Party Crashers

“I
t’s like, I can’t decide between the Kate Spade slides and the Via Spiga T-straps, you know?”

Kneeling on the floor of the Neiman Marcus footwear department, Lenox Square, Atlanta, Georgia, Jolie Goodman peered at the tortured coed over a mountain of overflowing shoe boxes. Jolie’s knees were raw and carpet burned. Her arms twitched from relaying stacks of shoe boxes to and from the stockroom. Her fingers ached from tying laces and finagling straps to ease shoes onto malodorous feet. Yet her considerable discomfort was apparently minuscule in comparison to the momentous decision weighing on the young woman’s mind.

Jolie reached into her sales arsenal and pulled out a persuasive smile. “Why don’t you take both and decide when you get home? You can always return a pair later.”

The woman’s shoulders fell in relief. “You’re
right
. I’ll take them both. Oh, and the Prada flats, too.”

Jolie nodded with approval, scooped up the boxes, and trotted to the checkout counter before the girl could
change her mind. Michael Lane, a senior sales consultant, waited for a receipt to print. He eyed the three boxes in her hands with an arched brow. “You’re catching on,” he murmured. “You just might last after all.”

Only through the holiday sales season
, Jolie promised herself. Eighty-one more days, if one were counting. The salary and commissions would tide her over until the housing market picked up after the first of the year and she could resume building her real-estate business. She had hoped the experience would sharpen her sales skills…She hadn’t counted on the bonus of raising her threshold for pain.

Michael ripped off the long sales receipt and handed it to his customer with an ingratiating smile. “Thank you for shopping at Neiman Marcus.” As he turned toward Jolie, he said, “Don’t forget about the sales meeting tomorrow morning at nine. I know you’re not on until noon, but everyone is expected to be there.”

Jolie groaned inwardly. She’d been planning to assemble a mailing to her former customers the next morning—one day into her temporary job, and she was already neglecting her primary goal. She rang up the slightly enormous sale, swiped the young woman’s credit card, then sent her on her way with a brimming Neiman Marcus shopping bag. The satisfaction over the big fat sale was short-lived, however, because she had to straighten and clear thirty-some boxes of discards before she could move on to the next customer.

Discards—that was a laugh. The boxes held some of the most exquisite designer shoes available, each stuffed and wrapped with form-holding stays, some swathed in cloth bags, some with registration cards. In her previous unenlightened world, she hadn’t known that people actually
registered their footwear, but she had since learned that when consumers forked over hundreds of dollars for a pair of shoes, they expected prestigious, if hollow, bonuses.

Jolie stooped, ignored the twinge in her lower back, and began repackaging the shoes. She reminded herself she should be thanking her lucky stars for landing this position. According to Michael, the shoe department ranked high in dollar sales per customer, and was always busy. She could do worse for a temporary job. While she repacked a pair of Anne Klein mules, she scanned the customers for the person who seemed most eager to be waited on. They were in the midst of a Columbus Day sale, and the temperatures had begun to dip in earnest, so Atlantans were rushing to the mall in droves to replace their sandals with more substantial fare. And six-hundred-dollar faux crocodile stiletto-heeled boots would definitely keep the chill at bay.

Her gaze skitted over the after-five crowd, then caught on a familiar dark orange ball cap. Her heart stalled.
Gary?
The man stood several yards away, his profile obscured by other shoppers. In a split second, her mind rationalized it could be him—he certainly had preferred shopping at the upscale stores in this mall. Her heart jumpstarted, thudding in her ears. What would she do first—confront him or call the police? Kiss him or kill him?

Jolie craned for a better look just as the man turned. Her pulse spiked, then a fusion of disappointment and relief shot through her. It wasn’t Gary. Again. She dropped her gaze and stared at the box in her hand until her vital signs recovered. She felt like a fool all over again, just like a month ago when she explained to a dubious officer that her boyfriend—and her car—had simply disappeared. But
Gary drove a Mercedes—why would he want her Mercury? In her mind, her car being stolen and Gary dropping out of sight were mutually exclusive. The uniformed man hadn’t been nearly so magnanimous when he’d told her flat out that she’d been royally scammed.

Squashing the train of thought, she gave herself a mental shake—she couldn’t afford to be distracted, not now, when she needed to be on her sales game. She resumed scanning for ripe customers.

