Body Movers Books 1-3

She slid her gaze sideways at Hannah, the tongue-pierced, stripe-haired, smoking and cursing bondage queen…with a heart of gold. Her best friend, but would Peter accept her and her eccentricities? And how would he feel when he discovered that she herself had had a couple of, er, misunderstandings with the law? And she doubted that Peter’s boss, Walt Tully, would look kindly upon him taking up with the daughter of the man who had stolen hundreds of thousands of dollars from their clients, the man responsible for an embarrassing asterisk on the company records.

So what could she really ever be to Peter—a pastime…closeted?

“This is it,” Hannah said, throwing the van into park.

Carlotta looked up and took in their eclectic surroundings. The people and shop owners in Little Five Points prided themselves on their individuality. Antique book-shops, organic restaurants, futon stores, bike shops, alternative-music stores, hip T-shirt shops. The theaters and playhouses and trendy eateries had caught on with the younger Buckhead crowd determined to prove that they were get-real cool despite their black American Express cards, so the clientele was slowly changing from students with pocket change to young professionals with loads of disposable income. Ergo, next door to a retro used-clothing store called Rebound Rags sat Designer Consigner.

They loaded up armfuls of bags and clothing and headed for the door. Carlotta felt a little sheepish to be taking her personal items in to hock—it smacked of desperation. Her mother, she thought, would be appalled at the notion of Carlotta selling her clothes—consignment stores and yard sales were too pedestrian for the Wrens.

Embezzlement, bail skipping and child abandonment, on the other hand, were acceptable.

She followed Hannah into the store that was remarkably well merchandised for a consignment shop. A petite Asian woman with a sleek bob and wearing a Chanel suit as well as anyone Carlotta had ever seen looked up from a table where she sorted items that, presumably, the two women standing in front of her had just brought in.

“I’ll be right with you,” the Asian woman said in a clear, cultured voice.

The two customers turned and Carlotta blinked in surprise—one was Tracey Tully…er, Lowenstein. Mrs. Dr.

“Carlotta,” Tracey said, her voice chilly. “How utterly bizarre to see you again so soon.”

“Hello, Tracey.” A flush blazed its way up Carlotta’s neck as she saw Tracey take in the bulging shopping bags she and Hannah held. Humiliation washed over her.

Tracey gestured to the dry-cleaner bags of clothing stacked on the table. “My friend Courtney and I were just dropping off some items for the Women Helping Women clothing drive.”

The other woman smiled tightly without making eye contact, as if Carlotta and Hannah might qualify as some of the women who needed help.

“Well…what a coincidence,” Carlotta said, lifting her chin. “So are we.”

She ignored Hannah’s strangled noise as she lifted the shopping bags to the table. After she jerked her head meaningfully, Hannah did the same with the bounty she’d carried in.

From the top of one of Carlotta’s bags, Tracey plucked a nearly mint Kate Spade leather hobo bag from two seasons ago. “Yes, underprivileged women will appreciate these items, even if they are hopelessly dated.” Then Tracey made a face. “This stuff smells like garlic.”

Carlotta smiled through clenched teeth as the woman carelessly tossed the expensive purse back into the bag.

“You’re very generous, ma’am,” the salesclerk murmured to Carlotta.

Carlotta tried to keep smiling as the woman gathered up the bags and disappeared with them in a back room. There went the extra cash she’d hoped to have.

When the salesclerk returned, Tracey snapped her fingers, as if she were talking to a servant. “I’ll be needing a receipt so I can deduct this from my income taxes. I’m a doctor’s wife and in our tax bracket we need all the deductions we can get.”

Hannah coughed, disguised her muttered “bitch” as a wheeze.

“Yes, ma’am,” the salesclerk said, then she smiled at Carlotta. “If you’ll write down your name and phone number, I’ll give you one as well.”

Not that it mattered in her tax bracket, Carlotta thought miserably.

Tracey snatched the receipt from the woman’s hand, then turned to Carlotta. “Now that Angela is gone, I guess I’ll be seeing you at the club.”

Carlotta frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tracey tossed her hair. “I mean, it’s pretty clear that you and Peter Ashford are going to pick up where you left off…if you ever stopped.” She gestured toward the back room where the salesclerk had taken the shopping bags. “You’re probably giving away all your old things because you think that Peter is going to buy you whatever you want now. Poor Angela, not even cold in her grave.”

Anger flared in Carlotta’s chest and she struggled to keep her voice steady. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, it’s not just me talking,” Tracey assured her with a cocked hip. “After you made a spectacle of yourself at the funeral and the way that Peter fawned over you afterward in front of everyone, trust me, everyone is talking.” Then Tracey smiled meanly. “But considering the way you were raised, no one is surprised.”

Carlotta flinched as if she’d been slapped, but Hannah apparently wasn’t nearly so traumatized. “Mrs. Dr., how’d you like my pointy-toed boot up your charitable ass?”

“We’re leaving,” Tracey said, looking them up and down with contempt as she and her friend made their way toward the entrance—but not without a parting shot. “Really, Carlotta, you’ve gone to the dogs.”

Hannah lunged toward them, but Carlotta grabbed her arm. Still, it was enough to send Tracey and her sidekick scrambling out the door.

When Carlotta turned back to the salesclerk, the woman had a faint smile on her face. “Sorry about that,” Carlotta murmured, then bent to write her name and number on the receipt book.

“They have history,” Hannah added unnecessarily.

“So I gathered,” the woman said, her dark eyes shining. She extended the receipt she’d written to Carlotta. “Thank you very much for the donation.”

“You’re welcome,” Carlotta said, feeling guilty as hell as she took the slip of paper.

When their hands brushed, a strange look crossed the woman’s face. She clasped Carlotta’s hand. “Wait.”

From the sharp tone in the woman’s voice, alarm blipped through Carlotta’s chest. “What is it?”

The woman had turned Carlotta’s hand palm up and was studying it, a crease between her perfectly arched brows. Carlotta glanced at Hannah, who only shrugged. After a few awkward seconds had passed, the woman looked up.

“I don’t mean to worry you,” she said quietly, “but you are facing danger.”

Carlotta squirmed. “Why would you say that?”

The woman’s cheeks turned pink. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I have a gift…for seeing things. When I touched your hand, I felt danger. Do you have a big, strong man in your life to protect you?”

Hannah snorted. “No.”

Carlotta nervously withdrew her hand. “We’d better be going, Hannah.”

The woman smiled. “My name is Amy, Amy Lin. I didn’t mean to scare you, but please be careful.”

Carlotta studied the woman’s body language for some sign of a con or impending sales pitch. Instead, Amy Lin’s eyes burned with sincerity and…concern.

Without responding, Carlotta backed away and left the store, with Hannah at her heels like an excited puppy. “Oh my God, that was a psychic moment!”

“I don’t believe in psychics,” Carlotta said as she climbed into the van.

Hannah catapulted herself into the seat and slammed her door. “Well, I do, and I’ve always wanted something like that to happen to me.”

“If it makes you feel better, I wish it had happened to you, too. That kind of stuff is wasted on me.”

“I wonder what she meant by you facing danger?” Hannah bounced in the vinyl bench seat. “Ooh, ooh—maybe Peter Ashford is the danger, and you need someone to protect you from him.”