Книга - Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1

Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1
Stephanie Bond


Two-for-One Trouble!With fugitive parents, a brother dodging loan sharks, a hunky cop who’s made her outlaw family his business, a buff body mover looking to make a move on her, and her ex-fiancé back in the picture, Carlotta Wren thought her life couldn’t get any more complicated. And then… Her best friend jumps on the body-moving bandwagon. Her fugitive parents phone home. Her identity is stolen by a look-alike. Her look-alike is found, well…dead.Under suspicion for murder, Carlotta discovers that her devious double might have been bumped off accidentally—and that she could be the real target! Throw in dealing with her motley crew of family, friends and wannabe lovers, and Carlotta begins to think that jail isn’t such a bad alternative after all…












For a limited time only: men up for grabs!


Retail maven Carlotta Wren loves nothing better than to shop, but with her scandalous—and debt-ridden—background, she’s been too busy trying to keep her head above water to have the luxury of shopping for a man!

Now she has three men in her life—a sexy cop hot on the trail of her fugitive parents, a fascinating body mover who has secrets of his own and her repentant first love who’s back with his heart in his hands. Thrust into the middle of yet another crisis, the once-lonely Carlotta finds herself surrounded by lots of prime male merchandise! One man she’ll try on for size …

One man she’ll save for a special occasion …

And one man will make her an offer that’s hard to refuse …



Look what people are saying about




BODY MOVERS


“Bond has successfully switched to the crime genre, bringing along her trademark humour and panache.”

—Booklist

“Here’s to Carlotta’s future misadventures lasting a long time.”

—RT Book Reviews (4 1/2 stars)

“This is a series the reader will want to jump on in the very beginning. It’s witty, sexy and hilariously funny.”

—Writers Unlimited

“The exciting start of a new series.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“Body Movers is signature Stephanie Bond, with witty dialogue, brilliant characterisation, and a wonderful well-plotted storyline.” —Contemporary Romance Writers

“I devoured this book and loved it!”

—FreshFiction.com


BODY MOVERS:



2 BODIES FOR THE PRICE OF 1



STEPHANIE BOND






www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)




ACKNOWLEDGEMENT


As with every book, there are certain people who made the journey easier. First, thanks to my editors Brenda Chin, Margaret O’Neill Marbury and Dianne Moggy for their assistance in getting the Body Movers series off the ground running, and for the guarantee that, as of this date, the series will last for at least four books. Thanks, too, to my agent Kimberly Whalen of Trident Media Group for handling the logistics, to my critique partner, Rita Herron, for her unflagging support, and to my husband, Christopher Hauck, for his glowing cover quote.:)

Thanks, too, to the booksellers who have recommended this series to their customers, and to all of you readers who e-mailed asking when the second book would hit the shelves—I hope you enjoy 2 Bodies for the Price of 1! Keep those e-mails coming!




Prologue


Hi, there. My name is Carlotta Wren. I’m a whisper away from being thirty years old. I work for Neiman Marcus in Atlanta. And I’m single. You’re probably thinking, Sounds pretty normal. But let me tell you, friend, you won’t believe what I’ve been through in the last ten years.

I was barely eighteen, a senior in a private high school, living in a mansion in a tony area of Atlanta known as Buckhead, engaged to a handsome rich young man named Peter Ashford and on my way to college when my father was charged with investment fraud. The world as I knew it crumbled around us as my family lost every worldly possession and we were forced to move into a grubby townhouse in a less tony part of town.

My father said he was framed but instead of staying to face down his problems, he decided to skip bail—and town—and my drunken socialite mother went with him. I haven’t seen them since. And here’s the kicker: They left me to raise my nine-year-old brother Wesley. Can you imagine? I was barely an adult and ill-equipped to finish raising myself, much less a sensitive kid with a genius IQ.

But I regrouped. College was obviously out, so I started a retail job and discovered that my life as a rich kid had at least prepared me to sell expensive things to my former friends. Yes, I said “former.” As soon as my father’s scandal hit the papers, my friends fled—and so did my boyfriend—Peter dumped me like last year’s handbag.

But Wesley and I made it through somehow and one day I looked up to discover that he was a grown man. As you can imagine, Wesley and I are close, but we do disagree on a few things. Wesley is convinced my father is innocent and is hiding out until he can prove it … I’m convinced my father is an asshole and is hiding out on a tropical island.

Another area in which my brother and I disagree: Wesley, now nineteen, has an aversion to working a regular job—he’d rather play Texas Hold ‘Em poker and hang out with the wrong sort of people. In fact, he’s up to his—and my—neck in debt to two loan sharks. And recently he was arrested for hacking into the courthouse computer database to delete speeding tickets for his friends. When I went to post bail, I met the arresting officer, Detective Jack Terry, and we didn’t exactly hit it off.

Wesley’s arrest caught the attention of the D.A. who’d arrested our father and decided to take it out on Wesley. My dad’s former attorney—and lover, sheesh—stepped in to help Wesley and he got off with probation and a fine—yay, more debt. But with the Wren family back on the radar, the D.A. decided to reopen my father’s case and assign it to none other than Detective Terry.

Deciding that Wesley needed a little tough love, I told him to get a job or get out. And he got one—moving bodies for the morgue! His boss, Cooper Craft, was cuter than I expected a man who ran a funeral home and moved bodies would be, but still, it’s a creepy way to make a living.

Meanwhile, I decided to crash an upscale party—I do that occasionally, but I’m not proud of it—and ran into my old flame, Peter Ashford, who had married a former friend of mine and was doing very well for himself working for the firm where my father had once worked. Problem was, Peter wasn’t happy in his marriage and he felt bad about the way he’d dumped me and wanted to pick up where we left off.

Then—and this is where things get hairy—his wife was murdered and I was implicated because she and I had had a little spat. And of course none other than Detective Jack Terry led the investigation. It looked like Peter had actually murdered his wife—in fact, he confessed to it! But I knew he was innocent so I did some investigating on my own and the real killer was eventually caught—after a few bullets were exchanged and Detective Terry sort of saved my, as he put it, “ungrateful behind.”

So suddenly I had three new men in my life: Peter, Jack and Cooper. Wesley swore to me that he’d given up gambling. Things were looking up. I’d even begun to think my life was getting back to normal—and then my long-lost father called.




1


“Sweetheart, it’s me … Daddy.”

Carlotta Wren stepped off the up escalator in the Atlanta Neiman Marcus department store where she worked, so shocked by the sound of the voice on the other end that she dropped her cell phone. It landed on the shiny, waxed floor with a smack, bounced and skidded away. With her heart in her stomach, she frantically scrambled after the fleeing phone, the baritone of her long-lost fugitive father ringing in her ears.

Was it really him calling after ten years of silence? Ten years during which she’d put her life on hold to finish raising herself and her younger brother Wesley after her parents had skipped bail—and town—on investment fraud charges. Ten years of feeling alone and abandoned after her friends and even her fiancé had withdrawn their affection in light of the scandal.

The tiny phone spun away like a mouse scurrying for cover. Carlotta gulped air as she clambered after it, brushing the shoulders of people in her path, darting between racks of clothing. The foot of a striding customer struck the phone and sent it spinning in another direction. Carlotta hurtled after it, feeling her father slip farther from her grasp with every agonizing second that passed. She was practically hyperventilating when she fell to her knees, curled her fingers around the elusive phone and jammed it to her ear. “Hello? Daddy?”

Dead air. If it had been Randolph Wren on the other end of the line, he was gone.

A sob welled up in her chest. “Daddy, can you hear me?”

She couldn’t bring herself to hang up, unwilling to sever the only connection she’d had with her father in over a decade. Then she realized that he might be trying to call her back and stabbed the disconnect button. Sitting under a rack of beaded bathing-suit sarongs, Carlotta stared at the phone, willing it to ring again, thinking how ridiculous she would seem to an onlooker—an almost thirty-year-old woman sitting on the floor waiting for a call back from her long-lost daddy.

Somewhere between her nonexistent career goals, her brother’s legal problems, their hulking debt to loan sharks and her confused love life, she’d made the transition from pitiful to pathetic.

Suddenly she remembered the callback feature and realized with a surge of excitement that she’d at least be able to see what number he’d called from. She stabbed at buttons on the phone, but was rewarded with a rather sick-sounding tone and noticed with dismay that the display was interrupted by a hairline crack. Liquid gathered in one corner, much like when Wesley had broken his Etch-a-Sketch when he was little.

“You can’t be broken,” Carlotta pleaded, blinking back tears. What would she tell Wesley? That their father had finally made contact and she’d hung up on him? Wesley still believed that their father was innocent and that he and their mother would return some day to clear his name and unite their shattered family. Carlotta felt less forgiving, especially toward her mother Valerie, who hadn’t been charged with a crime, yet had chosen a life on the lam over her own children.

“Ring,” she whispered, hoping that only the display had been compromised. She sat on her heels for five long minutes, her thumb hovering over the answer button, perspiration wetting her forehead. A shadow fell over her. When she looked up, she winced inwardly to see the general manager, Lindy Russell, standing with her eyebrows raised.

Minus ten points.

Next to Lindy stood a tall, narrow blonde, conservatively coiffed down to her upper class hair flip and wearing a haughty expression. Carlotta recognized her from sales meetings; she was new and worked in accessories next to the shoe department where Carlotta’s friend Michael Lane worked. Patricia somebody or another.

“Carlotta, is there a problem?” Lindy asked.

Carlotta pushed to her feet and straightened her clothing. During the dash for her phone she’d lost a shoe. “No.”

“Glad to hear it. You know you’re not supposed to be using your cell phone while you’re working the floor.”

“Yes,” Carlotta said, her throat closing. “But this is a—an emergency.”

“Oh?” Lindy crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Are you on an organ-donor list?”

“No.”

“The phone-a-friend for a contestant on a national trivia show?”

“No.”

“Waiting to hear back from your next employer?”

Patricia snickered and Carlotta swallowed. “N-no.”

Lindy extended her hand. “Hand it over. You can pick it up at the end of your shift.”

“But—”

“No buts, Carlotta. You’re already skating on thin ice around here.”

Carlotta bit her tongue. Lindy had been more than fair to give her a get-out-of-jail-free card for buying clothes on her employee discount, wearing them to crash upscale parties, then returning the fancy outfits for full credit. Ditto when she had been involved in a knock-down drag-out fight with a customer right here in the store—and been implicated in that customer’s subsequent murder. That particular misunderstanding had since been cleared up, but Carlotta’s once-stellar sales record had slipped badly in the interim. It hadn’t helped that the murdered woman had been a high-volume customer.

She was lucky that she hadn’t been canned weeks ago, and since she and Wesley depended on her paycheck for little things like paying the mortgage … with a shaky smile, she handed the phone to Lindy.

