Party Crashers (8 page)

“I don’t know. He said he’d be keeping an eye on me, to make sure I’m safe.”

Leann made a choking sound. “Doesn’t that creep you out?”

“A little,” she admitted. “But he actually sounded…protective.”

“I didn’t realize you cared so much for this guy.”

Jolie sighed. “It’s not a matter of how much I care for Gary. When that detective accused me of being an accessory, I felt helpless. If Gary is innocent, I don’t want to be the person to make things worse. You had to be there, Leann, to hear his voice.”

Leann made a rueful noise. “I’ll support you if you’re sure.”

“I’m not sure of anything these days.”

“I just don’t want to see you wreck your life over someone like Gary Hagan.”

Jolie gave a wry laugh as she wheeled into her parking place. “That would imply I had a life to wreck. I just pulled into the complex. Thanks for keeping me company on the way home.”

“No problem. Look, Jolie, I know you’re not big on guns, but think about getting a dog or something.” She sighed. “I hate not being there—is there someone you can call if you’re in real trouble? Your party-crasher friend, maybe?”

The thought of Carlotta coming to her rescue was so absurd, she almost laughed. Then, unbidden, the face of Beck Underwood popped into her mind. That protective air, the note of concern in his voice.

She swallowed. “There’s…someone. But only ifI’m in real trouble.”

“Good,” Leann said. “Look, I hate to run, but I think I hear my sister calling. Stay in touch, okay?”

“Okay.” Jolie disconnected the call and exhaled a shaky breath. She looked all around the parking lot until she was satisfied that no one was lurking in the shadows. After gathering her purse, she opened the car door and pushed herself to her feet. She slammed the door with all her strength to warn any would-be attackers that if assaulted, she could at least make a lot of noise, then trotted to the bay of metal mailboxes next to the sidewalk. Her neglected six-by-six-inch box was stuffed full. She yanked the envelopes and catalogs out by handfuls, shoving them into her purse until she could scrutinize them in the light.

A noise behind her sent her heart to her throat, but it was only a neighbor’s air-conditioning unit kicking on. Even so, she galloped to her door and unlocked it as if the devil were on her heels. Then she walked from room to room, slapping on lights and checking windows and lifting the dust ruffle on her bed. Satisfied that no one was lying in wait, she walked back into the living area and flipped on the television for comforting noise. Then she dropped into her favorite chair to sort through the mail.

Junk mail, catalogs, flyers, bills. A reminder from her doctor for her annual checkup, a schedule of adult education classes from a local university, a copy of the
Atlanta Business Chronicle
. She flipped through and sorted everything twice, but there was nothing from Gary. And while her credit card statements showed disquieting balances, there was no unusual activity.

But then hadn’t Gary said that money was no problem?

She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to remember everything he’d said, and wondering if she should have handled things differently. So many questions orbited in her head, she could barely separate one from another. Was Gary involved with drugs? Who was the woman in his car? Had he been set up? And was she truly in danger?

She sat back in the chair and pulled her knees up to her chin. She’d been alone most of her life—an only child, a solitary student, an introverted teenager, a reserved adult. And she’d never minded, not really. Loneliness had a comfortable, insular quality that could lull a person into feeling secure in a distorted kind of way…secure in the knowledge that she’d never have to expose herself to another person’s failings. If she didn’t trust, she’d never be betrayed, and if she didn’t love, she’d never be rejected. In fact, she had counted herself lucky, because while women around her seemed to be drowning in melodrama with their parents and their roommates and their boyfriends, she was immersing herself in school and work, positive she’d come out ahead on the other end.

Except here she was at thirty-one, losing ground.

Leann had once called her fatalistic, which was laughable now, considering the circumstances. But she’d preferred to think of herself as vigilant. She favored list-making, slow transitions, and backup plans. Then Gary had come along,
with his winning smile and irresistible spontaneity and just enough detachment to make her believe that they had something in common. Except the side she concealed was emotional; and the side he concealed might be criminal.

Jolie hugged her knees to her chest and fought the swell of tears that pushed at her throat. Crying wouldn’t help anything. Her lapse in front of Beck Underwood had been so humiliating, she wasn’t sure she could face him again. It wasn’t like her to lose control, and certainly not in front of a virtual stranger. And of all the virtual strangers in the world, why did he keep popping up when she needed someone the most—and the
least
?

