Body Movers (12 page)

the traffic, like a good southern gentleman. Carlotta

desperately wanted to talk but didn’t know what to say,

afraid if she started talking, she might say too much. So

she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other,

satisfied at the moment with breathing the same air as

Peter.

“I can’t believe it’s been ten years,” he said final y.

A response seemed unnecessary.

“Have you heard from your parents?” he asked gently.

“We received a few postcards over the years, but even

those have stopped.”

He looked pained. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for something that isn’t your fault.”

“I’m sorry for leaving you stranded when you needed me

the most.”

Her heart thudded in her chest. She studied the toes of her

shoes, afraid to look at him, afraid she would burst into

tears over the admission that she’d longed to hear for over

a decade.

“I was a coward,” he said. “I let my family talk me into

something I didn’t want to do.”

So, his family had pressured him to break off their

relationship. She had suspected as much, but now that she

knew, she wasn’t sure what hurt the most—that they had

considered her spoiled goods, or that Peter hadn’t

defended her.

He grimaced. “I’m not being fair to my folks, though. They

were doing what they thought was right. I was the coward

for not standing up to them.”

She stopped next to her Monte Carlo Super Sport, which,

she acknowledged, probably seemed garish to him. The

damn car seemed to represent the sorry state of her life.

She looked up and shielded her eyes against the lamplight.

“What do you want me to say, Peter? Do you want me to

agree with you?”

The pained look was back on his face. “I already know that

you agree with me, Carly.” He reached down and picked

up her hand, sandwiching it between his. “I’m asking you

to forgive me.”

She felt the pulse in his thumb throbbing against hers, the

warmth from his hands surrounding hers like when they

had made love, with the kind of abandon that only two

teenagers could possess. She had always teased that his

body was like a furnace, and he had always said she put

the fire in his bel y. Her body tingled in response to his

touch, as if answering some long-forgotten cal .

“Is that what you need to be at peace, Peter? For me to

forgive you?”

He looked into her eyes and squeezed her hand tighter.

The tension between them crushed her ribs and

constricted her airways. It was as if they were suspended,

as if time stood stil , poised to resume when one of them

spoke or moved or breathed.

“No,” he said in a raspy voice, releasing her hand. “Even if

you forgive me, I can’t say that I wil ever be at peace.”

She pushed her tingling hand inside her jacket pocket and

tried to compose herself. “We can’t turn back the clock,

Peter. We’re different people now. You have your life, and

I have mine.”

He smiled. “You’re right. When did you become so

pragmatic?”

“Ten years ago.”

He sighed and nodded. “What choice did you have?”

She pul ed out her car keys and hit the keyless entry

button. “I should go.” She opened the driver’s-side door

and dropped her purse inside.

“Carly.”

She turned toward his voice—an old habit, easily resumed.

He stepped toward her and dropped a kiss on her cheek.

The unexpected closeness of his body to hers sent a surge

of desire rippling through her stomach. He groaned softly

and suddenly the innocent kiss went from cheek to mouth,

and his lips seared hers. She gave in to the overwhelming

rush of longing and wrapped her arms around his neck,

pul ing him closer. His mouth devoured hers and instantly,

she was home. She knew his mouth, knew how he tasted,

how he liked to flick his tongue against hers, how he

slanted his head just so for better leverage.

She moaned and kissed him with all the pent-up years of

longing for him to come back to her, to climb into her bed

and thrust his body into hers and whisper against her neck

that he’d loved her all along. She kneaded the cords of his

back and pressed her aching breasts against the wall of his

chest. But when the hardness of his erection pressed into

her stomach, warning bel s sounded in her head. And

when she heard footsteps approaching, reality came

crashing back. She tore her mouth from his and stumbled

back. She didn’t know the couple walking by, but she was

stil awash with shame.

“Carly,” Peter said on an exhale, then pul ed his hand

down his face. “You’re kil ing me.”

She covered her mouth with her hand, unable to believe

what she’d just done—what she’d been about to do.

“You’re a married man, Peter.”

“I know,” he said, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that,” she said. “Stop saying that!” She

brushed past him and swung into her car seat.

“Carlotta—”

She held up her hand to cut him off. “This was a big

mistake. Go home, Peter. Go home to your wife.”

She closed the door with a slam, separating herself from

him. Somehow she managed to get the key in the ignition

with a trembling hand, then cranked the engine. She

pul ed away, squealing tires and accelerating at a

breathtaking speed. So the muscle car was good for

something after all: rocketing her away from Peter

Ashford.

She resisted the urge to glance in the rearview mirror, and

broke every speed limit on the way home.

It wasn’t until she pul ed into her garage that her coworker

Michael’s words came back to her. Just when you make up

your mind that you have no intention of falling for

someone—whammo!

She sighed and leaned her head on the steering wheel.

“Whammo!” was right. She would have been better off

getting hit by a truck.

Minus ten points.

10

When Carlotta’s alarm went off the next morning, she

slapped at it blindly, her eyes crusted shut from a river of

salty tears. As she lay there rubbing her fists against her

lids, last night came back to her in a horrible rush. She

groaned. What had she been thinking? As soon as she saw

Peter Ashford, she should’ve turned on her heel and run.

Now she had fresh sensory details to torment herself with.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she lamented, hitting her

forehead for emphasis. She wondered what Lindy would

say if she called in to take a “mental health” day, meaning

she was feeling more crazy than usual.

Knowing the answer, she pushed herself up on her elbows,

hoping to motivate the rest of her body to get moving.

At the sound of muffled noise coming from the kitchen,

she pursed her mouth. Wesley was never up this early. She

raised her nose and sniffed the air. Hmm—bacon. She

hoped he’d made enough for two. Throwing back the

covers, she reached for her yel ow chenil e bathrobe and

pul ed it over her red Betty Boop pajamas, then padded

barefoot toward the kitchen and the good smel s.