“Carlotta, have you met Patricia Alexander?”

“Not formally.” She extended her hand to the blonde. “Hello.”

The woman’s hand was just as cold as her smile. “Hello.”

“Patricia is number one in sales this week,” Lindy said.

“Congratulations,” Carlotta murmured, stinging with the knowledge that not too long ago, she had owned that number one spot.

“Thanks,” Patricia said, then laughed—a sound that reminded Carlotta of a test of the Emergency Broadcast System. “No hard feelings, I hope.”

“Why should there be?”

The woman angled her head. “Because I plan to break your sales record. Better watch your back.” Her frosty smile didn’t match her breezy tone.

Lindy gave Carlotta a pointed look, then dropped the phone into her jacket pocket. Carlotta watched the women walk away, along with all hopes of talking to her father today.

Had it really been him? And if so, would he think she’d hung up on him purposely, that she didn’t want to talk to him? Worrying her lower lip, she wondered—did she?

If anyone had asked what she would do if her father called out of the blue, Carlotta would’ve sworn that she would hang up on him. Over the years her anger had grown into an almost tangible mass, like a tumor. Yet at the sound of his voice, she had regressed to Daddy’s little girl—the entitled, spoiled teenager she’d been when he’d disappeared, the naive, young woman who couldn’t conceive that her parents would desert her and her nine-year-old brother. With a mere four words uttered from his mouth, she’d been ready to accept his explanation and his apology … assuming he’d had either to offer.

She covered her mouth to suppress the aching wail that lodged in her throat. Knowing that her father still had that much power over her made her feel even less in control than usual. How dare he dive-bomb back into their lives like that?

Perilously close to losing it, Carlotta backtracked to find her shoe, but was blinded by tears of frustration. She wiped at her eyes angrily and swore under her breath.

“Is this what you’re looking for?”

She winced, then turned at the unmistakable noise of Detective Jack Terry’s voice. She blinked away the moisture to find him studying her red Dior stiletto-heel slide with the same intensity that she’d seen him study evidence at crime scenes. Wesley’s job as a body mover had thrown her and the detective into close proximity at a couple of crime scenes, with abrasive results. Jack Terry was the one person she didn’t want to see right now—the brute had recently reopened her father’s case.

“Yes,” she snapped, snatching the shoe out of his big hand. “What are you doing here?”

“Irritating you, apparently.” Then he suddenly looked sheepish and she realized he was dressed too casually to be on duty. He cleared his throat. “If you must know, I need a monkey suit for a bigwig department dinner and I could use your … uh … help … picking out something.”

Her anger receded. He had no idea what had just transpired. And wouldn’t know unless she told him … or unless he’d made good on his threat to put a trace on her and Wesley’s phones. He wasn’t convinced that a handful of postcards was the only contact they’d had with their missing parents.

He gestured over his shoulder. “Maybe I should just go to the place where I usually shop.”

“I didn’t realize that Dick’s Sporting Goods sold formal wear,” she said dryly.

“This was a bad idea.” He turned to go.

“No, Jack. Wait.” He stopped and Carlotta wondered if he realized it was the first time she’d called him anything other than Detective Terry—or one of the several unsavory nicknames she had uttered privately. But recently he—and one of her collectible Judith Leiber breastplate necklaces, circa mid-1980s—had saved her from the bullet of a murderer, and in the aftermath, something electric had passed between them. She felt that confusing jolt now, at a loss to explain why she would be attracted to this good old Southern boy who—between arresting her brother for hacking into the Atlanta courthouse records, resurrecting her father’s case and grilling her about her customer’s murder—seemed to have made her family’s lawlessness his pet project.

“What?” His nose flared and she sensed that he too felt the unwelcome sexual energy bouncing between them.

To break the moment, she narrowed her eyes. “No way are you going to deny me the pleasure of seeing you buttoned into a tux.”

Jack frowned. “Sadist.”

She smiled and dropped her shoe, trying to compose herself as she pushed her bare foot inside. Her father would call back … of course he would. She wobbled and Jack reached out to steady her.

He gave a little laugh, his gold-colored eyes narrow with sudden concern. “Are you all right? You seem on edge.”

Carlotta stared at his big hand on her arm, reminding herself that if Jack Terry appeared concerned for her well-being, it was only because he was trying to get on her good side in the hope that she would lead him to her parents.

She pulled away. “I’m fine, Detective. Follow me.”




2


During the ride down the escalator, Carlotta’s neck burned with a fiery itch. She was certain Jack Terry could tell she was keeping something from him.

But the brawny detective appeared preoccupied himself. He wore what she was coming to recognize as his off-duty uniform: black T-shirt, worn jeans and black cowboy boots. And, she conceded begrudgingly, he wore it well. His rugged profile, close-cut dark hair and bronze skin made for a compelling view, yet he seemed completely unaware of women’s heads turning as they stepped off the escalator and headed toward the men’s department.

“So, what’s the occasion?” she asked.

“Hmm?”

“The bigwig department dinner.”

“Oh. An awards thing.”

She lifted an eyebrow as she led him toward the formal wear section. “Are you receiving an award?”

The blush that stained his cheeks spoke for him.

“You are,” she said, elbowing him. “What kind of an award?”

He cleared his throat. “Distinguished duty.”

“Distinguished, huh? Did you do something in particular to earn this recognition? Like save a kid from a runaway car?”

“Guess the department couldn’t think of anyone else to give it to.”

“That must be it,” Carlotta agreed, humoring his modesty. She angled her head and swept her gaze over the considerable length of him before pulling a jacket from a sleek wooden rack. “Black would be the obvious choice for a tux, but with your eyes and coloring, I’d go with charcoal gray. What are you, about a forty-four long, athletic cut?”

Jack looked surprised, then nodded. “Hey, I saw you this morning at a bank ATM on Piedmont.”

She frowned. “My bank is on Piedmont, but I wasn’t there this morning.”

“Really? Wow, the woman looked just like you, then.” He laughed. “No wonder she didn’t wave back when I honked. I thought you were ignoring me.”

“Apparently it was someone else ignoring you this time.” She held out the jacket for him.

He shrugged into it and she sighed in satisfaction as the luscious fabric slid into place, hugging his shoulders perfectly. She adjusted the lapels, dismayed at the little tremors of pleasure she felt when her hands met the brick wall of his chest. Avoiding his gaze, Carlotta steered him toward a mirror. He looked ill at ease … and slightly gorgeous, she realized with no small amount of consternation. Jack Terry was easier to dislike when he was rumpled and wearing one of his infamous ugly ties.

“What do you think?” She made wary eye contact in the mirror.

“It’s okay, I guess.”

“Just okay? Jack, this is one of the finest suits that money can buy.”

“I’m almost afraid to look at the price tag.”

“Don’t,” she agreed. “But a suit like this is an investment—you can wear it to formal dinners, to weddings.”

“I’m not much on weddings.”

“Funerals, then.”

“You’re not convincing me.”

“Look,” she said, smoothing a hand over his shoulder, “sometimes you just have to buy something because it looks so damn good on you.”

His eyebrows went up and a smile curled his mouth. “You think it looks damn good on me?”

Her cheeks warmed. “I do.”

For a few seconds, that sexy buzzing thing bounced back and forth between them.

“Then I’m convinced,” he said finally. “Ring me up.”

“You’ll need a shirt. And I’ll call the tailor to mark your pants.”

“I’m in your hands.”

Carlotta raised one eyebrow. “Gee, Detective, that almost sounds like trust.”

“I trust you—when it comes to clothes.”

She recognized the danger of discussing trust while the voice of her fugitive father still resonated in her head, so instead she pulled a smile from thin air. “You should. I promise you’ll look so good, no one will recognize you.”

He frowned. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“How’s your brother?” he asked as they walked back to the clothing racks.

“Good,” she replied and meant it. “I think Wesley has a crush on his probation officer.”

“At least that’ll keep him motivated to check in every week.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.”

“Does he plan to keep working for Cooper Craft?”

She nodded, then sighed. “As gruesome as it sounds, this whole body-moving business seems to agree with him.” Then she remembered a phone call she’d gotten from her friend Hannah just before her father had called … if it indeed had been her father. “And now my friend Hannah has jumped on the body-moving bandwagon.”

“The girl with the pierced tongue and the dog collar?”

“Yeah. She has a thing for Coop, I think.”

“Funny, but I gathered that Coop had a thing for you.”

It was her turn to blush. “I hadn’t noticed.”

A dubious light came into his eyes. “Liar. Women know when men have a thing for them.”

Buzz, buzz.

“I’m not interested in Coop,” she said quickly. Although the man had saved her when Wesley’s six-foot python had cornered her in her bedroom. And she recalled the appreciation in his eyes to find her standing on her dresser wearing skimpy lingerie.

“I guess that means you and Ashford are back together,” Detective Terry said lightly.

Peter Ashford, her first love, the man who had dumped her when her parents had gone missing and the scandal had burst over the front page of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Peter had gone on to marry a debutante—the good customer of Carlotta’s who recently had been murdered in their palatial home in Buckhead, the wealthiest area in Atlanta. Many, Jack Terry included, had assumed Peter had killed his wife, but in the end, he’d been exonerated. And had expressed interest in picking up where he and Carlotta had left off years ago.

“No, Peter and I aren’t together,” she murmured, selecting a cream dress shirt and holding it up in front of him. She could feel the heat emanating from his body.

“Really.” Jack cleared his throat. “I actually thought about asking you to go to this awards thing … with me.”

Startled, she looked up. “You did?”

He suddenly looked as panicked as she felt. “But … considering the investigation into your father’s case has been reopened, that might not be such a good idea … right?”

He didn’t want to be seen with a fugitive’s daughter. That would be a conflict of interest and not good for a distinguished detective’s career. The same reason Peter Ashford had dumped her and ripped her heart out years ago when she’d needed him most. Did her father know how much he had damaged her and Wesley’s lives? Did he even care?

“Right?” Jack repeated, his expression anxious. He wanted her to let him off the hook.

“Right,” she said brightly. “Now let’s get the tailor down here and make sure that when your date opens her door, you take her breath away.”

He gave an uncomfortable little laugh and Carlotta tamped down her own unease as she called the house tailor. The day was wearing on her—first the mysterious phone call, then Jack Terry dredging up all her troubles, plus this weird physical attraction that had sprung up between them. But the attraction was probably born of the knowledge that nothing could possibly come of it … there were simply too many obstacles.

While she described to the tailor what services they would need, she swung her gaze to Jack and was unnerved to find him blatantly studying her. She squirmed under his gaze and stumbled over her words. The man was too perceptive for his own good—if she spent much time in his company, she wouldn’t be able to keep secrets from him.

She hung up and gave him a shaky smile. “He’ll be right down.”

