Body Movers Books 1-3

Just as he’d had no right to kiss her the other night.

Her head was beginning to thump as she walked through the parking garage. She massaged the bridge of her nose and fought back sudden tears as the scene unfolded in her head. Good grief, hadn’t she deserved the confrontation? Kissing another woman’s husband—what had she been thinking? She couldn’t blame Angela for being angry. Even if the woman didn’t know the whole story, her intuition apparently told her that there were unresolved feelings between her husband and his former girlfriend. How maddening would that be?

Carlotta squeezed her eyes shut against the confusion assailing her, but the sound of an accelerating car jarred her out of her reverie. She jerked around to see a long, dark car with tinted windows speeding toward her. She stood frozen for a split second, then dived to the side and landed with a whoomph on the ground between her car and the vehicle next to it. She lay there, her heart beating wildly, expecting the driver to stop, apologize and ask if she was okay. Instead, the car sped down the ramp of the parking garage.

She pushed to her feet, cursing at the general craziness of Atlanta drivers who were too distracted by cell phones and road rage to be bothered with pedestrians. And she blamed herself for walking out in front of the car.

It was only after she was behind the wheel and backing out of her parking place that Angela Ashford popped back into her brain. Could the woman be angry enough to try to run her down? Then she almost laughed in relief. Angela drove a luscious red Jaguar. She’d seen the woman climb into it on more than one occasion at the valet stand.

The rash of crimes around the mall was another possibility—had someone targeted her for a mugging? That didn’t seem likely since the driver hadn’t even stopped to wrestle away her Coach bag. Then her blood went cold as the threat from her brother’s creditor ran through her head. A henchman had come to visit her at the store once before. Was it possible that they were following her, that they had tried to run her down as a warning?

She shuddered and kept one eye on the rearview mirror as she drove home, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, no dark cars with tinted windows following her. Still, as she pulled her car into the garage, she was thinking about the fact that in a few days, that thug Tick would be back, demanding another payment that Wesley wouldn’t have. Even with his new job, he’d be lucky to have half of what the fat man would want.

And then there was next week…

She sighed, swung out of her car and slammed the door in frustration. Rounding the Monte Carlo, she gave it a kick in the back tire, wishing she could sell the redneck car but knowing that was impossible considering how much she owed on it and what it was worth. She eyed her beloved white Miata, and conceded that even crippled, it could bring a few thousand dollars. But that would be a last resort. Surely there was something else she could sell.

She walked into the house and smiled at the noise and good smells coming from the kitchen. “I’m home,” she shouted.

Wesley came to the doorway and waved. “How does lasagna sound?”

“Fantastic.”

He eyed her up and down. “What happened to your clothes? You look like you’ve been in a brawl.”

She glanced down at the black marks on her skirt and blouse—between the Angela Ashford incident and skidding across the parking garage, she was a mess. And she wasn’t about to tell Wesley about her “brawl.” “I walked out in front of a car when I was leaving work and decided to sacrifice my outfit.”

“Good call.”

“I thought so.”

“Go get cleaned up. Soup’s on in ten.”

“Okay,” she said, moving toward her bedroom. She rubbed the shoulder that she’d landed on, her mind still clicking with worry over the bad element that continued to haunt their lives. If only she could get her hands on enough cash to get the loan sharks off their backs.

She turned on the shower, then backtracked to her bedroom. From beneath her bed she pulled a small trunk, and from the trunk, a red House of Cartier ring box. Her pulse raced as she raised the hinged lid and stared at the glittering one-carat diamond solitaire engagement ring that Peter had given her ten years ago. When he’d broken their engagement, he’d told her to keep the ring, to sell it if she needed to. And how many times had she been tempted to do just that to pay for utilities or school clothes or insurance? And how many times had she refused to part with her only remaining link to Peter?

Carlotta fingered the sparkling stone and bit down on the inside of her cheek. Perhaps it was time.

13

“That was amazing,” Carlotta said, pushing away her plate and smiling at her brother.

“I know,” he said with a smirk, still mopping up red sauce with crusty Italian bread. He pushed up his glasses. “I could teach you how to make it sometime.”

She batted her lashes. “And spoil your pleasure in cooking for me? Never.”

He wiped his mouth, then wadded up the paper napkin and threw it at her. Frowning, he leaned forward. “Hey, what happened to your neck? It looks like someone tried to choke you or something.”

Her hand flew to her throat and she could feel the angry welts left by the chain that Angela Ashford had twisted around her neck. “It’s…an allergic reaction to a necklace I wore, that’s all.” Wesley looked unconvinced, so she changed the subject. “When does your community service begin?”

“I have an appointment with my probation officer Wednesday. He’s supposed to arrange for me to work with the city geeks on their lousy security.”

“Good—maybe that’ll lead to a full-time job.”

“I already have a full-time job.”

“And it’s fine for now,” she said carefully. “But you can’t move dead bodies for the rest of your life.”

“Why not? Coop does okay.”

She frowned. “But this body-moving thing is just a side job for him too, right?”

“A side job from the funeral home, yeah. He contracts with the morgue when the M.E.’s office is short of vehicles.”

Carlotta looked at the clock—almost seven. “You’re not working tonight?”

“I’m on call. Coop said most weekend calls are late at night. Shootings, drunk-driving accidents, that kind of thing.”

She winced.

“I think he likes you.”

“Who?”

“Coop.”

Her eyes widened. “Your creepy boss likes me?”

“He’s not creepy. He’s kind of…nice. And, yeah, he asked about you.”

She frowned, remembering that she’d looked a fright the morning she’d met him, the morning after her crying jag over Peter. “Asked what?”

He shrugged. “You know, if you were single and stuff. He said he thought you were cute.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Cute? What is he, in grade school?”

“Don’t worry, I told him that he wasn’t your type.”

“Oh.” She studied her nails—she needed a manicure badly. Then she looked up. “What’s my type?”

Another shrug. “You know—smooth, slick. Coop said you were probably into metrosexuals.”

She frowned. “And how could he possibly know that? When he met me, if I remember correctly, I was in my pajamas, wearing no makeup, and my hair was a foot tall.”

“Yeah, but still, he could tell you were classy.”

She smiled. “You think I’m classy?”