Читать книгу Body Movers Books 1-3 - Stephanie Bond, Stephanie Bond - Страница 17

“Well, at least Wesley’s working,” Hannah said.

Carlotta sighed into her cell phone. “But he’s moving dead people.”

“Somebody’s gotta do it. I mean, when you think about it, it’s really kind of cool.”

“Christ, you sound like Wesley. All he talks about is how cool it is to ride around in the hearse, and how cool his undertaker boss is.”

“Is his boss creepy?”

Carlotta thought of the long-legged, funky-looking man who had seemed so comfortable at their breakfast table. “He’s not as creepy as you are.”

“Funny.”

“But how normal can the man be if he works around dead bodies all the time?”

“I don’t know,” Hannah said dryly, “some days it sounds preferable to working with live ones. Fridays suck, don’t they?”

“Let me guess—trouble with your pastry-instructor lover?”

“Since we got back from Chicago, he’s cooled way down.”

“Do you think it might have something to do with the fact that he goes home to his wife every night?”

“Maybe.”

Carlotta bit her tongue to keep from scolding Hannah for taking up with yet another married man—the memory of kissing Peter Ashford two nights ago was still too fresh for comfort. What a hypocrite she was.

She looked up and nearly dropped her cell phone to see Angela Ashford charging toward her counter. Had she somehow conjured up the woman with her illicit musings of Peter? “Oh, shit.”

“What’s wrong?” Hannah asked.

“Gotta go,” Carlotta whispered, then disconnected the call.

Angela bore down on her, wearing the expensive black knee boots Carlotta had sold to her, black trench coat flapping. A paralyzing thought struck Carlotta: what if Peter had developed a guilty conscience and confessed the kiss to Angela? That vengeful-wife ass-kicking that she had been warning Hannah about for years might just be coming her way.

She swallowed and straightened her shoulders, and although her heart threatened to pound through her breastbone, she managed a shaky smile when Angela stopped in front of the counter. “Angela…hi.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” the woman slurred, her expression dark.

Carlotta drew back slightly at the woman’s flammable breath—another head start on her martini lunch, apparently. “What…what can I do for you?”

“Take it back,” she said, leaning into the counter.

A sharp inhale tightened Carlotta’s chest. “T-take what back?”

Angela swung a shopping bag onto the counter with a thud. “The man’s jacket you talked me into buying. It was all wrong.”

Carlotta was so giddy with relief that she decided to allow the gibe to slide. “It didn’t fit?” she asked, reaching for the bag to hide her guilty flush.

“Hmm?” Angela asked, seeming preoccupied. “Oh…right.”

Automatically, Carlotta’s sales expertise kicked in. “Would you like to exchange the jacket for something else? Another size?”

“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.

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.