Читать книгу Convincing Alex - Нора Робертс - Страница 8

“My wife went nuts.” Judd Malloy munched on his cherry Danish while Alex swung in and out of downtown traffic. “She’s a big fan of that soap, you know? Tapes it every day when she’s in school.”

“Terrific.” Alex had been doing his best to forget his little encounter with the soap queen, but his partner wasn’t cooperating.

“Holly figures it was just like meeting a celebrity.”

“You don’t find many celebrities turning tricks.”

“Come on, Alex.” Judd washed down the Danish with heavily sugared coffee. “She wasn’t, really. You said so yourself, or the charges wouldn’t have been dropped.”

“She was stupid,” Alex said between his teeth. “Carrying a damn water pistol in that suitcase of hers. I guess she figured if a john got rough, she’d blat him between the eyes and that would be that.”

Judd started to comment on how it might feel to get a blat of ammonia in the eyes, but didn’t think his partner wanted to hear it. “Well, Holly was impressed, and we got some fresh juice out of Rosalie, so we didn’t waste our time.”

“Malloy, you’d better get used to wasting time. Stanislaski’s rule number four.” Alex spotted the building he was looking for and double-parked. He was already out of the car and across the sidewalk before Judd found the NYPD sign and stuck it in the window. “We sure as hell could be wasting it here with this Domingo.”

“Rosalie said—”

“Rosalie said what we wanted to hear so we’d spring her,” Alex told him. His cop’s eyes were already studying the building, noting windows, fire escapes, roof. “Maybe she gave us the straight shot on Domingo, and maybe she pulled it out of a hat. We’ll see.”

The place was in good repair. No graffiti, no broken glass or debris. Lower-middle-income, Alex surmised. Established families, mostly blue-collar. He pulled open the heavy entrance door, then scanned the names above the line of mailboxes.

“J. Domingo. 212.” Alex pushed the buzzer for 110, waited, then hit 305. The answering buzz released the inner door. “People are so careless,” he commented. He could feel Judd’s nerves shimmering as they climbed the stairs, but he could tell he was holding it together. He’d damn well better hold it together, Alex thought as he gestured Judd into position, then knocked on the door of 212. He knocked a second time before he heard the cursing answer.

When the door opened a crack, Alex braced his body against it to keep it that way. “How’s it going, Jesús?”

“What the hell do you want?”

He fit Rosalie’s description, Alex noted. Right down to the natty Clark Gable moustache and the gold incisor. “Conversation, Jesús. Just a little conversation.”

“I don’t talk to nobody at this hour.”

When he tried to shove the door to, Alex merely leaned on it and flipped open his badge. “You don’t want to be rude, do you? Why don’t you ask us in?”

Swearing in Spanish, Jesús Domingo cracked the door a little wider. “You got a warrant?”

“I can get one, if you want more than conversation. I can take you down for questioning, get the paperwork and do the job before your shyster lawyer can tap-dance you out. Want a team of badges in here, Jesús?”

“I haven’t done nothing.” He stepped back from the door, a small man with wiry muscles who was wearing nothing but a pair of gym shorts.

“Nobody said you did. Did I say he did, Malloy?”

Enjoying himself, Judd stepped in behind Alex. “Nope.”

The building might be lower-middle-class, but Domingo’s apartment was a small high-tech palace. State-of-the-art stereo equipment, Alex noted. A big-screen TV with some very classy video toys. The wall of tapes ran mostly to the X-rated.

“Nice place,” Alex commented. “You sure know how to make your unemployment check stretch.”

“I got a good head for figures.” Domingo plucked up a pack of cigarettes from a table, lighted one. “So?”

“So, let’s talk about Angie Horowitz.”

Domingo blew out smoke and scratched at the hair on his chest. “Never heard of her.”

“Funny, we got word you were one of her regulars, and her main supplier.”

“You got the wrong word.”

“Maybe you don’t recognize the name.” Alex reached into his inside jacket pocket, and his fingers brushed over his leather shoulder harness as he pulled out a manila envelope. “Why don’t you take a look?” He stuck the police shot under Domingo’s nose and watched his olive complexion go a sickly gray. “Look familiar?”

“Man.” Domingo’s fingers shook as he brought his cigarette to his lips.

“Problem?” Alex glanced down at the photo himself. There hadn’t been much left of Angie for the camera. “Oh, hey, sorry about that, Jesús. Malloy, didn’t I tell you not to put the dead shot in?”

Judd shrugged, feigning casualness. He was thinking he was glad he didn’t have to look at it again himself. “Guess I made a mistake.”