J
olie tried to hide a yawn behind a shoe box lid as she repacked a pair of Christian Dior “padlock” sandals. The right shoe sported a tiny silver-tone padlock, and the left shoe, the miniature keys. After a gander at the price tag, she understood the gimmick—ifsomeone paid that much for shoes, they needed to keep them under lock and key.

Fifteen minutes until her break, then she’d find a display to crawl under for a nap if she had to. She bugged her eyes, trying to shake herself awake, thinking that if she made it until the end of her shift, she was likely to fall asleep at the wheel on the way home. The lack of sleep was wearing on her—that and the strain of looking over her shoulder all day, after Gary’s impromptu appearance last night. Her nerves were shot. Her neck ached and her eyes burned from constantly scanning the crowd for Gary, or anyone matching his build. If he had grown a beard, he might have done other things to change his appearance. Suddenly she felt a finger peck on her shoulder. Jolie stiffened and whirled around, her pulse skyrocketing.

“Remember me?” a young woman asked, holding up a Neiman Marcus shopping bag. “Kate Spade slides, Via Spiga T-straps? My dad made me bring back the Prada flats.”

Jolie’s memory stirred, then surfaced as her muscles relaxed. The coed from Monday who couldn’t make up her mind. Jolie tried to maintain her cheerful smile. A return. The last time she’d handled a return, she’d accidentally processed a refund for over a million dollars. “Just a moment, I need to get a supervisor.”

She signaled Michael, who was helping an elderly woman find shoes that would work with her orthopedic inserts. He excused himself, then walked over and spotted the bag. “Will you be exchanging these today?” he asked the young woman. Always the salesman, trying to salvage the sale.

“No, I’d like a refund,” she said, then pointed to Jolie. “When she sold me the shoes, she said I could bring them back ifI changed my mind.”

Jolie squirmed, but Michael gave the woman a tight smile. “Yes, if the shoes haven’t been worn outside, you may have a full refund.”

“Oh, they haven’t been worn outside,” the girl said cheerfully. “Just in my house, trying to convince my dad how cute they looked with my outfit.” Then her face fell. “But he didn’t go for it.”

Michael removed the shoes from the box and inspected the soles carefully, then, apparently satisfied, nodded and talked Jolie through the refund as she punched the appropriate buttons on the computer terminal/cash register. When the woman’s refund had been processed, she flitted on her way.

“You have to be careful,” Michael said. “Some customers
buy a pair of shoes they can’t afford, wear them once, then try to return them.”

“Really?”

“Happens all the time—people buy an outfit for a big occasion, wear it, then bring it back the next day for a refund.”

“What do you do?”

He sighed. “We handle it case by case. If they truly bought the wrong size and simply want an exchange, of course we’ll do that because it’s partly our job to make sure the shoes fit properly before the customer leaves. But if the shoe clearly has been worn and the person wants a refund, we have to apologize and explain the refund policy. If they’re a good customer, we’ll usually give them a store credit. It’s only the ones that are out to cheat us that get upset.” He looked past Jolie’s shoulder and angled his head. “Well, look who’s slumming.”

Jolie turned to see Carlotta striding toward them wearing her normal smug smile, stunningly swathed head to toe in pea green—a color, Jolie noted, that would make
her
look like a zombie. Carlotta was carrying a shoe box and an inventory slip. She gestured toward the nearly vacant sales floor. “I see it’s dead down here, too.”

Michael nodded. “Everyone’s holding out for the Blahnik appearance on Saturday.”

“That’s right,” Carlotta said. “It’ll be a zoo.” She held up the box, marked
SIZE
7. “You’ll want to put these back right away.”

Michael frowned. “Your customer didn’t want them after all?”

“No,” Carlotta said ruefully. “Pity, too—they looked great with the dress she picked out.”

Michael opened the box and peeled back the tissue paper. Jolie swallowed her gasp—the limited edition pink
and rhinestone shoes that Carlotta had worn the night before. She lifted her gaze to Carlotta, who was staring back with one eyebrow raised ever so slightly.

Michael removed the shoes lovingly and set them on the counter. Indeed, they looked pristine. “They’ll sell Saturday after Manolo signs them.” He removed a key from the cash drawer and unlocked the glass case next to the counter, then situated the sandals next to a pair of alligator slingbacks, and relocked the case. “Carlotta, we’re going to need some extra help down here Saturday. Would you like to pitch in?”

