Party Crashers by Stephanie Bond Read Free Book Online Page A

drop this off. It’s related to a case she’s working on.”
    “Hold on.” The man rummaged for a pen and paper, then slid both underneath the half-inch gap at the bottom of the window. “Write her a note, will you?”
    Jolie took the pen and scrawled, “From Jolie Goodman re: G. Hagan,” and added her cell phone number. She stuffed the note down in the top of the box, and the man came through a side door to take it from her. “I’ll make sure she gets it.”
    Jolie thanked him, then exited the bustling station and jogged toward her car. If traffic wasn’t too bad, she might make the sales meeting on time. She slid into her seat andclosed the car door, fighting the urge to skip the meeting, to skip her shift—hell, to skip the entire day.
    But that would only make things worse. In fact, she really should be around people today, around crowds, to take her mind off the events of yesterday that were threatening to consume her. She started the car and turned it in the direction of Lenox Square, stifling a yawn, a result of the sleep she didn’t get last night.
    She’d placed a giant cactus beneath her bedroom window and slept with a fire extinguisher—the only thing she had that could remotely be considered a weapon. She might have to use her employee discount to buy something more threatening today, although at the moment the most dangerous thing she could think of that Neiman Marcus had to offer was the employee discount itself.
    She maneuvered back roads to get to the mall and found a good parking place at this early hour. Ten minutes later she slipped into the room where, to her great relief, the sales meeting had just gotten under way. From the front, Michael Lane gave her an approving nod, then pointed to his name badge and back to her. All employees, she recalled, were supposed to wear their name badges while on duty and during company functions.
    She retrieved her badge from her bag, and fastened it while the store manager, Lindy, a neurotic redhead with a high-frequency voice, recited numbers from the previous weekend’s sale. She recognized individual departments that were performing well, including shoes (Michael beamed), housewares, and women’s fine apparel, specifically Prada.
    “Speaking of which,” Lindy said, her gaze landing somewhere behind Jolie, “here’s our star sales consultantfor the week, Carlotta Wren. Carlotta just topped the former weekly sales record, which she also set, by the way. Congratulations, Carlotta.”
    Jolie joined in the smattering of applause and turned to see what a star sales consultant looked like. Carlotta Wren stood behind Jolie’s chair, tall, with long, straight dark hair clasped in a low ponytail. Her slender, hour-glass figure was wrapped in a sport-stretch red dress complemented with red platform shoes and a dark denim leather-trimmed Prada tote. She had large, exotic features, including a wide smile with a gap between her front teeth, reminiscent of Lauren Bacall. She took a little bow, then said, “Thank you, thank you,” and dropped into the seat next to Jolie, smelling of something musky and mysterious.
    “What did I miss?” she whispered.
    “Not much,” Jolie whispered back, instantly edgy from the nervous energy rolling off the woman.
    “You’re new. I’m Carlotta.” She stuck out her manicured hand.
    “I’m Jolie,” she murmured, giving the outstretched hand a shake, conscious of her own gnawed-down nails.
    “Jolie? Do you work with Michael in shoes?”
    Jolie nodded.
    “Oh, you’re the one.”
    “The one what?”
    Carlotta waved her hand. “Oh, honey, we definitely have to talk after this waste-of-time meeting.”
    Jolie had hoped to spend the time between the meeting and the beginning of her shift at the copy store printing flyers, so she didn’t encourage the woman’s attention. But when the meeting ended thirty minutes later, Carlotta turned and said, “I’m starving—have breakfast with me.”
    “Well, I—”
    “What