Body Movers Books 1-3

Hannah grabbed her arm. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” Carlotta mumbled. “I don’t feel well.”

“Liar,” Hannah said, herding her out into the hallway. “Did one of Wesley’s thugs follow you here?”

“No,” Carlotta said, then released a hysterical laugh at the absurdity of her life. “It was just a guy…I used to date.”

Hannah frowned. “A guy? I’ve never seen you worked up over any guy you dated.”

“This was a long time ago. I’m overreacting. It’s nothing.”

Hannah stared at her, more curious than concerned.

Carlotta wiped her eyes. “I shouldn’t have come. I’m still worked up over Wesley’s situation. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Hannah squinted. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” She turned and walked down the hallway to the elevator and stabbed the call button.

“Carlotta!”

She turned to see Peter leaving the main entrance of the party and making his way toward her. She turned back to the elevator and stabbed the button again. “Come on,” she muttered.

“Carlotta, wait!”

When the door opened, she rushed aboard and pushed the button to close the doors, but Peter was too quick. The doors rebounded open and he walked on, his eyes dark and troubled. The doors slid closed, sealing her into an intimate space with the man she had loved for most of her adult life.

“What do you want, Peter?”

“I’m sorry about that,” he said. “I was afraid if I introduced you, well…I was afraid that he would say something…inappropriate.”

She watched the buttons light up as they descended slowly, then gave a little laugh. “It’s okay, Peter. I’m used to being snubbed by people like Walt Tully. Do you want to hear something funny? That man is my godfather—that’s how close our families used to be. But the last time I saw Tracey, she pretended she didn’t even know who I was. It seems I’m invisible to most of the women I once thought were my friends.” Her voice sounded surprisingly calm to her own ears. “Except for your wife, that is. Instead of ignoring me, she treats me like a servant when she comes in to shop. She flaunts her life with you and grinds me under her heel. She told me last week that giving me a commission is her little good deed, as if I’m some kind of pet project.”

His mouth tightened and he shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

She clenched her jaw, her chest aching. “Stop saying that.” The elevator doors opened and she brushed past him. “Goodbye, Peter.”

“Carlotta.” He kept up with her until they reached the hotel entrance. “Give me your ticket, I’ll have the valet send for your car.”

She gave a little laugh. “I parked my own car, Peter, and walked one whole block to get here.”

He looked ashamed. “Then at least let me walk you to your car so I won’t worry about you.”

It was something in his voice that weakened her resolve—the protective note that made her feel so cared for, so safe. Darkness had fallen and in truth, she wasn’t looking forward to walking back to her car alone. And this might be her last chance to be with Peter, ever. “Okay,” she said against her better judgment.

When they reached the sidewalk, away from the lights of the hotel, they slowed, as if by mutual consent. A spring chill had settled over Midtown, and Carlotta shivered slightly, although the goose bumps could just as easily have been caused by Peter’s proximity. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, and more memories flooded back—the perfection of his profile, the way his brow furrowed when he was deep in thought.

The sidewalks in this area were nearly deserted, but cars zipped by on Fourteenth Street in a steady stream. Peter walked on the outside of the sidewalk, between her and 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 finally.

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 belly. Her body tingled in response to his touch, as if answering some long-forgotten call.

“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 still, 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 will 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 pulled 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, pulling 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.