parted slightly. "I'm sorry."

  "It's not your fault," she said with a wry smile.

  But he looked stricken. "You don't have any family?"

  "There are a couple of great-aunts, and a few stray cousins," she said, trying to sound cheerful.

  Concern clouded his eyes. "It's strange, but I can't remember having a conversation with my father that didn't end in an argument, yet I can't imagine him not being around."

  Was she supposed to offer commentary on his family dynamics? "Arguing is a form of communication, I suppose."

  He scowled, then li
fted his glass. "You're right."

  She walked to a window and looked out over the circular driveway. From this view she could see the rows of cars parked farther down the road, and distant lights from neighboring houses. "Are you like your father?" she asked, feeling brave.

  He joined her at the window. "Everyone says so, but I don't see it." Then he looked contrite. "Don't get me wrong: My dad is a brilliant businessman, but he was a terrible father and—" He stopped, as if he realized he was revealing too much. "Well, no family is perfect, is it?"

  She shook her head. "What's your mother like?"

  "Oblivious," he said, his voice wistful. "Mother has been in her own little world for some time now. We all sort of move around her."

  "I'm sorry," Jolie said.

  One side of his mouth lifted. "It's not your fault."

  "You and Della seem close," she ventured, feeling guilty that she was embarking on a fishing expedition.

  "We are."

  "What does she do for your father's company?"

  "Besides sitting on the board, she's very good with the publicity department, which basically means she does public appearances, schmoozes advertisers, that kind of thing."

  "And that doesn't interest you?"

  "Not in the least."

  "What does interest you?" She regretted the words before the vibration of them left her tongue.

  His eyes trained on her, pulled at her. "You do, Jolie Goodman. You interest me, with your part-time job and your full-time dreams and your costumes and disguises and the little wrinkle of problems between your eyes that are normally hazel." He shook his head. "I can't figure you out, but I have a feeling there's a lot about you that you don't reveal."

  She glanced up and felt her heart opening to him, beckoning. Look at me. Look at me and see me. Her chest rose and fell, wondering if this man had any idea how uncomplicated she was, how remote she felt most of the time, how much and how little she needed from him at this precise moment.

  "Yes," he murmured, as if she'd spoken aloud.

  Even he seemed confused at his response as he leaned close, then closer. She had time to dodge the kiss, to step back or turn her head...but she didn't. Tonight she didn't have to be herself—and she decided to be the woman who was going to be kissed by Beck Underwood.

  He lowered his lips to hers and she had the simultaneous impressions of champagne and warmth and firmness and desire. His hands were full, and she held her own glass out to keep from spilling champagne on Sammy's rug. With just their lips touching, the kiss seemed to grow in intensity as they strained toward each other. He stopped suddenly and pulled back, and before disappointment could settle in, she realized from the look in his eyes that he was surprised...but at her response or his own, she couldn't tell. Regardless, a split second later he was kissing her again, this time with hands-on features and sound effects.

  And then slowly she began to grasp the fact that the sounds were coming from someone other than the two of them. They parted and Jolie looked up to see their hostess, Sammy, standing in the doorway of the bedroom with her arms crossed, looking, frankly, somewhat inhospitable.

  Chapter Seventeen

  "WHY, BECK, I SEE YOU’RE having a good time."

  "Great party, Sammy." Either Jolie was imagining things, or Beck inched even closer to her side. Was he afraid Sammy was going to recognize her?

  She was afraid enough for the both of them, Jolie decided. At that exact moment, her left contact lens decided to revolt, folding onto itself and obscuring her vision. Jolie blinked liked mad and the thing finally righted itself, to bring Sammy back into view.

  In her minuscule leopard-print teddy, severe makeup, and killer high-heeled mules, the woman looked ready to bare her fangs and pounce. "I'm sorry, what did you say your name was again?"

  "Gwen," Jolie murmured, trying to disguise her voice.

  "I didn't get your last name, Gwen."

  Jolie's mind raced and came up with, "Yarborough."

  "Gwen Yarborough," Sammy said, then shook her head. "When did we meet?"

  "Gwen was at the media reception last night," Beck broke in. "The two of you must have met there."

  "That's right," Jolie said. "You were wearing the most lovely pink dress."

  Sammy's expression eased a smidgen. "Gwen, dear, you spilled champagne on my rug."

  Jolie looked down in horror to see a wet spot next to the tip of her burgundy satin mule. In truth, though, she was relieved she hadn't spoiled the expensive shoes.

  "I did that," Beck said quickly. "My apologies, Sammy."

  The woman gave a dismissive wave. "I'll send someone to soak it up. That's why I don't serve red wine at my parties. Things tend to get a little...out of hand."

  She stared at Jolie and she took a half step forward. "Are your eyes two different colors?"