“Yeah.” All the while he spoke, Alex held the photo where Domingo could see it. “Guy’s a rookie,” he explained. “Always screwing up. You know. Poor little Angie sure got sliced, didn’t she? Coroner said the guy put about forty holes in her. You can see most of them. Poor Malloy here took one look and lost his breakfast. I keep telling him not to eat those damned greasy Danishes before we go check out a stiff, but like I said…” Alex grinned to himself as Domingo made a dash for the bathroom.

“That was cold, Stanislaski,” Judd said, grinning.

“Yeah, I’m that kind of guy.”

“And I didn’t throw up my breakfast.”

“You wanted to.” The sounds coming from the bathroom were as unpleasant as they get. Alex tapped on the door. “Hey, Jesús, you okay, man? I’m really sorry about that.” He passed the photo and envelope to Judd. “Tell you what, let me get you some nice cold water, okay?”

The answer was a muffled retch that Alex figured anyone could take for assent. He moved into the kitchen and opened the freezer. The two kilos were exactly where Rosalie had said he’d find them. He took one out just as Domingo rushed in.

“You got no warrant. You got no right.”

“I was getting you some ice.” Alex turned the frozen cocaine over in his hands. “This doesn’t look like a TV dinner to me. What do you think, Malloy?”

By leaning a shoulder against the door jamb, Judd blocked the doorway. “Not the kind my mother used to make.”

“You son of a bitch.” Domingo wiped his mouth with a clenched fist. “You violated my civil rights. I’ll be out before you can blink.”

“Could be.” Taking an evidence bag out of his pocket, Alex slipped both kilos inside. “Malloy, why don’t you read our friend his rights while he’s getting dressed? And, Jesús, try some mouthwash.”

“Stanislaski,” the desk sergeant called out when Alex came up from seeing Domingo into a cell. “You got company.”

Alex glanced over toward his desk, seeing that several cops were huddled around it. There was quite a bit of laughter overriding the usual squad room noise. Curiosity had him moving forward even before he saw the legs. Legs he recognized. They were crossed at the knee and covered almost modestly in a canary-yellow skirt.

He recognized the rest of her, too, though the tough little body was clad in a multihued striped blazer and a scoop-necked blouse the same color as the skirt. Half a dozen slim columns of gold danced at her ears as she laughed. She looked better, sexier, he was forced to admit, with her mouth unpainted, her freckles showing, and those big green eyes subtly smudged with color. Her hair was artfully tousled, a rich, deep red that made him think of a mahogany statue his brother had carved for him.

“So I told the mayor we’d try to work it in, and we’d love for him to come on the show and do a cameo.” She shifted on the desk and spotted Alex. He was frowning at her, his thumbs tucked into the pockets of a leather bomber jacket. “Officer Stanislaski.”

“McNee.” He inclined his head, then swept his gaze over his fellow officers. “The boss comes in and finds you here, I might have to tell him how you didn’t have enough work and volunteered to take some of mine.”

“Just entertaining your guest, Stanislaski.” But the use of the squad room’s nickname for their captain had the men drifting reluctantly away.

“What can I do for you?”

“Well, I—”

“You’re sitting on a homicide,” he told her.

“Oh.” She scooted off the desk. Without the stilettos, she was half a head shorter than he. Alex discovered he preferred it that way. “Sorry. I came by to thank you for straightening things out for me.”

“That’s what they pay me for. Straightening things out.” He’d been certain she would rave a bit about being tossed into a cell, but she was smiling, friendly as a kindergarten teacher. Though he couldn’t recall ever having a teacher who looked like her. Or smelled like her.

“Regardless, I appreciate it. My producer’s very tolerant, but if it had gone much further, she would have been annoyed.”

“Annoyed?” Alex repeated. He stripped off his jacket and tossed it onto his chair. “She’d have been annoyed to find out that one of her writers was out soliciting johns down at Twenty-third and Eleventh Avenue.”

“Researching,” Bess corrected, unoffended. “Darla—that’s my producer—she gets these headaches. I gave her a whopper when I went on a job with a cat burglar.”

“With a…” He let his words trail off and eased down on the spot on the desk she’d just vacated. “I don’t think you want to tell me about that.”

“Actually, he was a former cat burglar. Fascinating guy. I just had him show me how he’d break into my apartment.” She frowned a little, remembering. “I guess he was a little rusty. The alarm—”

“Don’t.” Alex held up a hand. He was beginning to feel a headache coming on himself.

“That’s old news, anyway.” She waved it away with a cheerful gesture of her hands. “Do you have a first name, or do I just call you Officer?”