“Sure. I could bring a dozen pairs of my own shoes for him to sign.”

Michael wagged his finger. “No carry-ins for the autographing. Only shoes purchased during the event, and
maybe
a pair you’re wearing, at Manolo’s discretion.”

Jolie looked back and forth between them. “The man is going to sign shoes?”

Michael grinned. “Hundreds of pairs, hopefully. And I need for you to come in as early as you can to help me set up ropes to control the lines.”

Jolie balked. “There’s going to be crowd control?”

“Oh, there will be lots of extra security, and Manolo will have his own crew, too. But it’s always better if we try to maintain as much order as possible, set up a separate area for the media, that kind of thing.” He glanced across the showroom. “I’d better get back to my customer. Jolie, you look exhausted. Aren’t you due a break?”

She nodded gratefully, and stifled another yawn.

He winked. “I hope you were out doing something fun last night.”

“She was with me,” Carlotta said.

He scowled. “Don’t corrupt Jolie—she’s a good girl.”

Carlotta stuck her tongue out at him, and he returned to his customer. She glanced at Jolie and frowned. “You look ghastly.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you still sick from last night?”

“I…haven’t been sleeping well,” she said evasively.

“Well, you left too soon. Guess who I saw!”

“Who?”

“Michael Stipe!”

Jolie squinted.

“Michael
Stipe
—the lead singer for R.E.M.?”

“Oh. Right.”

Carlotta sighed and leaned on the counter. “You’re slightly hopeless, you know.”

Jolie blinked back sudden moisture in her eyes, then looked away, mortified.

“Hey, I didn’t mean that,” Carlotta said, her voice low and soft.

Jolie waved her hand. “Trust me, it isn’t you. It’s…” She looked back to see real concern on the woman’s face. “I’m exhausted, that’s all.”

Carlotta made a cooing sound. “Come upstairs with me to the lounge—you can take a catnap. And something just arrived that I think will look sensational on you.”

Jolie managed a laugh and followed her across the showroom. “Right.”

“You should perk up your wardrobe a little, wear bright colors.”

“I’m more comfortable in dark colors.”

“Comfortable isn’t fun,” Carlotta fussed, stepping onto the up escalator. “You’re too young to be comfortable.”

Jolie pursed her mouth. “Those shoes you gave to Michael—were they the same shoes you were wearing last night?”

Carlotta’s mouth twitched, then she nodded. “You’re not going to tell on me, are you?”

“No. But why risk it?”

“It’s
fun
,” Carlotta said. “You’re going to have to add that word to your vocabulary. F-U-N, fun.”

“Fun, like the party crashing?”

“Exactly. I get to wear fabulous shoes, the shoes get exposure—a dozen women asked me where I got them. I bring the shoes back, someone comes in to buy them, everybody wins.” She lifted her arms to underscore the brilliance of her logic.

“How do you keep them looking so new?”

A sly smile curved her wide mouth. “I have my little tricks—I tape the bottoms so they don’t get scarred up, and I leave in the cardboard stays so the leather doesn’t crease.”

“That can’t be comfortable.”

“Like I said, comfortable isn’t fun.”

Jolie marveled at the woman’s aplomb. As she followed her to the cool, hushed area of the fitting rooms, she observed that Carlotta’s entire bearing was stamped with self-assurance. People turned to look at her, stepped aside so she wouldn’t have to. Her hair was loose and flowing today, a dark curtain down her back. Far from classically beautiful, she had more presence than a roomful of models…yet she was enigmatically single, irresistibly aloof.

Carlotta led her to a spacious dressing room with lush carpet, and pointed to an upholstered chaise. “There. Lie down and take a nap. I’ll come back in thirty minutes.”

“Are you sure I won’t get you into trouble?” Jolie asked, looking at the chaise with longing.

“I’m sure,” Carlotta said with a laugh. “Besides, you’re no good to Michael if you’re dead on your feet. There’s the light switch—get some rest.”

She closed the door and Jolie hesitated only a few seconds before extinguishing the light and feeling her way toward the chaise. She removed her jacket and stepped out of her shoes, then eased onto the plump surface, reveling in the coolness of the smooth fabric against her skin. She turned on her back and exhaled slowly, flexing her feet to stretch her twitching leg muscles, then relaxed into the softness. Heaven. She closed her eyes to allow the haze of exhaustion to lull her into semiconsciousness, but her mind fought her body’s need for rest.