“Carlotta, is something bothering you?”

Damn those cop’s instincts. For one crazy second, she wanted to confess about the phone call, to see if he could trace it and….

And what? Hunt down her father and drag him back to Atlanta to stand trial on the investment-fraud charges, now trumped by charges for being a fugitive? And her mother for aiding and abetting? Would it really be better to have her parents in prison than to have them on the run? Either way, they would be unavailable to her and to Wesley. And if her parents were imprisoned, the stain on the family name would be even more permanently set.

“No, I’m fine. Now … let’s get you out of those jeans.”

His eyes lit with mischief. “Whatever you say.”

She smirked and pointed toward the dressing room. “I meant you need to put on the pants before the tailor gets here.”

He frowned and moved toward the dressing room, reluctance in his step.

Carlotta shook her head, but when the dressing room door slid open a bit, she couldn’t resist a naughty peek at Jack’s reflection as he shucked his boots and jeans, revealing white boxers and long, powerful legs, more tanned than she’d expected. Unexpected heat struck low in her stomach.

Plus ten points, she noted idly, wondering what the Alabama boy did in his free time to acquire that tan. Somehow she doubted it was playing tennis.

“See something you like?”

She glanced up to find him grinning at her as he stepped into the pants. Carlotta straightened. “Don’t flatter yourself, Detective.”

His rolling chuckle sent vibrations over her warm skin. The arrival of the tailor saved her from more embarrassing banter. Suddenly she wanted to put distance between herself and Jack Terry. The man triggered dangerous urges—the urge to tell the truth being the least hazardous of her impulsive reactions.

She stood back as the tailor, a distinguished older gentleman, took over. To her amusement, Jack seemed uncomfortable to have the man touching him.

“Do you dress right or left, sir?” the man asked as he knelt to mark the hem on the slacks.

Jack frowned. “Excuse me?”

Smothering a laugh, Carlotta silently signaled the detective by pointing to his crotch and flopping her hand right, then left.

When recognition dawned on Jack’s face, his neck flushed red. “What difference does that make?”

“It affects how your trousers hang, sir,” the tailor said crisply.

Carlotta’s shoulders were shaking. Jack glared at her and muttered, “Left.”

She turned away to enjoy a laugh at the big man’s expense, pretending to fold the dress shirt. It was nice to have something to lift her dour mood, if only temporarily … and the episode helped to level the field between her and the man who seemed to hold all the chips in their relationship.

Carlotta looked in his direction to see him holding up his arms while the tailor practically bear-hugged him to mark the waist on the pants. Not that she and Detective Jack Terry had a relationship. More of a … an association.

Jack flinched as the tailor made adjustments to the inside seam that had him putting his hands in places where another man’s hands obviously had never been. “Is this going to take much longer?” he asked irritably.

“That should do it,” the tailor said, standing and smoothing his hand over the back of the trousers—and Jack’s ass—which garnered the older man another stern look.

Carlotta pressed her lips together and managed to keep a straight face long enough to thank the tailor. But when the man was out of earshot, she glanced at Jack’s perturbed expression and burst out laughing.

“Are you finished humiliating me?”

“Yes, you can take off the pants.”

She watched him stride back into the dressing room and craned her neck to see if he would happen to leave the door ajar again. When it clicked shut, she frowned, then was irritated with herself. She had no business looking at Jack Terry or liking it—and the man’s ego probably didn’t need more feeding. Lots of women seemed to go for the base types.

She pursed her mouth as a memory surfaced. Jack had a history with Liz Fischer, her father’s former attorney … and lover. The woman had also come to Wesley’s aid when he’d been arrested, much to Carlotta’s dismay. She didn’t trust her, and the fact that Jack had admitted to bedding her was just one more reason to stop looking at him.

Something she had to keep reminding herself when he stepped back out in his snug jeans, the suit draped over his thick arm. Averting her gaze and walking in front of him, she led him to a register.

“I gave you my friends-and-family discount,” she said, holding up a little card.

“Thanks.”

“You might consider using the difference to buy a decent tie,” she suggested. “There’s a clearance table over there—two for the price of one.”

“Tempting. Maybe next time.”

Carlotta swiped his credit card. “You can come back tomorrow to pick up the suit. We can look for shoes then.”

“I thought I’d wear my boots.”

She made a face.

But Jack was staring at someone over her shoulder, the displeasure on his face clear as he returned his card to his wallet.

Carlotta turned and blinked in surprise to see Peter Ashford standing there, looking polished in dark designer slacks and shirt, his blond hair slicked back, his watch, signet ring and seriously expensive shoes befitting a successful investment broker. “Peter,” she breathed.

“Hi, Carly.” He eyed Jack Terry warily. “Hello, Detective.”

Jack nodded curtly. “Ashford. When did you get out of jail?”

Peter blanched slightly, but stood his ground. “Last night. The charges won’t be officially dropped until later this week, but my attorney and the D.A. arranged for an early release.”

D.A. Kelvin Lucas, the man who had ordered her father’s case be reopened and asked Jack Terry to make it a priority. For such a big city, it was a small world.

“I guess I owe you my thanks for nailing the person responsible for Angela’s death,” Peter said to Jack.

“Just doing my job,” Jack said. “Carlotta was the one who kept insisting you were innocent, even after you confessed. You should be thanking her.”

“I intend to,” Peter said, gazing at her with affection so palpable, she could feel it settle around her shoulders.

Jack cleared his throat, spearing Carlotta with his sardonic gaze. “See you around.”

She nodded absently as he walked away, thinking that the two men were a study in extremes—Jack Terry, rough and aggressive; Peter, cultured and subtle.

Carlotta glanced back at Peter, hoping that he hadn’t come to press her about renewing their relationship. She wasn’t ready, and neither was he, so soon after his wife’s death. “Peter, what are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you.” He looked around as if to ensure they were alone.

She realized that in the wake of Jack’s departure, his expression had grown grave and his hands were shaking. “What’s wrong?”

He stepped closer and seemed to grapple with what he had to say. “Carlotta, your father—Randolph—”

Her pulse skyrocketed. “What about him?”

“He—he called me.”




3


Wesley Wren sat staring at the perspiration beading on the forehead of the real-estate broker sitting opposite him. Admittedly, it was hot as hell in the back of the west-end car repair shop where a game of Texas Hold ‘Em had erupted on this stewing Sunday afternoon. But they’d been playing for over two hours and the guy’s sweat glands hadn’t kicked in until just now, when the last of five cards had been turned up in the community pot.

Wesley hoped that meant the three of clubs worsened the guy’s hand rather than giving him a fluky straight that would beat his own full house of three queens and two eights. Because they’d been dealt only two face-down pocket cards and since there were no pairs in the face-up community cards, the only other hand that could beat his full house, four of a kind, was out of the question.

The winner of this hand would walk away with the fifteen grand that was piled on the sticky table between them. Wesley tamped down a spike of excitement. He was in a sweet spot, but he’d been close to the payoff before only to have it snatched away. In fact, he was still smarting from a bad beat in a weekend-long tournament that had left him too broke to make payments to his loan sharks and even deeper in debt to his rich buddy Chance Hollander.

This game had started after he’d dropped off his sister’s car for some scratch-and-dent repair. Chance had tagged along and suggested a little gambling to the oily owner. A few phone calls later and a few bored professionals had shown up, ready to part with their easily-earned cash.

He was convinced he needed this money more than Real Estate Man, but two layers of deodorant and a puff of his sister Carlotta’s talc on his forehead kept his sweat glands under control at moments like these.

While he waited for his opponent to see the bet, raise or fold, Wesley nursed a pang of regret for once again reneging on his promise to his sister to stay away from gambling. He told himself that the fact that he’d sold the motorcycle that she hated would temper her anger if he wound up losing the five grand he’d gotten for it.

Poor Carlotta. They’d both taken it hard when their parents had been forced to leave town to keep his father out of prison for a crime he didn’t commit, but Carlotta had borne the brunt of the fallout, having to raise his smart ass and generally try to keep him out of trouble.

It had worked for the most part. Oh, sure, he’d racked up some debt and had been caught hacking into the county courthouse records, but no one—not even his buddy Chance or his hot attorney Liz Fischer—knew that his crime wasn’t as sloppy as it seemed. The incident had left him with a back door into a database that would hopefully divulge details about his father’s case, and an impending community-service job with the city’s computer security department that would give him all the access he needed.

The fact that his probation officer had turned out to be a stacked redhead who kept him awake at night was an unexpected bonus.

Carlotta was less convinced that their father was innocent of the charges levied against him, but Wesley chalked it up to her anger. She certainly had a right to her resentment—suddenly saddled with a kid, dumped by her boyfriend and left to scrape by on a retail job. His sister’s life hadn’t been easy.

Which was why he’d love nothing better than to take home this money and prove that he could contribute more to her life than migraines. And why he was determined to prove his father’s innocence so their parents could come out of hiding and they could be a family again.

“Hey,” Chance said from a chair where he slouched, watching. “Ain’t there some kind of time limit for placing a bet?” Chance had bought into the game too but, as usual, had been eliminated with record speed.

“Yeah, get on with it,” the owner of the place said to Wesley’s opponent between puffs on a cigarette. The guy stood to get his cut no matter who took home the pot—totally illegal, but no one here was going to call 911.

This money could be the first step toward the kind of life he knew that Carlotta dreamed of: a normal one. If they got their debts paid off, maybe she would even relax enough to start dating. His boss Cooper was nuts for her and he’d seen the way that cop Jack Terry looked at her. Plus her old boyfriend Peter Ashford seemed eager to make amends.

Raise, he urged the guy silently. Try to bluff me. Put another couple of grand on the table. Wesley chewed on his fingernail to fake worry over a bad hand. In truth, he had a damned gorgeous hand that he had slow-bid to this point.

Real Estate Man zoned in on Wesley’s nail-gnawing, then shifted forward in his chair. “All in,” he said, pushing his remaining chips and cash to the center of the table.

Wesley almost wet himself: it was more than he could have hoped for. He wanted to play it cool, but couldn’t help grinning as he responded, “Ditto.”

Chance lurched to his feet to see the reveal. Real Estate Man groaned and turned over a lousy pair of tens. Wesley threw down his full house with a whoop and the celebrating began. With a rebel yell, Chance picked him up and shook him like a rag doll. Wesley couldn’t remember being so happy in all the years since his parents had left. He had finally won a big pot and he couldn’t wait to tell Carlotta.

He’d bet it would be the biggest surprise of her week.




4


Carlotta stared at Peter as his words sank in. Her mouth opened, then closed. “My father called you?”

He nodded. “Can we go somewhere? You should sit down.”

“I … let me clock out.”