  Jolie's palm felt sweaty against the glass she held. "Uh—"

  "Yes," Beck said. "Isn't that something? I'd heard of people having different-colored eyes, but I'd never met anyone who did, until Gwen."

  Sammy was still staring at her and Jolie couldn't look away, like prey prior to being caught and eaten. Sammy's mouth parted slightly and something flickered in her eyes, then vanished. Suddenly, she smiled, then straightened. "Enjoy the tour, then come down and join the rest of the party around the pool. The games will begin soon."

  "Games?" Beck asked

  "What's a party without games?" Sammy wet her lips, then turned on her five-inch heels and strode out, her sheer robe floating out behind her like a cape.

  Jolie shivered, and the bad feeling she'd had when they'd first arrived descended over her again.

  "Whew," Beck muttered. "That was close."

  Jolie nodded absently, then glanced down. "I don't suppose you could help me find my contact lens?"

  "Don't move. It's probably on that fuzzy robe that's covering practically every inch of you," he teased, setting down his glass and bottle. "This might require a little hands-on search." He lifted his eyebrows, waiting for her permission.

  She pressed her lips together, then gave a curt nod. Why hadn't she worn a bra?

  He took her glass of champagne and set it next to his. Then he gave her a sexy grin and skimmed his hands over her neck and shoulders in a slow sensual caress that made her wish the heavy garment wasn't between her skin and his hands. She swallowed hard against the pull of him, the memory of his kiss still on her lips. Longing pooled in her stomach, thighs. He must have felt it too, because his grin faded when he brought his hands down over her breasts, and his breathing increased.

  Her nipples budded and she closed her eyes briefly. He continued to stroke his hands down the robe, spanning her waist and smoothing his hands over her hips, then down her thighs. When he crouched to lift the flowing hem of the garment for a closer inspection, cool air hit her exposed legs.

  He took advantage of the opportunity to peek, grunting in satisfaction. She gave into a little thrill of pleasure, thanking God that she'd shaved. "Did you find it?" she asked.

  "Find what?" he said, still peeking.

  Exasperated, she reached down to close the bottom of her robe. "My contact lens, did you find it?"

  "No," he said sadly, then stood and reached for her champagne glass. "Oh, but what do you know—there it is, floating in your bubbly." He grinned. "You would've thought I'd have seen that before I patted you down."

  "Ooh!" She swatted at him and he clasped her hand, pulling her against his chest, stealing her breath. Beneath her palm, the hair in the opening of his robe felt coarse, and his heart thudded his intention. She looked into his eyes and realized miserably that Beck Underwood would be so easy for her injured heart to fall for. He was just the man to take her mind off her problems, to sweep her into his world, where his name opened doors and no material thing was out of reach. It would be so easy...and so dangerous, heaping heartache upon heartache when he tired of her or resumed his adventures.

  Before he could kiss her again, she stepped back and
inhaled deeply. "We should see the rest of the upstairs, then join the other guests."

  He pursed his mouth, then nodded and handed her the glass with a wink. She retrieved the contact lens and stored it in the case in her bag. Beck disappeared into the connecting bathroom and emerged with her glass, empty and rinsed, which he replenished from the bottle. He didn't press her about what had happened between them, and she felt torn about the foregone chance to explore the chemistry. The irony was that Beck Underwood was intrigued by her aloof and bizarre behavior, but her aloof and bizarre behavior had been precipitated by Gary's disappearance, and it was Gary's disappearance that had left her in such emotional disarray.

  But Beck was nothing if not resilient. Two minutes later, when they resumed the tour, he was whistling tunelessly under his breath, his gait easy, his smile ready. Jolie couldn't help feeling a little put out that one minute he was kissing her and the next he seemed unaffected. His behavior made her feel better about her decision to nip their budding attraction...but only a tad.

  They crossed the landing to reach the second hallway. Laughter, music, and the occasional popped cork sounded from downstairs. Sammy had to be spending a fortune on champagne, Jolie decided. On this new corridor, they passed the converted coat check room and two additional opulent rooms before they reached the open French doors leading into Sammy's bedroom, a suite as large as a cottage.

  White carpet, white walls, white linens, white built-in cabinetry, white leather upholstered furniture, a white-light chandelier. To the left, a doorway into a bathroom hinted at more of the same. A red ribbon had been secured across the opening as a polite reminder to guests that they could look, but not touch—or use—the facilities. To the right, a white door leading to yet another room was closed.

  "I feel really creepy about being in her bedroom," Jolie whispered, although it was clear the woman intended for people to look—and to be in awe.

  "I know what you mean," Beck said, then wagged his eyebrows. "Let's go look in her medicine cabinet."

  "What? No."

  "I'm kidding. But there is one thing I wanted to show you, the sitting room off to the right. I like the fireplace."