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human nature. Aren’t you sitting here right now wondering about all of these people, and what they’re doing at my party?”
    â€œNot as much as I’m wondering what I’m doing at your party.” Heswirled 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.
    â€œYou were curious,” she told him.
    â€œSome.”
    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.”
    â€œYou’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.”
    â€œEither I’ve had too much wine, or you’re making me dizzy.”
    Bess smiled and gave him a companionable pat on the thigh thatsent 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.”
    â€œYour 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.
    â€œSo, that’s the one who busted you?” Lori asked her, popping a plump olive into her mouth.
    â€œWhat 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.”
    â€œYou bet. And the best part is, he’s not an actor.”
    â€œStill 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.”
    â€œSense has nothing to do with it.”
    Lori looked away, because it hurt, more than she could bear to admit, to watch Steven