Body Movers (10 page)

“Good for you,” Mouse said. “So you’re going to make

your next payment on time?”

“Sure thing.”

“Terrific,” Mouse said, nodding amiably. “Because I

wouldn’t want to report back that you got the money to

pay that crook Father Thom and not us.”

Wesley considered lying but decided to remain silent.

“Don’t be a stranger.” Mouse nodded toward the town

house. “We know where you live.”

The car window buzzed up and the car pul ed away from

the curb. Panic curdled in Wesley’s stomach as he stood

watching the tail ights, weighing his options. Stay and

continue to expose Carlotta to the dangerous men he’d

gotten himself involved with…or go and leave her at home

alone where she might be even more vulnerable.

8

“Thanks for shopping with us,” Carlotta said, forcing a

smile for the guy who had made countless innuendos

while selecting a skimpy red teddy.

He took the shopping bag and grinned, stil leaning on the

checkout counter. “I’d like to call you sometime.”

She swallowed her distaste and nodded toward the bag. “I

assumed this was a gift for your girlfriend.”

“No, my mother.”

“You bought your mother a red teddy?”

He laughed but didn’t have the decency to look sheepish.

“You got me there. Okay, it’s for my girlfriend…but it’s a

breakup gift.”

“Ah. Wel , thanks anyway, but I’m not available.”

He stared at her chest and made a rueful noise. “Too bad.”

“Yes, wel , have a nice day.”

He took his time peeling away from the counter, looking

back as if he just knew she was going to change her mind.

Carlotta averted her gaze and busied herself straightening

the counter. What an oaf. Were there any good men left in

the world? She smirked, thinking of her friends’ comments

about her aversion to men. Would she recognize a good

man if he crossed her path?

Then she sighed. Even if a great guy dropped into her life,

who would want to sign up to share her problems?

Fugitive parents, a delinquent brother, a mountain of

debt—it didn’t exactly make her the most eligible woman

in Atlanta, not unless the guy had a laundry list of his own

problems.

Take Detective Jack Terry, for instance. The man wasn’t

bad-looking if one could look past his ghastly taste in

clothes. But even dressed in a Paul Smith suit, Jack Terry

would stil be a swaggering, arrogant, annoying pain in the

ass. Oh, sure, he’d tried to help Wesley yesterday in the

men’s room, but now she knew it was only because her

father’s case had been reopened and he was trying to cozy

up to them for information.

In her pocket, her cel phone vibrated. Since there weren’t

any unattended customers in sight, she pul ed out the

phone, hoping it was Wesley. She felt horrible about

yel ing at him this morning. Resentment toward her

parents had never been stronger. She waffled between

hoping the detective found them so she could tel them all

the hateful things she’d been saving up for ten years, and

hoping he didn’t find them because their return would

wreak so much havoc on Wesley. Better that he

romanticize their plight than to know with certainty what

she knew: that their parents didn’t give a fig what

happened to them.

But the caller ID read Hannah Kizer. Carlotta smiled and

punched the call button. “Hi, are you back?”

“Yeah, I’m back. How did things go yesterday in court?”

“He got a fine, community service and probation.”

“Wow, no jail time? His attorney must have been good.”

Carlotta thought of Liz Fischer, frowned and changed the

subject. “You’l be proud of me—I told Wesley he had to

get a job.”

“About damn time. Maybe now he’l be too busy to get

into trouble. Have any of his thugs been around?”

Carlotta glanced around to make sure no one could hear

her. “A guy forced his way into the house this morning,

demanding money.”

“You’re kidding. What did you do?”

“Wesley had a little cash, and I’d gotten an advance on my

credit card, so we had enough to pacify him.”

“You should have called the police.”

“Considering my family’s history with the police, I didn’t

think that was such a good idea. Besides, the police would

only make things worse.”

Hannah sighed. “You’re probably right. But you need

something to protect yourself.”

Carlotta pursed her mouth. “You mean a gun or

something?”

The sound of someone clearing their throat made Carlotta

turn her head. Her general manager stood there, frowning.

Carlotta’s pulse spiked. “Gotta go.”

“No, wait—I called you about a cocktail party tonight at

the Four Seasons. Want to crash?”

Lindy was walking away, so Carlotta relaxed a bit. “I told

you—I’ve sworn off party-crashing.”

“Oh, come on, I’l let you in through the kitchen, so you

don’t have to worry about a counterfeit ticket. You’re

ready to clock out, aren’t you?”

Glancing at her watch, Carlotta said, “Yes, but I really don’t

feel like going home to change.”

“It’s one of those business mixers for the upper crust, so

the dress is business casual. Come on, it’l take your mind

off things.”

Carlotta wavered. She’d worn a rather conservative black

suit and striped button-up shirt, so she would probably

blend.

“I’l meet you at the kitchen entrance in an hour,” Hannah

said.

“Okay,” Carlotta relented. “Just this once.”

She disconnected the call and hurried to wait on a

customer, who took up the time remaining on her shift.

Afterward, she freshened her makeup in the employee

break room. Michael Lane came in and removed a brown

paper bag from his locker.

“Hot date?” he asked, cracking open a can of diet soda.

She smiled. “No.”

“Hmm, I was hoping the reason you’ve been avoiding me

is because you had a secret man in your life.”

A pang of remorse struck her. She’d been avoiding Michael

because he’d no doubt read about Wesley’s arrest and she

didn’t want to discuss it. She and the gay man were

friends, but she wasn’t sure how much she could trust him

where the gossip mil was concerned.

“I’ve just been busy, that’s all.”

“I understand,” he said, his expression gentle. “Is

everything okay at home?”

“It’s getting better,” she said evasively, hoping it was true.

“Let me know if I can help.”