“It’s Detective.”

“Your first name is Detective?”

“No, my rank.” He let out a sigh. “Alex.”

“Alex. That’s nice.” She ran a fingertip over the strap of his harness. She wasn’t being provocative; she wanted to know what it felt like. Once she knew him better, she was sure, she’d talk him into letting her try it on. “Well, Alex, I was wondering if you’d let me use you.”

He’d been a cop for more than five years, and until this moment he hadn’t thought anything could surprise him. But it took him three seconds to close his mouth. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s just that you’re so perfect.” She stepped closer. She really wanted to get a better look at his weapon—without being obvious about it.

She smelled like sunshine and sex. As he drew it in, Alex thought that combination would baffle any man. “I’m perfect?”

“Absolutely.” She looked straight into his eyes and smiled. Her gaze was frank and assessing. She was studying him, the way a woman might study a dress in a showroom window. “You’re exactly what I’ve been looking for.”

Her eyes were pure green. No hint of gray or blue, no flecks of gold. There was a small dimple near her mouth. Only one. Nothing about that odd, sexy face was balanced. “What you’re looking for?”

“I know you’re busy, but I’d try not to take up too much of your time. An hour now and then.”

“An hour?” He caught himself echoing her, and shook himself loose. “Listen, I appreciate—”

“You’re not married, are you?”

“Married? No, but—”

“That makes it simpler. It just came to me last night when I was getting into bed.”

God. He’d learned to appreciate women early. And he’d learned to juggle them skillfully—if he said so himself. He knew how to dodge, when to evade and when to sit back and enjoy. But with this one, all bets were off.

“Is this heavy?” she asked, fiddling with his harness.

“You get used to it. It’s just there.”

Her smile warmed, making him think of sunlight again. “Perfect,” she murmured. “I’d be willing to compensate you for your time, and your expertise.”

“You’d be—” He wasn’t certain if he was insulted or embarrassed. “Hold on, babe.”

“Just think about it,” Bess said quickly. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I have this problem with Matthew.”

A brand-new emotion snuck in under his guard, and it was as green as her eyes. “Matthew? Who the hell is Matthew?”

“We call him Storm, actually. Lieutenant Storm Warfield, Millbrook PD.”

Now he definitely had a headache. Alex rubbed his fingers against his temple. “Millbrook?”

“The fictional town of Millbrook, where the show’s set. It’s supposed to be somewhere in the Midwest. Storm’s a cop. Personally, his life’s a mess, but professionally, he’s focused and intense and occasionally ruthless. In this new story line I’m working on, I want to concentrate on his police work, the routine, the frustrations.”

“Wait.” He’d always been quick, but it was taking him a minute to change gears. “You want me to help you with a story line?”

“Exactly. If you could just tell me how you think, how you go about solving a case, working with the system or around it. TV cops have to work around the system quite a bit, you know. It plays better than by-the-book.”

He swore under his breath and rubbed his hands over his face. Damn it, his palms were sweaty. “You’re a real case, McNee.”

“You don’t have to decide right now.” She was also persistent. And she wondered if he had a spare gun strapped to his calf. One of those sexy-looking little chrome jobs. She’d seen that ploy in several movies. Still, she thought if she asked him that, she’d lose her edge. “I’m having a thing tonight.” As she spoke, she dug into her huge bag for her notebook. “Eight o’clock until whenever. Bring a friend, if you like. Your partner, too. He seemed very sweet.”

“He’s adorable.”

“Yeah.” She ripped off the page and handed it to him. “I’d really like you to stop by.”

He took the sheet, not bothering to remind her he already had her address. “Why?”

“Why not?” She beamed at him again.

Before he could list the reasons, he heard his name called.

“Alexi.”

Alexi. Bess was already enchanted with the sound as she rolled the name over in her head. Different, exotic. Sexy. She was certain it suited him much more than the casual Alex.

Bess studied the woman bearing down on them. This wasn’t one who’d be lost in a crowd, she mused. She was stunning, totally self-assured and very pregnant. Beside Bess, Alex pushed off the desk and sighed.

“Rachel.”

“A moment of your time, Detective,” Rachel said, flipping a glance over Bess before pinning Alex with a tawny stare. “To reacquaint you with civil rights.”

“Your sister?” Bess surmised, beaming at both of them.

Alex sent her a considering frown. “How did you know that?”

“I’m really good with faces. Same bone structure, same coloring, same mouth. You have to be brother and sister, or first cousins.”

“Guilty,” Rachel admitted. Though she would have liked to know what Alex was doing with the sharp-eyed redhead, she wasn’t about to be swayed from her duties as a public defender. “Jesús Domingo, Alexi. Illegal search and seizure.”

