Body Movers (29 page)

keep out fifty bucks to pay the court, and geez, a guy

needed some pocket change.

His cel phone rang and Chance’s name came up on the

screen. Something told him not to answer it, but then he

remembered how Chance had come through when he’d

asked about a gun. Wesley pressed the call button. “Yeah,

dude, what’s up?”

“You know that big amateur-game rumor I’ve been

hearing?” Chance asked, his voice more animated than

usual. “It’s happening tonight, man. An all-weekend

tournament.”

Wesley’s pulse picked up. The promise he’d made to

Carlotta not to gamble reverberated in his head even as he

asked, “Where?”

“Basement of an office building in Brookwood on

Peachtree. It’l be a bunch of lawyers and telecom execs—

you’l clean up. Only twenty-five seats, and the top five

players are in the money. The grand prize is twenty-five

thousand, man.”

Perspiration beaded on Wesley’s lip. “What’s the buy-in?”

“Twenty-five hundred. You got it?”

Wesley hesitated. He could probably scrape together

another two hundred from his various hiding places. “I

have a grand.”

“I’l loan you the rest, man, for half of your take.”

Wes swallowed. He’d vowed never to borrow money from

Chance—somehow, it seemed even more dangerous than

borrowing money from loan sharks. He’d have to make up

something to tel Carlotta where he’d be, but he’d have his

cel phone with him if anything came up.

“Wes, are you there?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you in?”

Wesley’s mind raced. He’d been studying cards like crazy

since he’d last played, since he’d made that promise to

Carlotta. He’d watched marathon poker tournaments on

television and practiced at free online poker sites until his

computer had been confiscated. He’d become adept at

reading other players’ tel s and disguising his own. If the

cards fel his way, he could probably double his money, or

triple it. And if he won…he’d be debt free and would have

earned enough of a reputation to get a backer for the

World Series of Poker tournament on a regional level. An

opportunity like this didn’t come around very often.

“Come on, man—shit or get off the can. Are you in?”

Sending silent apologies to Carlotta, Wesley stood and

grinned into the phone. “I’m in.”

23

“You okay, Carlotta?”

She snapped out of her reverie and turned to see Michael

retying his tie in a mirror in the employee break room. She

nodded, realizing she was staring into her open locker.

What had she been looking for? She was so worried about

Wesley that she couldn’t concentrate.

“Are you sure?” he asked more gently, coming over to

stand next to her.

She closed the locker door and put a smile on her face.

“I’m fine. Just being a big sister.”

“Is Wesley giving you trouble again?”

“Actually, no. He has a job, he’s looking forward to doing

his community service, and he even asked if he could stay

with a friend this weekend.”

“So he’s behaving himself and you have the place to

yourself. Did I miss something?”

She smiled. “Mothers know that when kids are on their

best behavior, that’s the time to worry.”

“Except you’re not his mother,” Michael chided. “He’s an

adult, sweetie.”

“I know,” she said, realizing that Michael wouldn’t

understand the sixth sense she’d developed where her

brother was concerned. He was up to something, she just

knew it. And the fact that he was staying at Chance

Hol ander’s apartment did little to soothe her anxiety. She

hoped that he simply wanted a little privacy—that he was

meeting up with some girl that he didn’t want to bring

around. Thinking about Wesley’s sex life made her a little

queasy, probably because it made her think about her own

sex life, which was fictional. But stil , thinking about

Wesley hooking up with a girl was preferable to al the

other trouble he and Chance could get into.

But Michael was right—there was no sense in borrowing

trouble, especially since she already had plenty. Peter had

called again last night, and it had taken all the wil power in

her body (and a cigarette) not to pick up the receiver. She

wanted to keep her distance to give Peter a chance to

grieve, and to give the police a chance to sort things out

where Angela’s death was concerned.

“Michael,” she asked casually, “do you know a Susan

Harroway?”

He squinted. “I can’t keep the Harroway women straight—

they’re all perky blond paper dol s. Why?”

She shrugged. “No reason. I heard her name mentioned

the other day and wondered who she is, that’s all.”

“I think Susan is married to Davidson Harroway. He’s a

bigwig at the CIN cable news network. If she’s the one I’m

thinking of, she’s some kind of local tennis phenom who

was chosen to play a round with Chris Evert when she

came to town to raise money for charity.”

Carlotta’s pulse picked up. Angela played tennis—at the

funeral hadn’t one of her teammates mentioned how

much they would miss her?

They walked out to the sales floor and she fol owed

Michael to the shoe department. “You mentioned the

other day that you had a friend who worked at a Botox

clinic.”

“Uh-huh,” he murmured, readying his cash register.

“What was the name of the clinic?”

He glanced up. “Why?”

She didn’t have to fake the blush. “I’m considering a little

work.”

He snorted. “Your skin is flawless and Cindy Crawford

would kil for your bone structure. What gives?”

“I’m just thinking about a consultation.”

“I hope this doesn’t have something to do with that

Ashford guy.”

Carlotta swallowed hard. “Of course not.”

“Good, because I’d hate to see you start changing yourself

for a man.”

“Are you going to give me the name of the clinic or not?”

He tore off a piece of sales receipt and wrote on it. “Here’s

the name of the clinic. A consultation wil set you back

three hundred dol ars.”

She raised her eyebrows at her friend.

“So I’ve been told.”

Smothering a laugh, she said, “Thanks.”

Michael leaned in conspiratorial y. “Don’t look now, but

there’s an action-hero type headed your way.”

Carlotta turned and broke into an instant sweat to see

Detective Terry, dark suit and hideous tie, heading her

way. “Gotta go,” she murmured and pushed away from

the counter.

