“What about her?”
“Who? Oh, right. Holly. She’s nice. I can’t imagine what it would be like to teach fifth-graders.”
“I’m sure you’ll ask her.”
“I already did.” At ease again, she smiled at him. Something about that sarcastic edge to his voice made her relax and enjoy. “Come on, Alexi. We may be in different professions, but both of them require a certain amount of curiosity about human nature. Aren’t you sitting here right now wondering about all of these people, and what they’re doing at my party?”
“Not as much as I’m wondering what I’m doing at your party.” He swirled the wine in his glass before sipping. When he drank, his eyes stayed on hers. Watchful.
She liked that. She liked that very much, the way he could sit so still, energy humming from every pore, while he watched. While he waited. Bess was willing to admit that one of her biggest failings was being unable to wait for anything.
“You were curious,” she told him.
“Some.”
Her skirt hitched up another inch when she curled her legs up on the seat. “I’d be happy to tell you whatever you want to know, in exchange for your help. You see that guy over there, the gorgeous one with the blonde hanging on his biceps?”
Alex scanned, homed in. “Yeah. I wouldn’t say he was gorgeous.”
“You’re not a woman. That’s my detective, Storm Warfield, the black sheep of the snooty, disgustingly rich Warfield clan, the rebel, the volatile brother of the long-suffering Elana Warfield Stafford Car-stairs. He’s recently pulled himself out of the destructive affair with the wicked, wily Vicki. The blonde crawling up his chest. They’re an item off-camera, but on, Storm is madly in love with the tragedy-prone and ethereal Jade, who is, of course, torn between her feelings for him and her misplaced loyalty to the maniacally clever and dastardly Brock Carstairs—half brother to Elana’s stalwart husband Dr. Maxwell Carstairs. Max was once married to Jade’s formerly conniving but now repentant sister, Flame, who was killed in a Peruvian earthquake soon after the birth of her son—who may or may not be her husband’s child. Naturally, the body was never recovered.”
“Either I’ve had too much wine, or you’re making me dizzy.”
Bess smiled and gave him a companionable pat on the thigh that sent his blood pressure soaring. “It’s really not that complicated, once you know the players. But I want you for Storm.”
Alex sent the actor a considering look. “I don’t think he’s my type.”
“Your professional expertise, Detective. I need an informal technical advisor. My producer’d be happy to compensate you for your time—particularly since we’ve been number one in the ratings for the past nine months.” Someone called her name, and Bess sent a quick wave. “Looks like it’s going to start to thin out. Listen, can you hang around until I’ve finished playing hostess?”
She popped up and was gone before he could answer. After a moment, Alex set the rest of the dessert aside and rose. If he was going to see the party through, he might as well enjoy himself.
As she saw to the rest of her guests, Bess kept an eye on him. Once he decided to relax, she noted, he made the most of it. It didn’t surprise her that he knew how to flirt, or that several women in the room made a point of wandering in his direction. Not even Lori—no pushover in the men department—was unaffected.
“So, that’s the one who busted you?” Lori asked her, popping a plump olive into her mouth.
“What do you think?”
Lori chewed, savored, swallowed. “Yum-yum.”
With a laugh, Bess chose a wedge of cheese. “I assume that’s a comment on the man, not my buffet.”
“You bet. And the best part is, he’s not an actor.”
“Still sore?” Bess murmured.
Lori shrugged, but her gaze cut over to Steven Marshall, alias Brock Carstairs. “I never give him, or his weenie little brain, a thought. No sensible woman would spend her life competing with an actor’s ego for attention.”
“Sense has nothing to do with it.”
Lori looked away, because it hurt, more than she could bear to admit, to watch Steven while he was so busy ignoring her. “This from the queen of the bungled relationships.”
“I don’t bungle them, I enjoy them.”
“I hasten to remind you that two of your former fiancés are in this room.”
“It’s a big party. Besides, I wasn’t engaged to Lawrence.”
“He gave you a ring with a rock the size of a Buick.”
“A token of his esteem,” Bess said blithely. “I never agreed to marry him. And Charlie and I…” She waved to Charles Stutman, esteemed playwright. “We were only engaged for a few months. We both agreed Gabrielle was perfect for him and parted the closest of friends.”
“It was the first time I’d heard of a woman being best man at her former fiancé’s wedding,” Lori admitted. “I don’t know how you do it. You don’t angst over men, and they never toss blame your way when things fall apart.”
“Because I end up being a pal.” Bess’s lips curved. For the briefest of moments, there was something wistful in the smile. “Not always a position a woman craves, but it seems to suit me.”
“Going to be pals with the cop?”
Once again Bess found herself searching the remaining guests for Alex. She found him, dancing slow and close with a sultry brunette. “It would help if he’d bring himself to like me a little. I think it’s going to take some work.”
“I’ve never known you to fail. I’ve got to go. See you Monday.”
“Okay.” Bess was astute enough to glance over in Steven’s direction as Lori left. She was also clear-sighted enough to see the expression of misery in his eyes as he watched Lori walk to the elevator.
People were much too hard on themselves, she thought with a sigh. Love, she was certain, was a complicated and painful process only if you wanted it to be. And she should know, she mused as she took another sip of wine. She had slipped painlessly in and out of love for years.
As she set the glass aside, Alex caught her eye. There was a quick, surprising tremor around her heart. But it was gone quickly as someone swept her up into a dance.
CHAPTER THREE
“How often do you have one of these things?” Alex asked when he took Bess up on her offer of a last cup of cappuccino in her now empty and horribly cluttered apartment.
“Oh, when the mood strikes.” The after-party wreckage didn’t concern her. She and the cleaning team she’d hired would shovel it out sooner or later. Besides, she enjoyed this—the mess and debris, the spilled wine, the lingering scents. It was a testament to the fact that she, and a good many others, had enjoyed themselves.
“Want some cold spaghetti?” she asked him.
“No.”
“I do.” She unfolded herself from the corner section of the pit and wandered over to the buffet. “I didn’t get a chance to eat much earlier—just what I could steal off other people’s plates.” She came back to stretch out on the cushions and twine pasta on her fork. “What did you think of Bonnie?”
“Who?”
“Bonnie. The brunette you were dancing with. The one who stuck her phone number in your pocket.”
Remembering, Alex patted his shirt pocket. “Right. Bonnie. Very nice.”