“Bull.” Alex crossed his arms and leaned back against the desk.

“You had a search warrant?”

“Didn’t need one. He invited us in.”

“And invited you to poke through his belongings, I suppose.”

“Nope.” Alex grinned while Bess watched them bounce the verbal ball as though they were champion tennis players. “Jesús got sick. I offered to get him some water. He didn’t object. I opened the freezer to get the poor guy some ice, and there it was. Two kilos. It’ll all be in my report.”

“That’s lame, Alexi. You’ll never get a conviction.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Talk to the DA.”

“I intend to.” Rachel shifted her briefcase and began to rub her belly in circular motions to soothe the baby, who seemed to be doing aerobics in her womb. “You had no probable cause.”

“Sit down.”

“I don’t want to sit down.”

“The baby does.” He yanked over a chair and all but shoved her into it. “When are you going to knock this off?”

It did feel better to sit. Indescribably better. But she wasn’t about to admit it. “The baby’s not due for two months. I have plenty of time. We were discussing…”

“Rach.” He laid a hand on her cheek, very gently. A shouted curse wouldn’t have stopped her, but the small gesture did. “Don’t make me worry about you.”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m having a baby. It’s not contagious. Now, about Domingo.”

Alex gave a brief, pithy opinion on what could be done with Domingo. “Talk to the DA,” he repeated. “Sitting down.”

“She looks pretty strong to me,” Bess commented. Two pair of eyes turned to her, one furious, the other thoughtful.

“Thank you. The men in my life are coddlers,” Rachel explained. “Sweet, but annoying.”

“Muldoon should take better care of you,” Alex insisted.

“I don’t need Zack to take care of me. And the fact is, between him and Nick, I’m barely allowed to brush my own teeth.” She held out a hand to Bess. “Since my brother is too rude to introduce me, I’m Rachel Muldoon.”

“Bess McNee. You’re a lawyer?”

“That’s right. I work for the public defender’s office.”

“Really?” Bess’s thoughts began to perk. “What’s it like to—”

Alex held up a hand. “Don’t get her started. She’ll pick your brain clean before you know she’s had her fingers in it. Look, McNee—” he turned to Bess, determined not to be charmed by her easy smile “—we’re a little busy here.”

“Of course you are. I’m sorry.” Obligingly she swung her huge purse on to her shoulder. “We’ll talk tonight. Nice to meet you, Rachel.”

“Same here.” Rachel ran her tongue over her teeth, and both she and Alex watched Bess weave her way out of the squad room. “Well, that was rude.”

“It’s the only way to handle her. Believe me.”

“Hmm… She seems like an interesting woman. How did you meet her?”

“Don’t ask.” He sat back down on his desk, irked that the scent of sunshine and sex still lingered in the air.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this.” Holly, Judd’s pretty wife of eight months, was all but hopping out of her party shoes. “Wait until I tell everyone in the teachers’ lounge where I spent the evening.”

“Take it easy, honey.” Judd tugged at the tie she’d insisted he wear. “It’s just a party.”

“Just a party?” As the elevator rode up, she fussed with her honey-brown hair. “I don’t know about you two, but it isn’t every day I get to eat canapés with celebrities.”

Ominously silent, Alex stayed hunched in his leather jacket. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing here. His first mistake had been mentioning the invitation to Judd. No matter how insouciant Judd pretended to be, he’d been bursting at the seams when he called his wife. Alex had been swept along in their enthusiasm.

But he wasn’t going to stay. Holly’s sense of decorum might have insisted that she and Judd couldn’t attend without him, but he’d already decided just how he’d play it. He’d go in, maybe have a beer and a couple of crackers. Then he’d slip out again. He’d be damned if he’d spend this rare free evening playing soap-opera groupie.

“Oh, my” was all Holly could say when the elevator doors opened.

The walls of the private foyer were splashed with a mural of the city. Times Square, Rockefeller Center, Harlem, Little Italy, Broadway. People seemed to be rushing along the walls, just as they did the streets below. It was as if the woman who lived here didn’t want to miss one moment of the action.

The wide door to the main apartment was open, and music, laughter and conversation were pouring out, along with the scents of hot food and burning candles.

“Oh, my,” Holly said again, dragging her husband along as she stepped inside.

From behind them, Alex scanned the room. It was huge, and it was packed with people. Draped in silk or cotton, clad in business suits and lush gowns, they stood elbow to elbow on the hardwood floor, lounged hip to hip on the sapphire cushions of the enormous circular conversation pit, sat knee to knee on the steps of a bronze circular staircase that led to an open loft where still more people leaned against a railing decked with naked cherubs.