Her gaze landed on a tanned and rumpled sandy-haired man, strangely dressed in holey jeans and an expensive sport coat, hovering near a sleek blonde to whom Michael was showing a strappy shoe that Jolie hadn’t yet memorized—Stuart Weitzman? Stubbs and Wootton? Her head swam with trendy monikers. From the restless look on the man’s rugged face, he was a salesman’s worst enemy—a “straggler,” the person who accompanies the primary shopper and shifts from foot to foot until the shopper moves along. Interesting face or no, he wasn’t useful to her.

Scan, scan—
stop
. Jolie cringed.

Ten feet away, Sammy “Sold” Sanders, real-estate agent extraordinaire and Jolie’s ex-boss, scrutinized a Manolo Blahnik bootie with laser blue eyes. Jolie’s pulse hammered as she imagined the belly laugh that Sammy would enjoy when she discovered that her employee who had quit in a puffed-up huff over the questionable ethics of a deal had been reduced to selling shoes. Jolie had hoped to see Sammy again, but not until the Jolie Goodman Real Estate Agency was well into the black…or at least had letterhead. She stacked boxes high in her arms and lifted them to obscure her face as she hurried toward
the stockroom. Maybe she could hide out until Sammy left.

During the two hundred or so trips she’d made to and from the stockroom that day, Jolie thought she had the path and its obstacles memorized.
Apparently not,
she realized, as she collided with something solid and bounced back. She teetered on the heels of her sensible pumps, trying to stabilize the boxes that swayed one way and then the other. She failed spectacularly and acrobatically, falling hard on her tailbone while propelling the boxes into the air so high, she had time to envision the sound and sight of the merchandise crashing to the ground before it actually happened.

Except it was so much worse than she’d imagined.

The shoe boxes landed on and around Jolie in a thudding avalanche. Everyone within earshot turned to stare, including Sammy Sanders, which was bad enough on its own, but since Jolie sat on the floor with her legs spread and her skirt rucked up to her thighs, it was the stuff of which nightmares were made. In those first few seconds of stunned silence, she was afraid everyone was going to start clapping, like the time she dropped her tray in the school lunchroom in the seventh grade. But no one clapped: The customers of Neiman Marcus simply seemed annoyed that she’d interrupted their pristine environment.

“I beg your pardon,” a deep voice said.

Jolie bent her head back to find the sandy-haired man with the holey jeans standing over her, his hand extended.

A smile played on his mouth. “I wasn’t looking where you were going.”

Afraid that she might pull him down with her when she tried to stand, Jolie rolled over on her side and pushed herself to
her knees before accepting his hand and being helped to her feet. His gentlemanly behavior, she noticed, didn’t keep him from stealing a peek at the expanse of leg she had on display.

“Thank you,” she chirped, yanking down her hem. She’d managed to lose one of her own shoes in the aftermath, and proceeded to toe it upright and stick her foot inside before anyone noticed it wasn’t a brand that came with a registration card.

“Are you okay?” the man asked.

She nodded, cheeks flaming. “I should be asking
you
. I just clobbered you with five thousand dollars’ worth of shoes.”

One side of his mouth lifted. “I’ll live.”

But it was the smile in his brown eyes that made her tongue do a figure eight.

Michael Lane rushed up. “Are you all right, sir?”

“I’m fine.”

“Please accept our deepest apologies. This is Jolie’s first day on the job.” Michael shot her a frown that indicated it might also be her
last
day on the job.

“No harm done,” the man said smoothly.

“Jolie? Jolie Goodman, I
thought
that was you.”

Jolie closed her eyes briefly, then turned to face the music. Sammy Sanders glided toward them in all her pink and white blonde glory.

“Hello, Sammy.”

Sammy’s gaze landed on Jolie’s lapel badge, and her eyes rounded. “Are you
working
here?”

“Yes.”

Sammy made a distressed noise, as if she were stepping over a homeless person, and touched the arm of Jolie’s jacket with a manicured hand. “Jolie, it doesn’t have to be
like this. Come back to the Sanders Agency and we’ll let bygones be bygones.”

Jolie glanced down at Sammy’s hand, then pulled away. “Excuse me while I clean up the mess I made.”