She went through the motions automatically, refusing to think about what her father’s phone calls meant. Was he ready to come home? Turn himself in? Had he heard about Wesley’s run-in with the law and wanted to check on them? Then a paralyzing thought seized her—had something happened to her mother?

Panic clogged her throat. She harbored more animosity toward her mother than her father for deserting them. But that wouldn’t soften the blow if something had happened to her.

Carlotta allowed Peter to lead the way to a bistro connected to the mall. Walking next to him felt so familiar, it brought moisture to her eyes. He’d been her first love, had proposed to her before leaving for Vanderbilt University. To outsiders the fact that she wore a Cartier engagement ring most of her senior year of high school might have seemed elitist, but Carlotta had been raised with the best things that money could buy—a grand home, exotic vacations, private schools. Marrying into the uber-wealthy Ashford family had seemed the next logical step.

She had loved Peter more than was healthy, she realized in hindsight. When he’d broken their engagement on the heels of her father’s scandal, she’d thought she might not recover.

She had, but the experience had callused her emotions. Now Peter was single again and pressing on her heart … along with this bombshell from her father.

By mutual consent, they waited until they were seated at a table and had ordered coffee before tackling the mountain of issues between them. She was desperate to hear about the phone call, but reminded herself that Peter had buried his wife only a couple of weeks ago and had just been released from jail himself.

“How are you?” she asked carefully. Undoubtedly, Angela’s death was beginning to settle in and, their bad marriage aside, it had to be a horrific adjustment.

“I take it day to day,” he said. He looked haggard, his boyish good looks compromised by the stress he’d suffered.

“Are you planning to go back to work soon?” Peter worked for Mashburn and Tully Investments, the same firm where her father had been a partner and had perpetrated his white-collar crimes.

Alleged crimes, Wesley would say.

Peter nodded. “Walt Tully has been good to me. I went into the office today to catch up. It feels good to be busy and doing something normal. It was quiet. I was the only one around. When my phone rang and your father identified himself, I was floored.”

Carlotta fisted the cloth napkin in her lap. “What did he say? Are … are they okay?”

“He said they’re fine … healthy, I mean. He said that he’d tried to call you on your cell phone, but that you’d hung up on him.”

“I dropped the phone and accidentally disconnected the call.”

“Oh. Well, he said he couldn’t blame you. But that’s why he called me.”

“How did he know that you were working at Mashburn and Tully?”

“He said he’d been keeping up with the company.”

The company—not his family. That hurt.

“What did he want?”

Peter squirmed. “He wanted me to look for some files.”

She frowned. “What kind of files?”

“Having to do with his … case.”

“Why?”

“He said that he needed them to prove his innocence.”

Anger sparked in her stomach and she pounded her fist on the table. “Innocence? If he was innocent, why didn’t he stay and defend himself ten years ago instead of skipping town and leaving his kids high and dry? Why—after all this time—this ruse of proving his innocence?”

Peter reached across the table and took her hand in his. “I asked him the same questions, but he said he didn’t have time to go into it, only that he needed my help. He said that the paperwork given to the D.A. had been doctored—that the original paperwork would exonerate him.”

Carlotta didn’t bother to hide her sarcasm. “And where is this original paperwork supposed to be?”

Peter sighed. “He believes one of the partners hid it or destroyed it.”

Her father had always insisted that he’d been framed, but the evidence against him had been so damning. And when he’d disappeared, his declaration of innocence had become a moot point. “How convenient. Did he happen to name names?”

“No, just that he didn’t trust Ray Mashburn or Walt Tully or the firm’s chief legal counsel, Brody Jones.”

“Is Jones still with the company?”

“Yes.”

“Did my father happen to tell you anything specific or was his entire conversation cryptic and mysterious?”

Peter shifted in his seat. “No specifics. He just asked me to poke around, then he hung up.”

She squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry, Peter.”

“Sorry? For what?”

“For my outlaw father dragging you into his mess. Have you told the partners that he called?”

“No. Randolph asked me not to tell anyone and I told him that I would help him if I could.”

“Peter, you can’t do that. You’ll jeopardize your job. You should go to the police.”

His intense blue eyes bore into her. “I want to help him, Carly. For you … for your family.”

The waitress brought their coffee and smiled at their clasped hands. Carlotta pulled her hand from his warm fingers and busied herself pouring sugar into her mug. Her feelings for Peter were so confusing, it made her head—and her heart—hurt to process them. Did anyone ever truly get over their first love? Her suspicions that Peter’s parents had pressured him to end their engagement after her father had skipped town had been confirmed, but Peter had accepted the blame for not standing up for their relationship.

And as tempting as it was to slip back into his arms, she and Peter moved in different circles these days. Peter lived in a mega-mansion with a guest house. She lived in a rickety townhouse with Wesley, a giant snake and the world’s nosiest next-door neighbor. Peter’s acquaintances were members of the inner circle of Buckhead society; her acquaintances were members of Loan Sharks of America.

Over the rim of his cup Peter’s expression reflected the turmoil of the past and present that lay between them. He waited until they were alone again before saying, “Did you tell Detective Terry that your father had called you?”

She averted her gaze. “No.”

“So maybe you’re not really so eager for your father to be apprehended.”

Carlotta wet her lips, unwilling to admit that deep down, she was still Daddy’s little girl and no matter what he’d done, she didn’t want harm to come to him. “I … wasn’t sure it was my father. I mean, he said it was, but it’s been so long since I heard his voice. And it was so out of the blue.” She winced inwardly when she realized she’d forgotten to get her phone back from Lindy.

“So now that you know it was him, are you going to tell the police?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if I should tell Wesley.”

Peter cleared his throat. “Detective Terry seems to have gotten awfully buddy-buddy with you.”

She looked up. “Jack was just shopping, that’s all.”

“Jack?” His eyebrows went up. “Since when does Jack shop at Neiman’s?”

“He needed a suit.”

“He was there to see you, Carly.”

A flush warmed her neck as she recalled the sexual energy that had vibrated between her and the detective. “If he was there to see me, it’s only to stay in touch about Wesley and my father. When the D.A. reopened Dad’s case, he assigned it to Detective Terry.”

“So are you going to tell him about the calls?”

She shifted in her seat. “I don’t know.”

“I hate to pressure you, but the sooner you decide, the better. I want to help, but the last thing I need is for the police to descend on my phone records again if you decide later to report it. The partners might not look favorably upon me withholding this kind of information from them.”

Carlotta nodded. “I understand. I … maybe we should tell the police and let them handle it.”

“Okay. If you want to report the calls, I’ll go with you.” He reached for her hand again. “We’ll do it together.”

Her mind raced ahead—telling Detective Terry about the phone calls, enduring phone taps and maybe even surveillance, luring her father into a trap and seeing the triumphant look on the face of that odious district attorney Kelvin Lucas when Randolph “the Bird” Wren was finally apprehended, with cameras rolling and headlines blaring.

Her stomach knotted and she wavered. “Peter, do you think … I mean, is it possible that my father is innocent?”

He shrugged slowly. “I guess anything is possible.” His expression turned dark. “I was innocent of hurting Angela, despite the way things looked.”

“Of course you were,” she said earnestly. “But you didn’t run. Rather than face the charges, my father skipped town and let everyone else pick up the pieces.”

Peter sighed noisily and the tortured look on his face said he knew that he, too, had let her down. “Carly, I can’t imagine all you’ve been through the past ten years. But no matter how much resentment you have toward your father, you’re a kind, forgiving person. I think if there’s a chance that your father is innocent, you’d want to give him an opportunity to prove it.”

She studied his face. Was Peter flattering her in the hope that her forgiveness would extend to him as well? Or did this man know her well enough to see inside her heart?

Carlotta wet her lips. “Did Daddy say he would call again?”

“Yes, but he didn’t say when.”

“Did he say where he was?”

“I asked, but he wouldn’t tell me. He did seem to be keeping up with local events. He, uh, knew about Angela and offered condolences.”

And did her father suspect that Peter wanted to rekindle their flame? Was he betting on Peter’s feelings for her to fuel Peter’s attempts to help him? A sick feeling settled in her stomach. “Does he know about me and Wesley, about what’s going on in our lives?”

Peter hesitated. “He didn’t say.”

She took a quick drink from her cup to mask the sudden tears.

Peter squeezed her fingers again. “He’s alive, Carly. That’s something. And I didn’t know your father that well, but it’s unfair for me to judge him for walking out on you, when I did the same thing.” His blue eyes were shadowed with pain. “I know how my actions have haunted me. I can only imagine that your father, too, has deep regrets.”

Her heart shifted in her chest. She desperately wished that her failed relationship with Peter wasn’t so entwined with her parents’ disappearance, because sitting here with him and feeling the hope radiating from him, she could be lulled into thinking that repairing her relationship with Peter and her relationship with her parents was possible.

Even desirable.

Did that make her an optimist, or an idiot?

“What do you say?” Peter murmured, and she had the distinct feeling that he was asking her to give him and her father both a chance to prove themselves.




5


Carlotta’s mind raced as she stared across the restaurant table at Peter, patiently waiting for her response as to whether she planned to tell the police that her father had called both of them. Unsaid words burned the back of her tongue—a decade’s worth of pent-up conversations she hadn’t been able to have with her father. Or with Peter.

How could you leave me? Where have you been? Do you think that I’m like a book that you can stop reading, put away for years and then pick up where you left off? There is a hole in my heart in the shape of you.

“Whatever you decide, Carly,” Peter said earnestly. “I’ll support you any way I can.”

Meaning that one word from her and Peter would either help Randolph Wren in his supposed quest for exoneration or nail him to the wall.

As often as she had wished her father safe, Carlotta had fantasized about seeing him squirm, seeing him publicly held accountable, robbed of his freedom—like his disappearance had robbed her of her freedom.

But while running out on his children was reprehensible, it wasn’t a crime. He and her mother had left Wesley with her, and legally, she’d been an adult. The sudden responsibility had been staggering, but she’d gotten through each day by telling herself that her parents would return before nightfall. Slowly the days had turned into weeks and months, then years, until one day she’d realized that their parents weren’t coming back and that she and Wesley were somehow, astonishingly, surviving. But every time she’d watched Wesley reach a milestone—winning first place in the science fair, struggling with his voice changing, getting his driver’s license, being fitted for his prom tux—her resentment toward her parents had magnified.

Sometimes she thought that she hated her parents. But was she willing to see them go to jail?

“I need to think about it,” she said finally. “I’m having a hard time trying to absorb everything.”

“That’s understandable,” Peter soothed.

“I’ll call you.” She folded her napkin and put it on her plate. “Thanks for the coffee, Peter.”

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

“I’m on Marta.” Carlotta doubted that Peter had ever ridden the city’s public train system—too many germs and no cup holders. “My car’s in the shop being painted from when I was side-swiped.” By the same person who had murdered Peter’s wife.