Her first thought was that Wesley was in trouble again, but

then she realized the detective could be here about a

number of things—her parents…Angela. Christ, her life

was way too intertwined with the Atlanta PD.

“Good morning, Detective,” she said as he strode up to

her.

“A private word with you, Ms. Wren?” He didn’t wait for a

response, simply grabbed her by the elbow and steered

her toward a dressing room in the adjacent men’s

department.

She trotted to keep up, trying to shake off his grasp. “I’m

coming, you don’t have to manhandle me.”

“I have a feeling,” he muttered, “that you couldn’t be

handled even if a man wanted to.”

She was stil mul ing over the meaning of his remark when

he propel ed her into a changing room, fol owed her in and

closed the door behind them.

Carlotta crossed her arms, more to protect herself from his

towering nearness than anything else. “Really, Detective,

must you be so dramatic?”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’ve got some explaining to do.”

She tried to remain aloof but failed miserably. “What are

you talking about?”

“You were questioned in a murder case last year?”

She hugged herself tighter. “So?”

“So, you didn’t think it was worth mentioning to me at

some point?”

“I fail to see what business it is of yours. Besides, I wasn’t

arrested. And they caught the murderer.”

“I know.” He frowned harder. “And you also were arrested

for assault?”

“Those charges were dropped! Besides, the big galoot

deserved to have a tire iron wrapped around his head,

trying to entice my brother into gambling so he could get

him deeper into debt.”

The detective jammed his hands on his hips and shook his

head. “Cooper Craft asked the M.E. to autopsy Angela

Ashford based on questions you raised about that men’s

jacket she bought.”

“And?”

“And after the fact, he and I both find out that your

credibility is…tainted.”

She glared. “Tainted how? I didn’t kil anyone!”

“You tried to—a tire iron isn’t a toy, Carlotta! The bottom

line is that you don’t look so good on paper.”

She was thrown off guard by the fact that he’d used her

first name…and by the strange feeling that despite his

condemnation, he seemed slightly impressed with her

outlaw status. She swallowed the retort on her tongue

because there was something bigger at stake. “So there’s

not going to be an autopsy?”

He pursed his mouth and took his time answering.

“Actually, the autopsy took place this morning.”

She inhaled. “And?”

“And…the M.E. found signs of a struggle. Angela Ashford

was probably held underwater by her neck. Her death has

been reclassified as a homicide.”

Mixed feelings stabbed at her—relief that her hunch had

been right, but horror that the woman had died at the

hands of…someone.

Then she frowned. “So what was all that crap about me

not being credible?”

He frowned harder. “If you ask someone to pul in a

professional favor, it’s only fair that you put everything on

the table so there aren’t any surprises. Coop really went

out on a limb for you on this one.”

Coop, the man who thought she was smart. She angled her

chin at the detective. “Then I guess it’s a good thing I was

right.”

“Guess so…except now you realize, don’t you, that your

boyfriend is our prime suspect?”

“Peter Ashford is not my boyfriend.”

“Really? I found a valet driver at the Four Seasons hotel

who saw Peter Ashford kissing a dark-haired woman

standing next to a Monte Carlo the night you said you ran

into him at a party there.”

Wow, the man had eyes and ears everywhere. Did he also

know that she’d crashed the party? “That kiss

was…spontaneous. It didn’t mean anything.”

Detective Terry leaned in and pressed one hand on the

wall behind her, effectively pinning her in, his body mere

inches from hers. His dark gaze lowered to her mouth. “I

could see how that could happen,” he murmured, his voice

throaty.

She moved her head back and held her breath, taking in

his cleanly shaven jaw that hinted of the beard that would

reappear in a few hours. She wondered how often the

man shaved, and if his propensity for hair extended to his

broad chest. She’d never been much for hairy chests,

although suddenly the idea wasn’t repulsive.

“But you have to admit,” he said, his breath close to her

cheek, “the fact that someone saw you kissing in public a

couple of days before the man’s wife was murdered

is…coincidental.”

Her breathing became shallow. Carlotta lifted her hand

and pressed against his chest until he stepped back, giving

her room to breathe, although her lungs stil didn’t work

as wel as she would’ve liked. Her hand tingled with

awareness of the wall of muscle beneath his shirt and tie.

“Peter and I weren’t and aren’t having an affair,” she said

as steadily as she could manage. “I told you that our

relationship ended years ago.”

“Really? Then why does Peter Ashford carry a photo of you

in his wal et?”

She blinked. “What?”

His eyebrows went up. “You didn’t know?”

“Of course I didn’t know.”

“But his wife probably did. Which might explain why she

attacked you here the day she was murdered.”

Her throat convulsed. “I…I…you know about that?”

He gave her a tight smile. “Your security department has

been helpful. The question is, why didn’t you tell me that

she became violent?”

“I didn’t think it was…relevant.”

“Oh, wel , that makes everything okay,” the detective said

sarcastically. Then his jaw hardened. “It’s starting to look

as if Peter Ashford kil ed his wife over you.”

“He didn’t,” she said with conviction. “I know Peter and he

could never do anything like that.”

One eyebrow quirked. “I thought you said the other night

was the first time you’d talked to him in years.”

“That’s right. In over ten years, in fact.”

One side of the detective’s mouth slid back. “People can

change a lot in ten years.”

“I know,” she conceded. Look at her, for instance. “But

Peter simply isn’t capable of murder.”

He gave her a flat smile. “Everyone is capable of murder,

Ms. Wren. And some people just might think that you

were in on it with him.”

“Th-that’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? I spoke to your associate, Michael Lane. He said that

you’d threatened to strangle Angela.”