Sammy’s face reddened, then she tossed her pale hair. “While you’re in the back, Jolie, fetch me this little number in a size seven, will you?”

Fetch
…like a dog. Sammy had been having her fetch things for years—would she never be able to get one up on the woman?

The man she’d plowed into stepped in. “I believe the lady was helping me.”

Sammy flicked her gaze over him, then conjured up an ingratiating smile. “I’ll wait.”

He looked around and picked up the nearest men’s shoe, a lustrous Cole Haan loafer, quite a contrast to the battered tennis shoes he wore. “Do you have this in size eleven?”

Jolie gave him a grateful look. “I’ll check.” She stooped to grab an armful of shoes, lids, and boxes, and scrambled toward the stockroom.

Michael was on her heels with a second armload. “Do you know who that is?”

“My former boss, Sammy Sanders.”

“I mean the
man.
”

“No. Should I?”

“That’s Beck
Under
wood.”

She dropped her load on a table. “Of Underwood Broadcasting?”

“The same. His family owns more media outlets and production companies than anyone on the East Coast.”

Egad—she subscribed to their movie channel. “I’ve seen his father and sister on the news,” she said, suddenly
realizing why the woman with him seemed familiar, “but I don’t remember him.”

“He’s been away from Atlanta for a few years, living in Costa Rica, I believe.”

Which explained the longish hair and the deep tan.

“Carlotta told me he was back in town.”

“Carlotta?”

“Carlotta Wren—she works upstairs, usually in the Prada department. Hard-core celebrity groupie, knows everyone who’s anyone in Atlanta. She’d wet her capris if she knew Beck Underwood was in the store.”

Jolie held out the requested size-eleven loafer. “Maybe you should handle this sale.”

“I’m handling the sister,” Michael reminded her, pulling Jimmy Choo boxes from the shelf by twos. “I’m counting on you to keep
him
busy while I sell
her
the entire fall line.”

“Will you cut me in on your commission?”

“No, but I won’t fire you.”

She swallowed. “Deal.”

“Besides,” Michael said with a wry grin, “the man probably owns nothing but jungle footwear—maybe you can sell him some civilized shoes.” He gave her the once-over, then squinted. “You might want to…
fluff
or something.” Then he walked out, laden with enough shoes to shod the Rockettes.

Jolie glanced into the mirror on the door of the employee bathroom and groaned. Her short dishwater-blonde hair, curly and fine textured, was unruly under the best of circumstances. But after a confrontation with the carpet, the stuff was a staticky, high-flying nest. Her dark jacket and skirt were lint covered, and the makeup she’d applied
so carefully this morning had vanished. She resembled one of the mannequins in sportswear—prominent eyes and knees, with a chalk white pallor—and she felt as insubstantial as she looked. For someone who prided herself on her fortitude, she conceded that six hours on her feet, plus the false sighting of Gary, plus the scene she’d created, plus the run-in with Sammy Sanders…well, it was enough to wear a girl down.

Weighing her options, she glanced at the doorway leading back to the showroom, then to the fire-exit door leading to a loading dock. She had the most outrageous urge to walk out…and keep walking.

Is that what Gary had done? Reached some kind of personal crisis that he couldn’t share with her, and simply walked away from everything—from his job, from his friends, from her? As bad as it sounded, she almost preferred to believe that he had suffered some kind of breakdown rather than consider other possible explanations—that he’d met with foul play, or that she had indeed been scammed by the man who’d professed to care about her.

The exit sign beckoned, but she glanced at the shoe box in her hands and decided that since the man had been kind enough to intercept Sammy, he deserved to be waited on, even if he didn’t spend a cent.

Even if people with vulgar amounts of money did make her nervous.

She finger-combed her hair and tucked it behind her ears, then straightened her clothing as best she could. There was no helping the lack of makeup, so she pasted on her best smile—the one that she thought showed too much gum, but that Gary had assured her made her face light up—and returned to the showroom.

Her smile almost faltered, though, when Mr. Beck Underwood’s bemused expression landed on her.

She walked toward him, trying to forget that the man could buy and sell her a thousand times over. “I’m sorry again about running into you. Did you really want to try on this shoe or were you just being nice?”