The events of the past few days rose to haunt her, racing through her brain, merging and morphing until Gary had turned into a monster. He was taunting her, laughing at her fear of what lay beneath the surface of the brown, foamy Chattahoochee River, strapping her into the passenger seat of his car, then sending her rolling downhill into the water. First she was floating, then the water rose higher and higher, pulling at her clothes. She tried to free herself, but her arms were pinned to her sides. She was going to drown. A tremendous hatred for Gary seized her…until she turned her head to see him strapped in the driver’s seat, also trapped. His eyes were big, apologetic, innocent…

Jolie jerked awake, the sheen of perspiration cool on her brow and neck. She inhaled deeply to relieve her squeezed lungs and to slow her elevated heartbeat. Closing her eyes, she wondered how long she’d been asleep—
five minutes? An hour? She didn’t care, she just wanted to lie there for a few more minutes in the blessed dark.

Voices came to her, agitated and low…threatening. Slowly she recognized one of the voices as Carlotta’s. She was arguing…with a man.

“—ever come here again, I’ll call the police.”

“Do that,
Lottie
. I’m sure the people you work with would be interested…”

Jolie sat up and scooted closer to the wall, where their voices were being funneled through an air vent.

“—
dare
threaten me,” Carlotta said in a hoarse whisper.

A man’s harsh laugh sounded. “You know that I don’t make idle threats. Two grand by next Friday.”

The stone-cold tone of the man’s voice sent a chill down Jolie’s neck. The silence stretched on, then Carlotta murmured, “H–how will I find you?”

“Don’t worry, Lottie,” he said. “I’ll find
you
.”

Footsteps sounded against the tile floor, then receded. Jolie held her breath, wondering what kind of trouble Carlotta was in, and what was going through the woman’s mind right now. A couple of sniffles sounded, then a thump, as if Carlotta had brought her hand down on the counter in frustration. Jolie felt an instant kinship, then shook her head at the absurdity of suddenly feeling aligned with the woman because they both were in dire straits.

A light knock at the dressing-room door sent Jolie scooting away from the wall.

“Jolie, it’s me,” Carlotta said, then opened the door and stuck her head inside. “Are you awake?”

“Yes,” Jolie said, then stood and flipped on the light. She blinked against the glare and glanced at her watch. She’d been asleep for twenty-five minutes.

“Were you able to get some rest?” Carlotta asked, showing no signs of being threatened only a moment ago.

“Yes, thank you so much,” Jolie said, then slid her feet into her shoes and reached for the jacket she’d shed.

“Wait, I want you to try on something.”

Jolie gave her a wry smile. “I don’t have the time or the money.”

“Oh, shush, Michael can spare you for five more minutes. Get a load of this.” She held up a sleeveless butternut-colored Ultrasuede jumpsuit with wide legs and a silver-tone belt that hung low on the hips.

Jolie’s lips parted and she felt an irrational gush of appreciation for the designer. “Oh, my.”

“It’s perfect for you; try it on.”

“No, I couldn’t.”

“Sure you can,” Carlotta said, stepping in and closing the door behind her. “Just
try
it.”

Jolie wavered, then reached forward to touch the fabric and was lost in the exquisite liquidity of the cloth. “Okay, but I’m
only
trying it on.”

Carlotta eased the jumpsuit off the hanger while Jolie undressed a bit self-consciously. Carlotta hummed and eyed her figure critically. “Wow, if you were a few inches taller, you could be a model.”

“I’ve lost weight recently,” Jolie said, glad that at least her Wal-Mart white underwear matched, but knowing it made her look bluishly pale. “I guess I haven’t adjusted to my new schedule.”

“How’s your real-estate business coming along? Have you called that hunky Beck Underwood yet?”

Jolie stepped into the jumpsuit, nervous at the mere sound of his name. “He’s supposed to call me.” She didn’t
add that she’d left her cell phone turned off all day. She wasn’t sure who she wanted to hear from less: him or Detective Salyers.

“Are you kidding me?” Carlotta gaped. “Do you know how many realtors in this city would sell their soul to be Beck Underwood’s agent? We’re talking a multimillion-dollar home. The commission would set you up for a year!”

She’d told herself the same thing a thousand times. “I know.”