Two huge windows let the lights of the city in. More partygoers sat on the pillow-plumped window seats, balancing plates and glasses on their laps.

Paintings were scattered over the ivory-toned walls. Vivid, frenetic modern art, mind-bending surrealism. There was enough color to make his head swim. Yet, through the crowd and the clashing tones, he saw her. Dancing seductively with a distinguished-looking man in a gray pin-striped suit.

She wore an excuse for a dress, the color of crushed purple grapes. He wondered, irritated, if she owned anything that covered those legs. This number certainly didn’t. Nor did it cover much territory at all, the way it dipped to the waist in the back, skimmed above mid-thigh and left her shoulders bare, but for skinny, glittery straps. Multihued gemstones fell in a rope from her earlobes to those nicely sloped shoulders. Her feet were bare.

She looked, Alex thought as his stomach muscles twisted themselves into nasty knots, outrageously alluring.

“Oh, Lord, there’s Jade. Oh, and Storm and Vicki. Dr. Carstairs, too.” Holly’s fingers dug into her husband’s arm. “It’s Amelia.”

“Who?”

“‘Secret Sins,’ dummy.” She gave Judd a playful punch. “The whole cast’s here.”

“That’s not all.” Because he remembered in time he was supposed to be jaded, Judd stopped himself from pointing and inclined his head. “That’s Lawrence D. Strater dancing with our hostess. The L.D. Strater, of Strater Industries. The Fortune 500’s darling. The mayor’s over in that corner, talking with Hannah Loy, the grand old lady of Broadway.” His excitement began to hum in his voice as he continued to scan the room. “Man, there are enough luminaries in this room to light every borough in New York.”

But Alex hadn’t noticed. Furthermore, he didn’t give a damn. His attention was focused on Bess. She’d stopped dancing, and had leaned up to whisper something in her partner’s ear that made him laugh before he kissed her. Smack on the lips.

She kissed him back, too, her hands lightly intimate at his waist, before she turned and spotted the new arrivals. She waved, made her excuses, then scooted and dodged her way through the crowd toward them.

“You made it.” She gave both Alex and Judd a friendly peck on the cheek before holding out both hands to Holly. “Nice to meet you.”

“My wife, Holly, this is Bess McNee.”

“Thanks for as king us.” Holly caught herself starting to stutter, as she had the first time she faced a classroom of ten-year-olds. She flushed.

“My pleasure.” Bess gave her hands a reassuring squeeze. “Let’s get you something to eat and drink.” She gestured toward a long table by the wall. Instead of the useless finger food and fancy, unrecognizable dishes Alex had expected, it was laden with big pots of spaghetti, mountains of garlic bread, and generous trays of antipasti.

“It’s Italian night,” she explained, grabbing a plate and heaping it high. “There’s plenty of wine and beer, and a full bar.” She handed the plate to Holly and began to dish up another. “The desserts are on the other side of the room. They’re unbelievable.” As she passed Judd a plate, she noted the gleam in Holly’s eyes. “Would you like to meet some of the cast?”

“Oh, I…” The hell with sophistication. “Yes. I’d love it.”

“Great. Excuse us. Help yourself, Alexi.”

“This is really something,” Judd said over a mouthful of spaghetti.

“Something,” Alex agreed. Deciding to make the best of it, he fixed himself a plate.

He wasn’t going to stay. But the food was great. In any case, he didn’t have anything else to do. It didn’t hurt to hang around and rub elbows with the fast and famous while he was helping himself to a good hot meal. It certainly made a change from his daily routine of wading through misery and bitterness.

After washing down spaghetti with some good red wine, he found himself a spot on a window seat where he could sit back and watch the show.

Bess dropped down beside him, clinked her glass against his. “Best seat in the house.”

“Some house.”

“Yeah, I like it. I’ll show you the rest later, if you want.” She broke off a tiny piece of the pastry on his plate and sampled it. “Great stuff.”

“Yeah. You got a little…here.” Before his good sense could take over, he rubbed a bit of the rich cream from her lip. Watching her, he licked it from the pad of his thumb. And tasted her. “It’s not bad.”

For a moment she wondered if the circuits in her brain had crossed. Something certainly had sent out a spark. She managed a small sound of agreement as she flicked her tongue to the corner of her mouth. And tasted him.

“Your, ah, partner’s wife. Holly.” Small talk, any talk, had always come easily to her. She wasn’t sure why she was laboring now.

“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.