Gratitude swel ed in her chest. “I wil . And thanks again for

the Angela Ashford commission last week.”

He shrugged. “Everyone who works here knows she’s your

customer. You deserved it.” Then he frowned. “So what’s

the connection between the two of you anyway?”

She married the only man I’ve ever loved. “Uh…we went

to high school together.”

“Oh. Was she a bitch then, too?”

Carlotta laughed. “In training.”

“So what are you up to tonight?”

“I’m meeting Hannah at a party.”

He frowned. “The vampire?”

“She’s not a vampire. She just likes to dress…weirdly.”

“Whatever,” he said. “You’l never land a man if you keep

hanging out with the likes of her.”

She closed her locker door and swung her purse to her

shoulder. “I’m not trying to land a man.”

“Uh-oh,” he said. “That’s when it happens.”

“When what happens?”

“Love. Just when you make up your mind that you have no

intention of falling for someone—whammo!”

“I get hit by a truck?”

Michael stuck out his tongue. “Make fun, but mark my

words—your Mr. Right is close at hand.”

The door opened and the head of security walked in,

looking all of a hundred pounds in his uniform, his pants

gathered around his thin frame with a wide black belt, his

nonexistent chest puffed up like Barney Fife.

“I came to do a routine check of your loading dock,” Akin

said, then looked at Carlotta and blushed furiously. “I want

to make sure everyone here is safe on my watch.” Then he

saluted and strode out the double doors leading to the

loading dock.

Michael looked at her and burst out laughing.

“On that note, I’m out of here,” she said, waving goodbye.

She laughed at Michael’s nonsense on the short drive to

the Four Seasons Hotel. Despite her hesitation when she

had been on the phone with Hannah, her chest clicked

with anticipation as she parked her car—there was no

money for valet service tonight—and walked toward the

hotel entrance. There was nothing quite so exciting as

fudging her way into a party where she wasn’t supposed

to be. The difference was tonight she wouldn’t be

incognito; if she ran into somebody she knew, it would be

fun to see them stutter and fumble while trying to figure

out how someone like her could afford the requisite two-

hundred-fifty-dol ar ticket that these events usually

boasted.

She checked her watch as she walked into the hotel. Right

on time. She rode up the elevator and when she alighted,

turned away from the velvet-roped entrance where a

hostess was taking tickets and headed down a narrow hall

that led to the restrooms and to a set of stainless swinging

doors marked Service Personnel Only. The door opened

and Hannah, dressed in standard white culinary garb, her

striped hair bound in a hairnet, thrust a folded garment

into Carlotta’s hands. “Put this apron on.”

She did as she was told, crossing the long ties in front

before securing them in back, then frowned. “You didn’t

tel me you were working the party. I thought we were

going to hang out.”

“I’m only standing in until someone else gets here, then I’l

find you.”

“Okay,” Carlotta said sulkily.

“Cheer up,” Hannah said, handing her a tray of mini

quiches to carry through the kitchen. “I think I saw Gladys

Knight. Didn’t you say you wanted her autograph?”

Carlotta nodded, glad she’d put her new autograph book

in her bag. “But why would she be here?”

“She’s a businesswoman, has investments in town—

including a tasty little restaurant in Midtown.”

Considerably cheered, Carlotta fol owed Hannah through

the kitchen maze, trying to look busy and intent as she

balanced the tray on her hand. As soon as they cleared the

doors into the hallway leading to the party room, she

handed the tray to Hannah and removed the apron with

lightning speed. “Thanks,” she said, smoothing her hand

over her hair.

“Have fun,” Hannah said. “I’l see you as soon as I can get

away.”

Carlotta turned to the crowd, scanning for the singer of

“Midnight Train to Georgia” among the preppily dressed,

one-hand-in-their-pants-pocket crowd, and spotted her

standing in a corner, sporting her signature dazzling smile

and, fortuitously, signing an autograph. Carlotta made a

beeline for the woman before she tired of autograph

hounds. She stepped up and introduced herself, then

explained that she’d once had the singer’s autograph, but

that her autograph book had recently been ruined and she

was hoping to get a replacement. Ms. Knight was gracious

and obliged, writing her name with a flourish in the new

pink leather autograph book—the first among its blank

pages.

Carlotta watched, starstruck, imagining all the glamorous,

wonderful things the woman had done and seen in her

lifetime and visualizing al of that luck and energy pouring

into the bold signature that she would take home with

her. “Thank you so much,” she gushed when the singer

handed the book back to her.

She turned, happy beyond words to begin fil ing another

book with celebrity autographs. In the months since her

last book had been destroyed, she hadn’t realized how

much she missed lying in bed and reading the names of

famous people she’d met, if only for a few seconds.

“I’d know that smile anywhere,” said a deep male voice.

Carlotta snapped the book shut, looked up, and froze.

Peter Ashford, looking even more handsome than he had

ten years ago, stood smiling at her.

9

Carlotta’s heart stood stil . “Peter. Hel o.”

His dark blue eyes turned wistful. “It’s been a long time,

Carlotta.”

“Yes,” she managed, wishing for something to lean against

to keep from falling down.

“You look great,” he said, sweeping his gaze over her. “The

same…only better.”

Obligatory chatter. She remembered his comment about

recognizing her smile anywhere and was suddenly self-

conscious of the gap between her front teeth that she’d

never had corrected. She took him in—his dark, sun-kissed

skin, his blond hair clipped in a trendy style that made the

most of his cheekbones. He was stil tal and lean but had

fil ed out. What had once been boyish was all man, and

she had to stop herself from reaching out to pul his body

against hers, to breathe in the cologne on his neck, to

knead the muscles in his back.

“How have you been?” he asked to fil the awkward

silence.

“Oh, fine,” she said quickly.