A similar thought must have gone through his mind because his mouth tightened. “Then let me drive you home.”

She hesitated.

“Maybe I’ll be able to recall something else from your father’s call.”

He had to know how irresistible that tidbit would be. “Okay,” she conceded.

After leaving several bills on the table, he guided her toward the mall exit nearest the valet stand. His hand hovered at the small of her back, grazing her often enough to dredge up memories of when they had made love as teenagers.

At the time, she’d thought she might combust from the sheer ecstasy of being in his arms. In their circle of friends, they had been the it couple: good-looking, rich and head over heels in love. Their future seemed golden. Carlotta hadn’t even considered a plan B. When her parents had skipped town and Peter had dumped her and the rest of her supposed friends had fallen away, she had been set emotionally adrift … a scared kid, ill-equipped to finish raising herself, much less a nine-year-old boy. How many days had she longed for Peter’s comforting presence next to her, like this?

Within minutes, Peter’s navy blue Porsche arrived and he held open the door of the low-slung decadent car for her. Carlotta lowered herself gingerly into the leather seat that wrapped her in a buttery soft cocoon. She reached for her shoulder belt, but Peter’s hand was already there, pulling the strap across her body and fastening the belt with a click. He smiled at her as if to say that if she stayed with him, he would make sure she was safe. Closing her door with a soft thunk, he strode around the front of the car, gave the valet a tip that would cover her lunch budget for a week, then swung into his own seat with practiced ease. They pulled away with the smooth growl of a perfectly engineered motor.

In the cozy intimacy of the two-seater, it was impossible not to be affected by Peter’s nearness, the way his long body sprawled in the seat, the way his thick blond hair fell onto his forehead, the precise angles of his handsome profile. She knew this man intimately and he knew her body just as well.

The one sobering image was visualizing Angela sitting in this seat only weeks before, unaware that her life would come to such an abrupt and tragic end. Although the woman had indulged some of her darker whims, she hadn’t deserved to die. And Carlotta was haunted by the knowledge that Angela had died knowing that her husband carried a picture of Carlotta in his wallet.

Perhaps in deference to the decision she faced, Peter didn’t press her for conversation and instead slid in a Jack Johnson CD and turned up the volume. Dusk was descending early on this ominously overcast day, prompting motorists to flip on their lights. A stiff wind ruffled the riotously blooming crape myrtle trees in the median, sending bright pink blossoms across the flared hood of the Porsche. Sunday afternoon traffic around the mall area was as heavy as her mood.

But soon the mellow music began to calm Carlotta’s ragged nerves and she laid her head back against the headrest, and closed her eyes.

She didn’t want to watch as they left the exclusive area of Buckhead and entered the more shabby section of the city where she and Wesley lived in a town house. She just wanted to listen to the music and imagine that her life had turned out exactly as she’d planned.

In her mind, she and Peter were married and on their way home to their sprawling residence in a gated community where they would relieve their nanny, then tuck in their beautiful children before retiring to the hot tub with a fifty-dollar bottle of wine and making love with a passion that contradicted how long they had been together.

A touch to her hand startled her and her eyes flew wide open. The music had dimmed and the car had stopped.

“We’re here,” he said quietly.

In the falling dusk, the car headlights illuminated a garage door with peeling paint and a driveway riddled with cracks and stray weeds. Embarrassment welled in her chest. She had let things go around the house. Wesley had repaired and cleaned the small deck in the back, but from the front it looked as if a low-class family inhabited the place.

If the shoe fits, wear it,she thought morosely.

Who was she kidding? If the shoe fit, she’d buy it with her employee discount.

Peter adjusted the rearview mirror and stared intently, then checked the side mirrors.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“It’s probably nothing. I just thought someone was following us.”

Her pulse picked up and she turned around in her seat. “You’re kidding.” Could her father be tailing them? Jack Terry? A loan shark? Good grief, the possibilities were endless.

“Like I said, it’s probably nothing. Or just a pesky reporter.”

“Have reporters really been following you?”

He shrugged. “A couple were parked outside the subdivision when I left this morning. Guess they wanted to get a shot of the bereaved husband. And I’m sure some of them aren’t quite convinced I had nothing to do with Angela’s … dying.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? Like Detective Terry said, you’re the one who believed in me when no one else did. How can I ever thank you?”

She dipped her chin. “Your discretion in this matter with my father is thanks enough.”

“Carly,” Peter said, picking up her left hand. “It’s really none of my business but what did you do with the engagement ring I gave you?”

“I … had to sell it.”

He nodded. “As you should have. I suspect money was tight after your parents left.”

“It was. But actually, I didn’t sell it until a few weeks ago.” In the wake of Peter’s wife’s murder, the act of pawning the Cartier ring had been as necessary to her emotional security as to her financial security. Keeping it had made her feel as if she were leaving her heart ajar for him to walk back in.

“I see.” His voice was thick with disappointment.

“Peter, after running into you again … things were happening too fast between us. I had to do something to slow it down on my end. Pawning the ring helped me to sever ties to the past.”

He nodded again. “I understand. And I have no right to ask you but I hope that severing ties to our past doesn’t rule out us having a future.”

Her heart pounded furiously. How many nights had she lain awake dreaming of him returning to her like this, asking her to give their love another chance? “I don’t know about a future with you, Peter,” she said honestly. “As crazy as my life is, I can’t say anything for sure.”

He squeezed her hand. “Fair enough.” Then he nodded toward the dark windows of the town house. “Looks pretty quiet. Is Wesley working?”

“No. He’s spending the night with a friend.”

“Oh?”

The word vibrated with hope, sending a flush to Carlotta’s chest and face.

“I could stay,” he offered. “On the couch, of course. I don’t like the idea of you being alone tonight.”

It was the perfect excuse to be close to Peter, to spend time with him, for them to begin the process of getting to know each other again. He was the only person who could help her sort through this mess with her father. And truth be known, she didn’t want to be alone tonight. Plus she did have that one good bottle of red wine in the cabinet that she’d been waiting for an occasion to uncork.

She opened her mouth to say yes, but was distracted by the sudden appearance of headlights, then the revving of a diesel engine that brought Hannah Kizer’s big graffiti’d refrigerated van up next to them. The Goth-garbed and stripe-haired Hannah hung out the driver’s side window, arms waving, pierced tongue flapping.

“Do you know that … person?” Peter asked.

“Kind of,” Carlotta said with resignation. She lowered her window, half relieved, half irritated at her friend’s timing.

“What the hell happened to you?” Hannah shouted. “I called you back to tell you all about Coop making me a body mover, but your line was busy and then you didn’t answer all damn afternoon!”

“Lindy confiscated my phone.”

“The whore,” Hannah declared, then she narrowed her kohl-lined eyes at Peter. “Hope I interrupted something.”

“Peter gave me a ride home,” Carlotta said quickly, hoping Peter didn’t notice the open hostility rolling off Hannah toward the man who had broken Carlotta’s heart. “The Monte Carlo is in the shop.”

“I know,” Hannah said sourly. “I was going to swing by the mall and give you a ride, but I see Richie Rich beat me to it.”

Carlotta gave her friend a stern look. “Hannah, have you ever met Peter Ashford?”

“Only by reputation.” Hannah addressed Peter in a suspicious tone, “I attended your wife’s memorial service with Carlotta.”

“Peter, this is my friend Hannah Kizer.”

“Nice to meet you, Hannah.”

“Wish I could say the same.”

“Hannah!”

“It’s okay,” Peter broke in, putting his warm hand on Carlotta’s knee. “I’ll go. Will your friend stay with you tonight?”

Carlotta nodded.

“Call me to let me know what you decide.”

She was transfixed by the concern shining in his eyes. “I’ll call,” she murmured.

He leaned across the console and whispered, “I’m here for you, Carly,” then brushed a kiss near her ear.

The sound of Hannah clearing her throat rent the air. Carlotta gathered her purse and climbed out of the car, waving as Peter backed out of the driveway.

Hannah jumped out of the van and slammed the door. “Why the hell did you let him drive you home? His wife is barely dead.”

Carlotta frowned. “There’s no such thing as barely dead. And you’re being awfully judgmental for someone who makes it a practice not to date a man unless he’s wearing a wedding ring.”

“This is you we’re talking about. You don’t have my natural defenses.”

Or as some would say, her natural repellants. “Want to order a pizza?”

“I got an organic veggie lasagna in the back of the van. Will that do?”

“Sounds great.”

“Am I spending the night?”

“Would you mind?”

“Can I sleep with Wesley’s snake?”

“No. “

“Spoilsport. You don’t look so good. Did Wesley do something again?”

“Not that I know of. This time it’s someone else.”

Hannah opened the van door and rummaged through containers in a cardboard box. “You have a lot of disturbed people in your life, Carlotta.”

Carlotta spotted a magnetic Body Transport sign leaning against a shelf. Hannah had a wild crush on Wesley’s boss, Cooper Craft, and had allegedly convinced him to hire her as a body mover for the morgue. Employing her own brand of twisted logic, Hannah had concluded that her catering van could do double duty, health codes be damned.

Carlotta shook her head behind her friend’s back. “You can say that again.”




6


“Dude, wake up. I’m starving.”

Wesley cracked open an eye and winced at the sunlight streaming into the room. God, his head felt like someone had hit him with a baseball bat. After leaving the card game, he and Chance had really tied one on. He slowly became aware that he was fused to the leather couch in the living room of Chance’s condo. He rolled his eyes upward to see his buddy standing over him.

Chance laughed. “Hung over, huh? What a wuss.”

Wesley groaned and pushed himself up on one arm. “Do you have to shout?”

“Let’s go to the Vortex and get a burger.”

The thought of food made his stomach churn, but he sat up and pulled a hand down his gritty face. “What time is it?”

“Almost noon.”

Wesley reached for his T-shirt. “I should go.”

“Moving stiffs today?”

“I’m on call.”

“Man, you were awesome last night. That guy didn’t know what hit him. You played that final hand like a pro.”

Despite his pounding head, Wesley smiled. “Thanks, but that was a pretty easy crowd.”

Chance handed him a few pills and an open can of Mountain Dew. “Here.”

Wesley looked at the pills. “What’s this?”

“Aspirin, man. Don’t you trust me?”

Not entirely, since Chance had his hands in lots of illegal shit. Wesley downed the pills and swished the sugary drink to dispel the god-awful taste in his mouth. Then he pulled his wallet from his pocket and opened it to reveal a thick wad of cash. Relief flooded him that he hadn’t lost it or spent it all in his drunken stupor, although he seemed to be down a few bills.

“You sprang for some choice weed last night,” Chance said, nodding toward a plastic bag on the coffee table. “I smoked a joint as big as my dick.”

