Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1

She had horrible thoughts of her father being apprehended in the middle of Neiman’s. Wouldn’t her boss Lindy love that? “Uh, no.”

Too late—Jack zeroed in on the guy. She tried to distract him by stepping into his line of sight, but since he towered over her, that was practically impossible. He stepped around her and strode toward the man, who turned and began to walk away quickly. Jack broke into a jog and Carlotta raced after him, her heart thudding. “Jack, wait!”

But he ignored her, reaching one long arm forward to capture the man by the back of his collar, bringing him up short with a choking sound. “The jig’s up, buddy.”

Carlotta skidded to a stop beside them, her mind racing to reconcile the man’s features with those of her father.

“This is harassment,” the man stammered.

Jack shook the man’s shoulder hard enough to make his head loll. “Open your coat. Now.”

The man complied reluctantly with long, bony fingers—fingers that proved he wasn’t Randolph Wren in disguise. Until this moment, she had forgotten how large and capable her father’s hands had been … hands that had once pulled her close for hugs or to tweak her nose in a moment of teasing good humor.

When the man’s coat hung open, Carlotta gasped. The garment was lined with clear pockets, each one stuffed full of jewelry or small clothing items.

“Getting your Christmas shopping done early?” Jack asked the man.

“I’m not the criminal here.”

“Right, buddy. Do yourself a favor and keep your mouth shut.” Then Jack looked at Carlotta. “Maybe your security department should take it from here.”

Carlotta located the nearest phone and called security, feeling like an idiot for not pegging the man for a shoplifter. This thing with her father was driving her mad.

After the man had been handed off, she accompanied Jack downstairs to pick up his suit, keenly aware of his big body near hers. His size was comforting but this new cordiality had her off-balance. Of course, he was probably playing her, hoping she’d cooperate with the investigation into her father’s disappearance.

Guilt stabbed her because she knew she held the one piece of information that he’d been hoping for. Communication from Randolph Wren. And possibly a way to lure him in.

“Thanks for catching that guy,” she murmured.

“It’s my job to catch the bad guys,” he said easily.

She swallowed hard, acknowledging that everyone considered her father one of the bad guys. If she confessed to Jack Terry about the phone calls, she could end this ten-year ache, but would it only lead to something worse—an irrevocable break in her relationship with her parents and maybe with Wesley? And would it destroy this tentative friendship with Jack Terry that seemed to be developing?

No, Carlotta decided on the spot, she wouldn’t tell Jack about the phone calls. She’d handle it with Peter’s help. And who knew, it might come to nothing anyway.

She located the garment bag with Jack’s name on it and unzipped it to double-check that it was the suit he’d selected and that it was indeed ready.

“Want to try it on?” she asked, flashing back to her glimpses of him half-naked during the initial fitting. Hannah’s suggestion of a night of meaningless sex came to Carlotta as visions of her and Jack tangled together in the dressing room flitted through her head.

“That’s okay,” he said. “I trust you.”

At his offhand comment, she pasted on a smile and assuaged her guilt by letting the threat of making him shop for new shoes slide. Passing a table of ties, she scooped up a gorgeous black and deep purple tie that would complement Jack’s dark coloring.

“My treat,” she said, stuffing it into a jacket pocket. “You’ll look stunning when you accept your award. When is the ceremony?”

“Two weeks from today,” he said, then shifted from foot to foot. “Listen, Carlotta … about this awards dinner …”

She looked up. “Uh-huh?”

The detective pulled his finger around his collar, further loosening his hideous tie. “I know I mentioned before that I’d thought about asking you if you wanted to go with me.”

She froze. He was on the verge of asking her—something he’d never do if he knew what she was keeping from him. Her stomach churned with the sudden realization that despite everything looming over her and Jack Terry, she wanted very much to go on his arm and see him accept his award.

The color rose in his cheeks. “Well—”

“Carlotta Wren?”

She turned to find a man standing in front of her, holding a clipboard in one hand and a vase of at least two dozen red long-stem roses in the other hand. “I was told I could find you here. These are for you, ma’am.”

Her eyes widened. “For me?”

“Yep. Sign here.”

She signed her name, still perplexed when the man handed her the hulking bouquet. “I wonder who they’re from.”

“I can guess,” Jack offered wryly.

Carlotta realized he was referring to Peter. Although it was just the kind of grand gesture he would make, she was surprised and a little disappointed that he was pushing her so soon after their conversation about taking it slow.

“Thanks for helping me pick out the suit.” Jack swung the garment bag over his shoulder as if it contained a sixty-dollar rental instead of a thousand-dollar tux. “I’ll see you around.”

“Okay,” she said to his rapidly retreating back, craning to watch him leave. She wondered why she felt so let down when spending an evening with Jack Terry was just a bad idea all the way around.

With a sigh, she ferreted out the card in the roses.

Carlotta, thanks for a great time. Mason

Carlotta glanced over the brimming arrangement that had easily cost a couple of hundred dollars, then bit her lip. Who the heck was Mason?

8

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we don’t reveal the names of our customers,” declared a hurried-sounding man on the other end of the phone.

“But I think the flower delivery might have been a mistake,” Carlotta protested. “I don’t know anyone by the name of the person on the card.”

“Nice try. Look, sweetie, if you want to find out if your boyfriend is sending flowers to someone else, you’re going to have to ask him.”

Carlotta blinked. “But I—” She stopped because the man had hung up.

“Omigod,” Michael exclaimed as he walked into the break room. “Who sent you the to-die-for roses?”

Carlotta hung up the phone and studied the bewildering bouquet she’d set on the corner of the stained lunch table. “I have no idea.” She showed him the card. “I don’t know anyone named Mason. Does it ring a bell for you?”

Michael shook his head. “Some guy you met in a bar maybe?”

“No, I’m sure of it.” Her nerves were unraveling. Had her father sent the flowers? Was it some kind of message? Or was it simply a misdelivery?

“Then you must have a secret admirer. Someone dropped a mint on these American beauties.”