Body Movers Books 1-3

“When what happens?”

“Love. Just when you make up your mind that you have no intention of falling for someone—whammo!”

“I get hit by a truck?”

Michael stuck out his tongue. “Make fun, but mark my words—your Mr. Right is close at hand.”

The door opened and the head of security walked in, looking all of a hundred pounds in his uniform, his pants gathered around his thin frame with a wide black belt, his nonexistent chest puffed up like Barney Fife.

“I came to do a routine check of your loading dock,” Akin said, then looked at Carlotta and blushed furiously. “I want to make sure everyone here is safe on my watch.” Then he saluted and strode out the double doors leading to the loading dock.

Michael looked at her and burst out laughing.

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

She laughed at Michael’s nonsense on the short drive to the Four Seasons Hotel. Despite her hesitation when she had been on the phone with Hannah, her chest clicked with anticipation as she parked her car—there was no money for valet service tonight—and walked toward the hotel entrance. There was nothing quite so exciting as fudging her way into a party where she wasn’t supposed to be. The difference was tonight she wouldn’t be incognito; if she ran into somebody she knew, it would be fun to see them stutter and fumble while trying to figure out how someone like her could afford the requisite two-hundred-fifty-dollar ticket that these events usually boasted.

She checked her watch as she walked into the hotel. Right on time. She rode up the elevator and when she alighted, turned away from the velvet-roped entrance where a hostess was taking tickets and headed down a narrow hall that led to the restrooms and to a set of stainless swinging doors marked Service Personnel Only. The door opened and Hannah, dressed in standard white culinary garb, her striped hair bound in a hairnet, thrust a folded garment into Carlotta’s hands. “Put this apron on.”

She did as she was told, crossing the long ties in front before securing them in back, then frowned. “You didn’t tell me you were working the party. I thought we were going to hang out.”

“I’m only standing in until someone else gets here, then I’ll find you.”

“Okay,” Carlotta said sulkily.

“Cheer up,” Hannah said, handing her a tray of mini quiches to carry through the kitchen. “I think I saw Gladys Knight. Didn’t you say you wanted her autograph?”

Carlotta nodded, glad she’d put her new autograph book in her bag. “But why would she be here?”

“She’s a businesswoman, has investments in town—including a tasty little restaurant in Midtown.”

Considerably cheered, Carlotta followed Hannah through the kitchen maze, trying to look busy and intent as she balanced the tray on her hand. As soon as they cleared the doors into the hallway leading to the party room, she handed the tray to Hannah and removed the apron with lightning speed. “Thanks,” she said, smoothing her hand over her hair.

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

Carlotta turned to the crowd, scanning for the singer of “Midnight Train to Georgia” among the preppily dressed, one-hand-in-their-pants-pocket crowd, and spotted her standing in a corner, sporting her signature dazzling smile and, fortuitously, signing an autograph. Carlotta made a beeline for the woman before she tired of autograph hounds. She stepped up and introduced herself, then explained that she’d once had the singer’s autograph, but that her autograph book had recently been ruined and she was hoping to get a replacement. Ms. Knight was gracious and obliged, writing her name with a flourish in the new pink leather autograph book—the first among its blank pages.

Carlotta watched, starstruck, imagining all the glamorous, wonderful things the woman had done and seen in her lifetime and visualizing all of that luck and energy pouring into the bold signature that she would take home with her. “Thank you so much,” she gushed when the singer handed the book back to her.

She turned, happy beyond words to begin filling another book with celebrity autographs. In the months since her last book had been destroyed, she hadn’t realized how much she missed lying in bed and reading the names of famous people she’d met, if only for a few seconds.

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

Carlotta snapped the book shut, looked up, and froze. Peter Ashford, looking even more handsome than he had ten years ago, stood smiling at her.

9

Carlotta’s heart stood still. “Peter. Hello.”

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

“Yes,” she managed, wishing for something to lean against to keep from falling down.

“You look great,” he said, sweeping his gaze over her. “The same…only better.”

Obligatory chatter. She remembered his comment about recognizing her smile anywhere and was suddenly self-conscious of the gap between her front teeth that she’d never had corrected. She took him in—his dark, sun-kissed skin, his blond hair clipped in a trendy style that made the most of his cheekbones. He was still tall and lean but had filled out. What had once been boyish was all man, and she had to stop herself from reaching out to pull his body against hers, to breathe in the cologne on his neck, to knead the muscles in his back.

“How have you been?” he asked to fill the awkward silence.

“Oh, fine,” she said quickly.

“And Wesley? He must be what—sixteen years old now?”

“Nineteen,” she corrected, disappointed that he hadn’t noted the passing of every year, of every day since their breakup. Immediately, she recognized she was being unfair. It hadn’t been as traumatic an event to him as it had been to her.

“Wow, he’s all grown up.”

She nodded, wondering if he’d read of Wesley’s arrest but was diplomatically avoiding the subject.

He pointed to the pink leather book in her hands. “And I see that you’re still collecting autographs. I guess you filled up the black book you always carried around.”

“That was a long time ago,” she said, shoving the new book into her purse, not wanting to admit she’d replaced that black autograph book only recently—and not out of choice.

“Can I get you a glass of wine?”

Deciding there was nothing wrong with him using one of his drink tickets on her, she nodded.

“White zinfandel?” he asked.

“Pinot noir,” she said, letting him know that her tastes had changed, matured. But while he ordered her drink, she devoured him with her eyes—tall, commanding, self-assured, polished. This was the man who would have been her husband. No…Angela had told her what Peter had said about marrying Carlotta. Even if they had married, it wouldn’t have lasted.

But it was easy to put those troubling thoughts aside when he walked back toward her. Easy to pretend that Peter was her husband, returning with her drink. “Thank you,” she said, taking the glass. His hand brushed hers, leaving her unreasonably flushed with pleasure.

“To the good times,” he said lightly, lifting his glass.

She nodded and clinked her glass to his, then drank deeply of the rich red wine. The flavors burst onto her tongue, the alcohol pleasantly burning the back of her throat. Almost immediately she felt the effects of the wine and warned herself to take it slow on an empty stomach. Seeing Peter again had already knocked her senses off balance—she didn’t need an accelerant.

He studied her as he drank from his glass and she wondered what was going through his mind. Regret? Relief?

Suddenly his nose wrinkled and he waved his hand in the air as the smell of cigarette smoke wafted their way from the bar. “Damn cigarettes. Let’s get some fresh air,” he said, nodding toward the patio doors.

She agreed, telling herself that it was perfectly normal that they should have a conversation after the way things had ended all those years ago. She fell into step next to him, careful to maintain a respectable distance in deference to the overwhelming urge to wrap her legs around him.

Dusk had settled on the patio where a handful of people stood talking quietly. Low light sparkled from luminaries hung all around that struck her as strangely romantic for what was supposed to be a business event. “What brings you here?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Thought it might be a good place to make some new contacts for potential clients. I’m an investment broker for Mashburn, Tully and—” He blanched. “Sorry, I still want to add your father’s name to the partners list.”

“It’s okay,” she murmured. “I knew you were working there. I saw your wedding announcement in the AJC.”