Chance’s favorite topic was his Johnson.

“Take the leftovers,” Chance offered.

“No thanks. If I fail a drug test, I go to jail. Keep it, my compliments.” Wesley counted off several bills and handed them to Chance. “And here’s the money I owe you.”

“Thanks. What are you going to do with the rest of it?”

“Pay off some other debts.” Wesley thought of Tick and Mouse, the two thick-necked collectors for the loan sharks he owed, Father Thom and The Carver, who showed up every week. He’d be glad to get those two off his back for a while.

“Oh, come on. Aren’t you going to celebrate a little? Buy something for yourself? A new computer? I know how you dig that shit.”

“I’m not allowed to have computer equipment under the terms of my probation,” Wesley said, jerking his thumb toward Chance’s extra bedroom. “That’s why I’m storing my good stuff here, remember?”

“What about a car?”

“With a suspended license?”

“You’ll get it back sooner or later.”

“In like a year, dude. I don’t want something sitting in the garage that I can’t drive. That’s why I sold my motorcycle.”

Although a top-of-the-line bicycle would be cool and would give him some mobility.

“How about a kick-ass stereo system?” Chance suggested.

“I’m good with my iPod.”

“Some blowout speakers, then. Dude, you gotta buy something fun with the money. You deserve it.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he said, thinking that he should buy something for Carlotta for all the crap he’d put her through. Maybe something for the house, something they both could enjoy.

“Come and hang out while I eat.” Chance laid his meaty arm across Wesley’s shoulders. “I’ve been thinking about a partnership.”

Wesley was immediately wary. “What kind of partnership?”

“You always said you wanted to make it to the World Series of Poker.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So I’m thinking that with my trust fund and your card smarts, maybe we can make it happen.”

Wesley’s pulse jumped: Chance definitely had the cash to bankroll his dream. Sure, with the body-moving gig, the community-service job that was supposed to start soon and delving into his dad’s case, he had a lot on his plate. But after a bumpy couple of months, his luck seemed to be changing. And while he’d promised Carlotta that he’d give up gambling, with Chance behind him, last night’s take was trivial to the money he could potentially win.

Besides—if he were careful—Carlotta wouldn’t have to know.

He looked at Chance. “I’m listening.”




7


“I appreciate the ride to work,” Carlotta said to Hannah. She took a drag on a cigarette, then handed it back with a shaking hand.

“No problem.” Hannah inhaled on the shared smoke. “Sorry you’re having such a crummy time. Have you decided whether to tell the police about your father calling?”

“Not yet. And you can’t tell anyone, Hannah. I haven’t even decided whether or not to tell Wesley.” And she hadn’t mentioned that her father had called Peter because she wanted to keep him out of it.

“I’m as silent as the grave.” Hannah clicked the barbell in her tongue against her teeth for emphasis, then squinted. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look like hell.”

“I didn’t get much sleep,” Carlotta admitted. None, actually. Not even after pleading exhaustion to Hannah and turning in early, leaving her friend to sit on the couch watching cable on the small television with the distorted picture. She’d been on edge all night, hoping the phone would ring, praying it wouldn’t. And on top of everything else, there was Peter burnt into her brain, into her heart. And the disconcerting image of Jack Terry’s face, looking as if he actually cared.

“Give yourself a break. You’ve been through a lot lately, with Wesley’s arrest, then Angela Ashford’s murder and now all this.”

Carlotta tried to smile. “Guess it’s all hitting me. Posttraumatic stress disorder, maybe. I feel a little out of it.”

“Yeah, when I saw you jogging yesterday morning a couple of blocks from your house I yelled, but you were in a freaking trance.”

Carlotta frowned. “That was someone else. Have you ever known me to jog?”

“No, but I’ve never seen you gaga over a guy before either, like the way you are with Peter Asshole.”

“Be nice. And I’m not gaga over him. We have … history.”

“He dumped you when you needed him most and now—after you’ve made it on your own—he expects you to take him back?”

Carlotta retrieved the cigarette and drew on it hard. “Made it on my own? That’s a laugh. My life is a disaster.”

“What? And his is something to brag about?”

“He’s successful.”

“And conspicuously rich. Yeah, I noticed. He was also in a dysfunctional marriage which ended when his wife was murdered. The man has issues, Carlotta.”

“Don’t we all?” she murmured, finishing the cigarette, then grimacing as she snubbed it out. Peter would hate her smoking, even sporadically. Then she glanced at Hannah in her black-leather getup and acknowledged there were other elements of her life that Peter would have a hard time accepting—her friendship with this good-hearted oddball being one of them.

Yet he seemed eager to try….

“You know there are drugs for what you’re going through.”

“Excuse me?”

“Antidepressants. They’ll take the edge off.”

“I don’t need drugs, I need normalcy.”

“Like that’s going to happen. You need to get laid. And not by Peter, that’s way too messy. Don’t you know someone who’s good for a night of hot sex with no strings attached?”

Why did Jack Terry’s face emerge in her head? “No one comes to mind,” Carlotta said sourly.

“Too bad. Sex is great for working out the mental kinks.”

“If that’s the case why are you so messed up?”

“Very funny. Quantity doesn’t necessarily equate to quality. Seriously, Carlotta, you should at least consider seeing a shrink.”

Carlotta sighed and rubbed her temples. She was going to have to do a better job of checking her emotions if she were going to keep her father’s call a secret from Wesley and Jack Terry. She could really use Wesley’s poker face right about now—especially since with his promise to her, he wouldn’t be needing it anymore. She tried not to think about what mischief he might have gotten into with Chance last night. Hopefully it was something harmless, like beer and girls. Wesley was an adult and she had to stop obsessing over his whereabouts, but old habits died hard.

Hannah glanced at her quiet cell-phone screen and slammed her palm against the steering wheel. “Why hasn’t he called?”

Carlotta lifted an eyebrow. “Which of your married lovers are we talking about?”

Hannah smirked. “I’m referring to Coop. I thought he would’ve called by now to have me help him move a body.”

Since Hannah had a huge crush on Wesley’s boss, Carlotta chose her words carefully. “Maybe he had a funeral today. Or maybe Wesley is out with him. I’m sure he’ll call you soon.”

“I hope so. I can’t wait for my first assignment.”

“Hannah, I’m not so sure that body moving is the kind of job that one should feel so enthusiastic about.”

Hannah waved off her concern. “Death fascinates me. I guess that’s why I’m so intrigued by Cooper—you have to be a special person to work around bodies all the time. Do you think he has a casket at home?”

“I certainly hope not.” Even though his job of running his uncle’s funeral home and moving bodies for the morgue was creepy, Cooper Craft was a surprisingly normal-looking guy. Attractive, even. He’d hinted, as Jack Terry had said, that he was interested in Carlotta, but Cooper was so intellectual, he intimidated her.

Of course, nothing earthbound intimidated Hannah.

“I’ve always wanted to lie down in a coffin, you know, just to see what it’s like.”

Carlotta grimaced. “We’ll all know soon enough, Hannah. You can let me out here,” she said, pointing to a mall entrance.

“Okay. Do you need a ride home after work?”

“No, thanks. I hope my car will be ready by this evening. But if not, I can take the train.”

“Okay. Are you sure you’re okay to work today?”

Carlotta managed a smile. “With a mortgage and loan sharks to pay, I don’t exactly have a choice.” Sudden tears welled in her eyes. Mortified, she tried to blink them away. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

“Hey, don’t apologize,” Hannah said, looking concerned—and panicked—at the sight of tears. “Promise me you’ll call later.”

“I promise,” she said, then jumped out before she completely broke down.

Maybe Hannah was right, she thought as she dabbed at her eyes. Maybe she needed to talk to someone with professional objectivity, someone who could give her advice on coping with disillusionment, on how to let go of the past.

But that would have to wait. For now she needed to decide whether to tell Jack Terry about her father’s phone calls.

She was hanging her clothes in a locker in the employee break room when a familiar male voice said, “I heard Lindy nailed you yesterday.”

Carlotta closed her locker door and smirked at Michael Lane, friend, coworker, and self-proclaimed queen of the shoe department. “She confiscated my phone. I have to go to her office and ask for it back like a good girl.”

“Yikes, good luck with that.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“I was kidding. You’re one of her top salespersons. Lindy’s not going to fire you.”

“Was one of her top salespersons,” Carlotta corrected, feeling dangerously close to tears again. “I’ve been toppled by Buckhead Barbie.”

“Oh, you’ve met Patricia.”

“She was following Lindy around yesterday like a shih tzu.”

“Funny you should say that. You know Patricia’s only doing so well because of the new line of doggie wear in accessories. Those little inflatable bathing suits are flying off the freaking shelves.”

“No, I could be doing more. I’ve lost my touch.”

“You’re just in a slump.” Michael gave a dismissive wave and glanced over a memo he was holding. “Hey, you’re in luck. Lindy’s off until Wednesday.”

Carlotta blinked rapidly. She wouldn’t be able to get her phone back, wouldn’t know if her father had called again. There was a way to check messages from another phone, but she had never set up a PIN to access the system remotely. She’d told herself she’d decide whether to tell Jack about the calls after retrieving her phone, but another forty-eight hours of torture loomed before her.

“There, there, it’s just a phone,” Michael soothed.

“It’s not just the phone,” she murmured. “It’s … personal.”

“With all this business of Angela Ashford’s murder behind you, I figured you’d be skipping and singing.”

“No skipping and—lucky for you—no singing.”

He angled his head. “Is your brother in trouble again?”

Poor Wesley. Everyone automatically assumed he was the root of all of her problems, even now when there were so many more potential culprits. “No, it isn’t Wesley.”

“Having financial problems?”

She gave him a flat smile. “Yeah, but what else is new?”

“Good grief, why don’t you file bankruptcy and get it over with?”

His advice rankled her. She didn’t like people knowing so much about her perpetual indebtedness. “I told you, I’m not that desperate … yet.”

“So if it’s not Wesley and it’s not money, what is it?”

“It’s … personal.”

Michael’s eyes gleamed with interest. “Want to talk about it?”

Carlotta hesitated. As chief grinder of the store’s gossip mill, Michael was always looking for grist. “Actually, I was wondering if you could recommend someone … professional … who I could talk to about … everything.”

“Oh. My therapist, Dr. Delray, is fabulous and he accepts our company insurance. He’s taking new patients only on referral but I’d be happy to put in a phone call.”

“That would be super. And if you don’t mind, Michael, I’d like to keep this quiet.”

He made a zipping motion across his lips and Carlotta hoped that she could trust him.

On the other hand, anyone who’d been privy to her recent goings-on might be relieved to know that she was seeking help.