Wesley, dressed in jeans and T-shirt, stood at the stove,

stirring and flipping and…whistling?

“Good morning,” she said warily.

He turned and grinned. “Mornin’. You look like hel .”

She smirked. “Thanks.”

“Are you sick? I got in kinda early last night and your door

was closed—I thought that maybe you’d brought a guy

home with you.” He pointed an egg turner at her pajamas.

“But I can see that isn’t the case based on your godawful

sleepwear.”

“Shut up,” she said playful y, then went to the fridge for

orange juice. “I’m not sick.”

“What then?”

She sighed. “I ran into Peter Ashford last night.”

“Peter Ashford? What’s the asshole up to?”

She frowned. “Never mind.”

“I thought he was married.”

“He is. And it’s not like I’m mooning for him. I guess seeing

him just brought back bad memories. What are you

making?” she asked to change the subject.

“Eggs Benedict with fresh sliced red and green tomatoes.”

“Wow, what’s the occasion?”

“I got a job.” He took a bow, then waited for her reaction.

She squealed with joy, then jumped up and down, sloshing

orange juice on her robe. “Oh, Wesley, that’s wonderful.

Doing what?”

He pressed his lips together and her joy dissipated.

“Wesley?”

“It’s a great job,” he said in a rush. “Flexible hours, good

money, benefits, and I don’t need a car.”

“Good,” she said, feeling somewhat cheered. “Doing

what?”

“Uh…moving bodies.”

She choked on her orange juice. “What?”

“Okay, don’t freak out—it’s a perfectly legitimate job. We

pick up bodies and move them to the morgue.”

“Pick up bodies from where?”

He shrugged. “Houses, hospitals…crime scenes.”

“Crime scenes? And who is ‘we’?”

The doorbel rang and Wesley smiled. “That would be my

boss.”

Her eyes widened as she looked down at her pj ensemble.

“At this hour?”

“Coop is picking me up for a morning run to a nursing

home,” he said over his shoulder. “I told him to come early

and have breakfast with us.”

“Coop?” She only had time to tighten the belt on her robe

and run her fingers through her tangled hair before

Wesley reappeared with a tall man dressed in overlong

jeans, black Converse Chuck Taylor tennis shoes and a

black sport coat over a dress shirt and tie.

A nice tie.

He appeared to be about thirty-five, with light brown hair,

long sideburns and funky dark-rimmed glasses. He looked

more like a philosophy teacher who hung out in coffee

shops than a…body mover.

“This is Cooper Craft, my boss,” Wesley said. “And this is

my sister, Carlotta. She usually looks better than this, but

she’s been crying all night over an old boyfriend.”

She gasped, mortified. “Wesley!” She shot daggers at her

brother while Cooper laughed, which only rankled her

further. “I understand that my brother wil be working for

you, Mr. Craft,” she said in her best never-cried-over-

anyone voice.

“Call me Coop,” he said, stil smiling. “That’s right.”

“And what exactly is it that you do?”

“I work at a funeral home, but mostly I contract with the

city morgue for body retrieval.” Another smile. “That’s

where I need Wesley’s help.” He held up a newspaper. “I

brought in your paper. Hope that’s okay.”

Carlotta nodded and took it, a little irritated that the man

seemed to feel so at home in their home.

“Have a seat,” Wesley said, gesturing to the table, where

he had set three plates. “What do you want to drink,

Coop?”

“You got coffee? I’l help myself,” the man said, walking

over to the table where he pul ed out a chair for Carlotta.

Feeling ridiculous, she tucked her bulky robe around her

and slid into the seat. Coop poured himself a cup of coffee

and took the seat opposite her. Wesley carried platters of

food to the table and arranged them careful y, then took

the seat between the two of them.

“This is incredible,” Cooper said, unfolding the paper towel

next to his plate and putting it in his lap as if it were linen.

He looked at Carlotta. “Did you make all this?”

Wesley laughed. “Dude, Carlotta doesn’t cook. I made it.”

She bristled. “I cook…some things.”

“Macaroni and cheese from a box doesn’t count,” Wesley

said, fil ing his plate.

“Sure it does,” Coop said, then winked at her.

Annoyed, Carlotta served herself then passed the

tomatoes to Coop. “This body-moving business sounds

very strange to me. Is it safe for Wesley to be

around…dead bodies?”

Coop swal owed a mouthful of coffee. “We take

precautions—gloves, masks, leak-proof body bags.”

Carlotta looked down at the sauce on the eggs Benedict

and her stomach roiled. “How long have you been doing

this?”

“Working with stiffs?” he asked between bites. “Pretty

much all of my life.”

She picked at the food on her plate. “No offense, but it

seems like an odd career choice.”

“Really? What do you do?”

“I work at Neiman Marcus at the Lenox Mall.”

He lifted his coffee cup. “Well, no offense, but to me that

seems like an odd career choice.”

Wesley laughed, then covered his mouth. “Sorry, sis, but

he’s got you there.”

She frowned at her brother and concentrated on eating

and not thinking about what Cooper Craft did for a living.

Under her lashes, she stared at his hands—long, shapely

fingers, with immaculate nails, clean from all the chemicals

he used, no doubt. She wondered if he had been a weird

kid, the kind that gave little funerals for roadkil . He

seemed normal—mannerly, wel -spoken, educated. But

what normal person was attracted to his line of work?

Then she looked at Wesley and stopped midchew. Was

there something wrong with Wesley? He did seem to have

a fixation on feeding live rodents to that kil er snake of his.

Was he attracted to this kind of job? Good God, having her