Читать книгу Body Movers Books 1-3 - Stephanie Bond, Stephanie Bond - Страница 13

“Thanks for shopping with us,” Carlotta said, forcing a smile for the guy who had made countless innuendos while selecting a skimpy red teddy.

He took the shopping bag and grinned, still leaning on the checkout counter. “I’d like to call you sometime.”

She swallowed her distaste and nodded toward the bag. “I assumed this was a gift for your girlfriend.”

“No, my mother.”

“You bought your mother a red teddy?”

He laughed but didn’t have the decency to look sheepish. “You got me there. Okay, it’s for my girlfriend…but it’s a breakup gift.”

“Ah. Well, thanks anyway, but I’m not available.”

He stared at her chest and made a rueful noise. “Too bad.”

“Yes, well, have a nice day.”

He took his time peeling away from the counter, looking back as if he just knew she was going to change her mind. Carlotta averted her gaze and busied herself straightening the counter. What an oaf. Were there any good men left in the world? She smirked, thinking of her friends’ comments about her aversion to men. Would she recognize a good man if he crossed her path?

Then she sighed. Even if a great guy dropped into her life, who would want to sign up to share her problems? Fugitive parents, a delinquent brother, a mountain of debt—it didn’t exactly make her the most eligible woman in Atlanta, not unless the guy had a laundry list of his own problems.

Take Detective Jack Terry, for instance. The man wasn’t bad-looking if one could look past his ghastly taste in clothes. But even dressed in a Paul Smith suit, Jack Terry would still be a swaggering, arrogant, annoying pain in the ass. Oh, sure, he’d tried to help Wesley yesterday in the men’s room, but now she knew it was only because her father’s case had been reopened and he was trying to cozy up to them for information.

In her pocket, her cell phone vibrated. Since there weren’t any unattended customers in sight, she pulled out the phone, hoping it was Wesley. She felt horrible about yelling at him this morning. Resentment toward her parents had never been stronger. She waffled between hoping the detective found them so she could tell them all the hateful things she’d been saving up for ten years, and hoping he didn’t find them because their return would wreak so much havoc on Wesley. Better that he romanticize their plight than to know with certainty what she knew: that their parents didn’t give a fig what happened to them.

But the caller ID read Hannah Kizer. Carlotta smiled and punched the call button. “Hi, are you back?”

“Yeah, I’m back. How did things go yesterday in court?”

“He got a fine, community service and probation.”

“Wow, no jail time? His attorney must have been good.”

Carlotta thought of Liz Fischer, frowned and changed the subject. “You’ll be proud of me—I told Wesley he had to get a job.”

“About damn time. Maybe now he’ll be too busy to get into trouble. Have any of his thugs been around?”

Carlotta glanced around to make sure no one could hear her. “A guy forced his way into the house this morning, demanding money.”

“You’re kidding. What did you do?”

“Wesley had a little cash, and I’d gotten an advance on my credit card, so we had enough to pacify him.”

“You should have called the police.”

“Considering my family’s history with the police, I didn’t think that was such a good idea. Besides, the police would only make things worse.”

Hannah sighed. “You’re probably right. But you need something to protect yourself.”

Carlotta pursed her mouth. “You mean a gun or something?”

The sound of someone clearing their throat made Carlotta turn her head. Her general manager stood there, frowning.

Carlotta’s pulse spiked. “Gotta go.”

“No, wait—I called you about a cocktail party tonight at the Four Seasons. Want to crash?”

Lindy was walking away, so Carlotta relaxed a bit. “I told you—I’ve sworn off party-crashing.”

“Oh, come on, I’ll let you in through the kitchen, so you don’t have to worry about a counterfeit ticket. You’re ready to clock out, aren’t you?”

Glancing at her watch, Carlotta said, “Yes, but I really don’t feel like going home to change.”

“It’s one of those business mixers for the upper crust, so the dress is business casual. Come on, it’ll take your mind off things.”

Carlotta wavered. She’d worn a rather conservative black suit and striped button-up shirt, so she would probably blend.

“I’ll meet you at the kitchen entrance in an hour,” Hannah said.

“Okay,” Carlotta relented. “Just this once.”

She disconnected the call and hurried to wait on a customer, who took up the time remaining on her shift. Afterward, she freshened her makeup in the employee break room. Michael Lane came in and removed a brown paper bag from his locker.

“Hot date?” he asked, cracking open a can of diet soda.

She smiled. “No.”

“Hmm, I was hoping the reason you’ve been avoiding me is because you had a secret man in your life.”

A pang of remorse struck her. She’d been avoiding Michael because he’d no doubt read about Wesley’s arrest and she didn’t want to discuss it. She and the gay man were friends, but she wasn’t sure how much she could trust him where the gossip mill was concerned.

“I’ve just been busy, that’s all.”

“I understand,” he said, his expression gentle. “Is everything okay at home?”

“It’s getting better,” she said evasively, hoping it was true.

“Let me know if I can help.”

Gratitude swelled in her chest. “I will. And thanks again for the Angela Ashford commission last week.”

He shrugged. “Everyone who works here knows she’s your customer. You deserved it.” Then he frowned. “So what’s the connection between the two of you anyway?”

She married the only man I’ve ever loved. “Uh…we went to high school together.”

“Oh. Was she a bitch then, too?”

Carlotta laughed. “In training.”

“So what are you up to tonight?”

“I’m meeting Hannah at a party.”

He frowned. “The vampire?”

“She’s not a vampire. She just likes to dress…weirdly.”

“Whatever,” he said. “You’ll never land a man if you keep hanging out with the likes of her.”

She closed her locker door and swung her purse to her shoulder. “I’m not trying to land a man.”

“Uh-oh,” he said. “That’s when it happens.”

“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.