She took her place on the sales floor and tried to push aside thoughts of her father. But as the day unfolded and customers blended together, her imagination began to spin wild scenarios.

If her father was aware of some of the details of her and Wesley’s lives, was he spying on them? The notion had her distracted, looking around, constantly scanning for someone hiding behind clothes racks. Would she even recognize her father? He was bound to have aged in ten years and no doubt had altered his appearance to avoid detection. Same for her mother.

She glanced around, suddenly claustrophobic as shoppers zigzagged by her. Either one of her parents could be within easy reach and she wouldn’t know it.

“Hello, Carlotta.”

Carlotta turned to see one of her best customers, Dixie Neilson, walking up wearing a cheery smile. The flamboyant, trim older woman with a dramatic shock of silver in her dark hair—and her impressive purchases—never failed to lift Carlotta’s spirits. “Hi, Dixie. What can I do for you today?”

“I need a new dress, darling, for a dinner party. I was thinking something red and slinky and ridiculously expensive.”

Carlotta laughed. “I think I have just the thing.” But while she was helping Dixie select a dress, she continued to scan the throng of shoppers. Later, while she rang up Dixie’s sale, a tall man by a rack of women’s cruise wear caught her eye. He seemed out of place as he flipped through the hangers of bright clothing. Who wore a long coat in the dead of summer? And he kept looking in her direction….

She handed Dixie the dress in a garment bag and said goodbye. The long-coated man was still there, still looking her way.

Carlotta wet her mouth and tasted perspiration on her upper lip. She could spot a disguise a mile away; she’d donned enough of them in her party-crashing days.

A touch to her arm startled her so badly, she cried out.

“Easy, girl,” Jack Terry said. To the people who had turned to stare, he sent an easy smile, dissolving their idle interest.

Carlotta’s heart leapt to her throat as she perused his dark suit and tacky red, white and blue striped tie. He was on duty. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to get your attention. You’re awfully jumpy.”

She told herself to relax or else she’d only raise his suspicion. “Sorry. I guess I’m more tired than I realized.”

“Ashford keep you up late?” he asked dryly.

She hesitated, trying to decipher the expression on his face. Jealousy? Impossible. More likely, he was still smarting over the fact that he’d been wrong about Peter’s guilt in Angela’s murder. “That’s none of your business, Detective.”

One eyebrow arched. “Back to ‘Detective’ are we?”

“Looks like you’re on duty.”

“I am, which is why I need to make this quick.”

Her stomach flipped. Did he know about her father’s phone call? “Need to make what quick?”

“I got a call that my suit is ready.”

“Oh.” She exhaled in relief. “Right.”

He squinted at her. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” But she glanced again at the suspicious-looking man, who nervously averted his gaze.

“Someone you know?” Jack murmured.

She had horrible thoughts of her father being apprehended in the middle of Neiman’s. Wouldn’t her boss Lindy love that? “Uh, no.”

Too late—Jack zeroed in on the guy. She tried to distract him by stepping into his line of sight, but since he towered over her, that was practically impossible. He stepped around her and strode toward the man, who turned and began to walk away quickly. Jack broke into a jog and Carlotta raced after him, her heart thudding. “Jack, wait!”

But he ignored her, reaching one long arm forward to capture the man by the back of his collar, bringing him up short with a choking sound. “The jig’s up, buddy.”

Carlotta skidded to a stop beside them, her mind racing to reconcile the man’s features with those of her father.

“This is harassment,” the man stammered.

Jack shook the man’s shoulder hard enough to make his head loll. “Open your coat. Now.”

The man complied reluctantly with long, bony fingers—fingers that proved he wasn’t Randolph Wren in disguise. Until this moment, she had forgotten how large and capable her father’s hands had been … hands that had once pulled her close for hugs or to tweak her nose in a moment of teasing good humor.

When the man’s coat hung open, Carlotta gasped. The garment was lined with clear pockets, each one stuffed full of jewelry or small clothing items.

“Getting your Christmas shopping done early?” Jack asked the man.

“I’m not the criminal here.”

“Right, buddy. Do yourself a favor and keep your mouth shut.” Then Jack looked at Carlotta. “Maybe your security department should take it from here.”

Carlotta located the nearest phone and called security, feeling like an idiot for not pegging the man for a shoplifter. This thing with her father was driving her mad.

After the man had been handed off, she accompanied Jack downstairs to pick up his suit, keenly aware of his big body near hers. His size was comforting but this new cordiality had her off-balance. Of course, he was probably playing her, hoping she’d cooperate with the investigation into her father’s disappearance.

Guilt stabbed her because she knew she held the one piece of information that he’d been hoping for. Communication from Randolph Wren. And possibly a way to lure him in.

“Thanks for catching that guy,” she murmured.

“It’s my job to catch the bad guys,” he said easily.

She swallowed hard, acknowledging that everyone considered her father one of the bad guys. If she confessed to Jack Terry about the phone calls, she could end this ten-year ache, but would it only lead to something worse—an irrevocable break in her relationship with her parents and maybe with Wesley? And would it destroy this tentative friendship with Jack Terry that seemed to be developing?

No, Carlotta decided on the spot, she wouldn’t tell Jack about the phone calls. She’d handle it with Peter’s help. And who knew, it might come to nothing anyway.

She located the garment bag with Jack’s name on it and unzipped it to double-check that it was the suit he’d selected and that it was indeed ready.

“Want to try it on?” she asked, flashing back to her glimpses of him half-naked during the initial fitting. Hannah’s suggestion of a night of meaningless sex came to Carlotta as visions of her and Jack tangled together in the dressing room flitted through her head.

“That’s okay,” he said. “I trust you.”

At his offhand comment, she pasted on a smile and assuaged her guilt by letting the threat of making him shop for new shoes slide. Passing a table of ties, she scooped up a gorgeous black and deep purple tie that would complement Jack’s dark coloring.

“My treat,” she said, stuffing it into a jacket pocket. “You’ll look stunning when you accept your award. When is the ceremony?”

“Two weeks from today,” he said, then shifted from foot to foot. “Listen, Carlotta … about this awards dinner …”

She looked up. “Uh-huh?”

The detective pulled his finger around his collar, further loosening his hideous tie. “I know I mentioned before that I’d thought about asking you if you wanted to go with me.”

She froze. He was on the verge of asking her—something he’d never do if he knew what she was keeping from him. Her stomach churned with the sudden realization that despite everything looming over her and Jack Terry, she wanted very much to go on his arm and see him accept his award.

The color rose in his cheeks. “Well—”

“Carlotta Wren?”

She turned to find a man standing in front of her, holding a clipboard in one hand and a vase of at least two dozen red long-stem roses in the other hand. “I was told I could find you here. These are for you, ma’am.”

Her eyes widened. “For me?”

“Yep. Sign here.”

She signed her name, still perplexed when the man handed her the hulking bouquet. “I wonder who they’re from.”

“I can guess,” Jack offered wryly.

Carlotta realized he was referring to Peter. Although it was just the kind of grand gesture he would make, she was surprised and a little disappointed that he was pushing her so soon after their conversation about taking it slow.

“Thanks for helping me pick out the suit.” Jack swung the garment bag over his shoulder as if it contained a sixty-dollar rental instead of a thousand-dollar tux. “I’ll see you around.”

“Okay,” she said to his rapidly retreating back, craning to watch him leave. She wondered why she felt so let down when spending an evening with Jack Terry was just a bad idea all the way around.

With a sigh, she ferreted out the card in the roses.

Carlotta, thanks for a great time. Mason

Carlotta glanced over the brimming arrangement that had easily cost a couple of hundred dollars, then bit her lip. Who the heck was Mason?




8


“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we don’t reveal the names of our customers,” declared a hurried-sounding man on the other end of the phone.

“But I think the flower delivery might have been a mistake,” Carlotta protested. “I don’t know anyone by the name of the person on the card.”

“Nice try. Look, sweetie, if you want to find out if your boyfriend is sending flowers to someone else, you’re going to have to ask him.”

Carlotta blinked. “But I—” She stopped because the man had hung up.

“Omigod,” Michael exclaimed as he walked into the break room. “Who sent you the to-die-for roses?”

Carlotta hung up the phone and studied the bewildering bouquet she’d set on the corner of the stained lunch table. “I have no idea.” She showed him the card. “I don’t know anyone named Mason. Does it ring a bell for you?”

Michael shook his head. “Some guy you met in a bar maybe?”

“No, I’m sure of it.” Her nerves were unraveling. Had her father sent the flowers? Was it some kind of message? Or was it simply a misdelivery?

“Then you must have a secret admirer. Someone dropped a mint on these American beauties.”

Her expression must have reflected her dour mood, because he shook his head with a sigh, then produced a business card. “Here. Dr. Delray said he could squeeze you in Wednesday afternoon at six, but only for thirty minutes, so you’ll have to talk fast.”

“Thank you.” She folded the card into her pocket.

Michael fingered a perfect bloodred rose and sighed. “Meanwhile, if you don’t want this guy, send him my way, okay? Buh-bye.”

“Bye.” She carefully removed one long-stem rose and stroked the velvety petals. Had her mother liked roses? Her father? She couldn’t recall. And Mason wasn’t a family name that she knew of, nor a place they’d been, nor a pet they’d owned. If the roses were from her father, the message was lost on her. She tightened her grip on the stem in frustration and was rewarded with a zing of pain as a thorn pierced her palm, drawing blood.

“Dammit!” Carlotta put her mouth to the tiny wound, feeling the return of tears that were too common lately. She wondered if Michael’s shrink would be able to help her, or would her life scare even a trained professional?

Pushing aside the troubling thoughts, she picked up the pay phone and dialed the number to the auto body shop. Carlotta hated the blue muscle car that she’d gotten stuck with after taking it on a twenty-four hour test drive that had gone wrong, but since she owed more for the car than it was worth, she was resigned to driving it until it was paid for or until the wheels fell off.

She had hoped the wheels would have fallen off by now, but no such luck.

The repair shop was recommended by Wesley via his odious friend Chance, so even though it had taken in her car immediately and promised a quick turnaround, she was leery. After several rings, a man answered with a half-grunt, told her to hold, then told her that the Monte Carlo wasn’t ready yet. “Wednesday,” he promised.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “What time Wednesday?”

“After noon?”

“Okay,” she said wearily, then hung up.

Carlotta turned and eyed the enormous bouquet, weighing the hassle of getting the flowers home on Marta versus the cost of a cab in rush hour. With a sigh, she slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder and scooped up the vase. During the trip through the mall and the half-block walk to the train station, she garnered lots of enviable stares. On the packed train however, the stares became murderous as she inadvertently poked an eye here, snagged someone’s clothing there.

