Body Movers Books 1-3

“No—I need the cash.”

Carlotta looked up, surprised. “Oh.”

Angela recovered unconvincingly. “I mean, I’d rather have a refund.”

Carlotta reached into the shopping bag and withdrew the charcoal-gray jacket that she had thought would look so handsome on Peter—the same jacket that she had inquired about at the cocktail party and that Peter seemed to have no knowledge of. Had Angela given it to him since? Had it spawned an argument? Had Peter admitted running into her and that she’d spilled the beans about the jacket just before allowing Peter to put his tongue in her mouth?

She glanced at Angela beneath her lashes and the fact that the woman was studying her with unveiled loathing did not put her at ease. She had the feeling that the woman knew something…or was it simply her own guilt getting the best of her?

Unnerved, Carlotta gave the jacket a shake. When the stench of cigarette—no, cigar—smoke reached her nose, she frowned. The jacket’s tags had been removed, and it appeared a bit disheveled. She bit her lip. Exchanges and returns under her employee ID were being closely scrutinized since the trouble she’d gotten into over returning clothing that she’d bought and worn for a special occasion (or three). Since Peter had obviously worn the jacket, there was no way she could take it back without getting into trouble. “It, um, it looks like the jacket has been worn, Angela. I can’t give you a refund, but I can give you a store credit.”

Angela’s head snapped up. “No way, I want cash.”

“But—”

“Do you know how much money I spend in this store?”

“Yes, but—”

“And that I could buy and sell you if I wanted to?”

That stung. It was true, but the woman didn’t have to remind her. People were beginning to stare. Moisture gathered on her neck and she cast about for something soothing to say. She put her hand out. “Angela, this isn’t personal—”

“Personal?” Angela’s eyes turned murderous. “Everything between us is personal, Carlotta, considering my husband is still in love with you.”

Carlotta’s throat convulsed. Did she know about the kiss? “Th-that’s…not true, Angela.”

“Yes, it is!” Angela shouted, her eyes watering.

She reached across the counter, grasped the gold-plated Judith Leiber fox pendant around Carlotta’s neck and yanked her forward, until their faces were inches apart.

Carlotta’s feet left the ground as she floundered forward onto the counter. Nose to nose with the wild-eyed Angela, she was too shocked and alarmed to speak.

Angela twisted the chain, tightening it against Carlotta’s throat. “You’re fooling around with him behind my back, aren’t you?”

Carlotta flailed, gasping for air and kicking emptiness. She could hear commotion around them, but she couldn’t process the noises because she was feeling light-headed. Even Angela’s voice fused into one long droning sound. When the pressure on Carlotta’s windpipe increased, self-preservation kicked in. She managed to get a handful of Angela’s blond hair and yank with all her strength. She was rewarded with Angela’s howl and her release. Carlotta fell back, sprawling on the floor, heaving and sputtering for air.

And suddenly Angela was on her again, this time crawling over her and straddling her, hair and eyes wild, hands circling Carlotta’s throat. With what little air and energy she had left, Carlotta grunted and fought back, bucking and kicking, thinking that if she lived, she would probably be fired for creating a spectacle. Abruptly, Angela was dragged off her. Carlotta pushed to a sitting position, rubbing her throat, and saw a wide-eyed Michael Lane holding Angela, forcing her arms to her sides.

“Calm down,” he ordered the woman who was struggling against him. “Security is on the way,” he assured Carlotta.

“She’s screwing my husband!” Angela screamed, then sagged against Michael, sobbing. He gaped at Carlotta and as soon as he loosened his grip, Angela sprang to life, jerking away, then running haphazardly toward the escalator. “Keep the damn jacket,” she yelled over her shoulder. Michael looked back to Carlotta for guidance.

“Let her go,” Carlotta said, sitting on the floor, dazed, trying to process what had just happened. A crowd had gathered, covertly looking over clothing racks and around shelving units. Her skin tingled, her face burning with shame as she pushed to her feet and righted her clothing. From the direction of the elevator Akin Frasier came jogging toward her, his head pivoting side to side, looking for potential perps. Her boss was right behind him.

“Are you all right, Carlotta?” Lindy asked.

“I got a report that you were being assaulted,” Akin said.

“I’m fine,” Carlotta said, growing more mortified by the moment. “It was…a misunderstanding with a customer.”

“Was it someone you knew?” Lindy asked.

“Yes,” Carlotta admitted slowly. “It was Angela Ashford, but I think that she’d been drinking. She wanted a refund on something and became a little…belligerent when I offered a store credit instead.”

“What did she do?” Lindy demanded.

Carlotta swallowed. “She…uh…”

“She tried to choke Carlotta,” Michael said dryly. “I was coming up the escalator and saw everything.”

Akin’s eyes narrowed as he reached for his phone. “I’m filing a police report.”

“No,” Carlotta said quickly, then gave a little laugh. “It was just a misunderstanding. I wouldn’t want to blow it out of proportion.” She gave her boss a reassuring smile, but Lindy Russell’s gaze was wary. A flush burned its way up Carlotta’s neck. The only thing that had kept Lindy from canning her over the clothes-returning business a few months ago was her exemplary sales record. An altercation with a customer was not helping her cause.

“I don’t think a police report is necessary,” Lindy said finally. “How much longer on your shift, Carlotta?”

Carlotta glanced at her watch. “Forty-five minutes.”

“Why don’t you straighten up here and then go home? If Ms. Ashford returns, someone else will deal with her.”

Carlotta nodded, knowing she was getting off lightly. Akin and Lindy walked away and the knots of people dispersed, leaving only her and Michael.

“What was that all about?” he murmured.

“She was drunk,” Carlotta said, picking up the jacket that Angela had left.

“She said you were sleeping with her husband.”

“I’m not,” Carlotta said, although she couldn’t make eye contact with him. “Peter Ashford and I go way back, but he broke off our relationship years ago to date Angela, and then he married her. End of story.”

“Wow, I knew there was tension between the two of you, but I had no idea a man was involved.”

“It’s all in her head.”

“Are you sure?”

Carlotta looked up at her friend’s concerned expression. “Yes. There’s nothing between me and Peter Ashford.” Anymore.

“Okay,” Michael said, although his voice was still uncertain. “I have to get back to work. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes. Thanks for your help.”

“No problem.”

She watched her friend walk away and only then gave in to her frayed nerves. Her hands shook as she bagged and tagged the jacket with an ambiguous “hold” note. Then she made her way toward the employee break room, her legs still wobbly over the encounter.

She felt her neck where it would surely be bruised and wondered if Angela really meant to hurt her. The woman’s accusation that she and Peter were having an affair reverberated in her head. What had Peter told his wife? Anger flared in her chest. He had no right to pull her into his marital difficulties.