“Sorry,” she mumbled to no one and to everyone standing near her in the shoulder to shoulder crowd. To save space, she brought the bouquet closer to her face but the sickeningly sweet scent of the roses reminded her of death—of the scent that permeated the funeral home that Cooper Craft ran.

She wondered if he’d called Hannah yet for a “body run” or if he and Wesley were working together today. Body moving wasn’t the sort of job she’d hoped Wesley would get, but with his recent arrest record and probation, she couldn’t complain. At least he was bringing in money legitimately, making his weekly payments to the thugs he owed and staying away from the card tables. And Coop seemed to be a good influence on Wesley, which was a relief. After raising Wesley, she had enormous respect for single mothers; the pressure was relentless. So was the guilt.

Things should have been so different for Wesley. For her. The thought only fueled her frustration and confusion over her father’s cryptic phone calls. What should she do? Report it? Wait? Report it, then wait?

“Lindbergh,” the conductor announced. “Lindbergh is your next station.”

The train slowed to a swaying halt and the doors lurched opened. Carlotta pushed her way to the platform and rode the escalator to the street level. A whipping wind had descended with the promise of rain before she could walk the few blocks home.

She picked up the pace, cursing the questionable repair shop and thinking that if she’d known her car wouldn’t be ready, she wouldn’t have worn her Stuart Weitzman mules to work. They were good for standing still or for sashaying around the sales floor, not so good for eating up uneven sidewalks while wrestling an enormous vase of roses. By the time it started to rain, she had the beginning of a serious blister or three. She muttered a string of curses as she tried to shield her Nancy Gonzalez clutch. It was last year’s style, but didn’t deserve water spots.

She glanced around at the slightly shabby homes in her neighborhood, Lindbergh or as locals liked to say, east Buckhead. When they’d moved here after her parents had lost their lavish home, Wesley had called it Limberg, like the cheese, and her mother had said it was fitting. The cramped, nondescript town house had been a jolt to them all after living large. Even the weather in this part of town seemed to reflect the plight of the people who lived here—not quite as good as anywhere else. She’d bet that a few miles away in Buckhead, skies were blue.

She was hobbling in pain by the time she reached the stoop of their home. The rain had stopped, but she was thoroughly drenched as she fumbled with the flowers and her key ring.

“Well, aren’t you special?”

Carlotta turned her head to see their neighbor Mrs. Winningham standing on the other side of the fence she’d erected. The tall, skinny woman sported a bright red helmet of teased hair, elastic-waist polyester pants and a shiny button-up shirt. In her arms she held an umbrella and her dog, Toofers, the ugliest, meanest canine imaginable. Over the years, the bizarrely black-tufted dog had sunk its razor teeth into Wesley more times that she could count. And always when they could least afford a trip to the emergency room for stitches.

“Hello, Mrs. Winningham. Hello, Toofers.”

Toofers growled at her, and the woman gave him a reassuring pat. “Nice flowers, Carlotta. Do you have a man friend?”

“Uh … no.”

“There’ve been a lot of men coming around lately. The man who drives the dark sedan, for instance, and the man with the fancy little sports car and the man who drives the white van.”

She’d bet the woman had copied down all the license plates, too. “Those are just friends of ours, Mrs. Winningham.”

“What about the woman with the striped hair and the chains?”

“Uh … that’s another friend.”

Her neighbor frowned. “Are your parents ever going to come back for you?”

Carlotta almost dropped the vase of flowers, then considered throwing it at the biddy and her bite-happy pooch. Instead she gritted her teeth. “I wouldn’t count on it, Mrs. Winningham.”

“Your townhouse is in terrible disrepair. It makes the entire street look bad.”

She so didn’t need this.

“I wasn’t happy when the two homosexuals moved into the house next to yours, but they have at least updated the place and keep it looking nice. Although that solarium sticking out in the backyard does block the view to the houses on the other side.”

Carlotta gave the woman a flat smile. The two men who had moved in next door about five years ago kept to themselves and had never talked to her or Wesley. Then she bit into her lip. Maybe she should make an effort to get to know them. They probably thought everyone in the neighborhood was as homophobic as this woman.

On the other hand, if they were witness to some of the goings-on at the Wren house, they were probably keeping their distance for a reason.

“You must have noticed that Wesley spruced up our back deck. We’ll get to some of the other things as soon as our budget allows.”

The woman sniffed. “From the looks of what was carried in there today, you got money for other things.”

It was Carlotta’s turn to frown. “What do you mean?”

The woman lifted her shoulders in a dramatic shrug. “It’s not my place to say.” She turned and walked away, leaving Carlotta to stand there soggy and miserable.

The door opened suddenly and Wesley stood there smiling. “Hey, sis!”

Instantly, she was suspicious. “What’s wrong?” she asked as she limped into the living room.

“Nothing’s wrong. Need a hand? Wow, where did you get the flowers?”

“Never mind,” she said absently, dripping on the carpet and staring at something past Wesley, something that even upstaged the little aluminum Christmas tree that had stood in the corner ever since their parents had taken off. “What is that?”

Wesley grinned. “It’s a big-screen TV.”

“I can see that.” The sixty-inch screen was hard to miss since it took up most of the real estate in the room. “What is it doing in our living room?”

“Surprise! I bought it for you.”

“Forme?”

“For us. Isn’t it great? The old one was about to go out anyway.” He looked so pleased with himself, just like when he was little and had brought her frogs.

She touched her stinging, injured palm to her forehead. “Wesley, this had to cost a fortune. Where did you get the money?”

“I sold my motorcycle.”

She conceded a spurt of relief and a tug of affection that he would sacrifice something he loved, but her generosity was short-lived. “I’m glad that you sold the death machine but Wesley, we could have spent that money on a hundred other things!”

“You don’t like it?”

He looked so wounded that she bit her tongue and counted to three. “Of course I like it, but.” She gestured to the basket of overflowing statements that she hadn’t bothered to open in too long to admit. “But we need to pay bills! Catch up on the mortgage! And what about those thugs you owe?”

“I made my payments this morning—a day early.”

“What about next week?”

His shoulder sagged as he gestured toward the massive television. “I just thought it would make you happy. You’ve been so morose lately.”

Here came those damned tears again. Oh, God, and hiccups too. The wide-eyed panic in Wesley’s eyes at the waterworks made her turn away. Carlotta wiped her cheeks and said over her shoulder, “We’ll talk about this later.”

“Okay,” he muttered. “Oh, sis, there’s a phone message.”

She came up short. Had their father called? She turned on her heel, inhaling sharply into a hiccup. “Did you listen to it? Who was it?” The shrillness of her voice vibrated in her ears, but she couldn’t help it.

He frowned. “It was Peter. He wants you to call him back. He sounded weird.”

She swallowed and forced her muscles to relax. “Okay. Thanks.” She turned back to the hallway and walked toward her bedroom.

“Are you going to call him?” Wesley called behind her.

“No,” she said blandly. “I’m off work tomorrow. Don’t wake me up until Wednesday.” She was putting off the inevitable, but she didn’t care. She just wanted everyone—fugitive father, body-moving brother, interfering cop, schizoid friend and repentant ex-fiancé—to leave her the hell alone.

Was that too much to ask?




9


“Wren,” barked the woman behind the desk, leveling a stare on Wesley as he slouched in a chair waiting to see his probation officer for their regular Wednesday meeting. “You’re up.”

He sprang to his feet, then remembered to play it cool and slowed his stride as he approached the office of E. Jones. He’d asked, but she’d refused to tell him what the E stood for. She said that he didn’t need to know that much about her.

He knocked on the door with two sharp raps of his knuckles and waited for her sexy voice to call out. The glass of a nondescript framed print on the wall was a passable mirror. He glanced at his reflection, nodding in approval over the two-day old beard; he’d heard that women liked the scruffy look. Then he ran his fingers through his light brown hair to give it a tousle and pulled on the lapels of a sport coat that Carlotta had bought for him.

“Let me know when you’re finished primping,” that sexy voice said right behind him.

Wesley started, then turned to see E. Jones laying those big green eyes of hers on him, her pink mouth curled into a wry smile. Heat flooded his neck. “I wasn’t primping.”

“Right.” She reached past him and opened her door, then preceded him inside. “Close the door and have a seat.”

Still smarting, Wesley did as he was told.

“How did you get here?” she asked as she settled into a chair behind a neat desk and opened a file folder that had his name on it.

“Bicycle.”

Her eyebrows went up. “You didn’t ride your motorcycle?”

She’d busted him previously by following him when he’d left his appointment. Not only had he been driving his motorcycle with a suspended license, but he’d gone on a drug drop for Chance to make some money. E. had caught him red-handed and had let him off with a warning as long as he took the delivery back where it had come from.

“I sold my motorcycle and bought a bike.”

“Ah. Does that mean you can pay your five-thousand-dollar fine to the court?”

For reparations to the city for the little hacking job he’d done into the courthouse records. “Uh, no.”

“You didn’t make a profit?”

“I did, but I bought a new TV. The one we had was shot.” E. had also seen their place, thanks to a surprise drop-in visit. The woman now knew pretty much everything about him—his family history, where he slept and who he hung out with. And that the dusty box of Trojans in his bathroom medicine cabinet had never been opened.

“That’s nice, but in your situation do you think a TV should have been your top priority?”

He shifted in his seat. “I wanted to do something nice for my sister. Don’t worry, I’ll still be able to make my weekly court payment.”

“Good.” E. sat back and scrutinized him. “Are you staying out of trouble?”

He swallowed involuntarily. Could she possibly know about the gambling? “Yeah, I’m clean.”

“Are you still hanging around with that friend of yours?”

“What friend?”

“The one who is such a good friend that he would ask you to do something that could ruin your life.”

Wesley cracked his knuckles. “I’m not giving you his name.”

“I don’t want his name. I don’t care if he flushes his life down the drain. I only care about you.”

He stopped, wondering if she meant it, and on what level. Was she saying that she cared only because she was responsible for getting him through probation and out of the system with as little fuss as possible? A great-looking woman in her mid-twenties could never be into him. Could she?

“How’s your sister?” E. asked, breaking the tension. “I read about her involvement in the Buckhead murders. Sounds like she was lucky to escape with her own life.”

Wesley nodded, unwilling to think about how close he’d come to losing his sister. “Carlotta is tough.” Then he grinned. “She has to be to have put up with me all these years.”

“Do you stop to consider the impact your actions have on her life?”

“Not enough,” he admitted.

“Is that fair?”

“No one in my family has gotten a fair shake.”

“Oh, right. You believe that your father is innocent of the crimes he’s charged with.”

He sat up straighter. “Yes.”

She angled her head. “If he’s innocent, why do you think he would skip town? Leave his family?”

Wesley shrugged to cover the anger accumulating in his chest. “I don’t know, and it’s really—” He wiped his hand over his mouth.





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