Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1

Peter Ashford, her first love, the man who had dumped her when her parents had gone missing and the scandal had burst over the front page of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Peter had gone on to marry a debutante—the good customer of Carlotta’s who recently had been murdered in their palatial home in Buckhead, the wealthiest area in Atlanta. Many, Jack Terry included, had assumed Peter had killed his wife, but in the end, he’d been exonerated. And had expressed interest in picking up where he and Carlotta had left off years ago.

“No, Peter and I aren’t together,” she murmured, selecting a cream dress shirt and holding it up in front of him. She could feel the heat emanating from his body.

“Really.” Jack cleared his throat. “I actually thought about asking you to go to this awards thing … with me.”

Startled, she looked up. “You did?”

He suddenly looked as panicked as she felt. “But … considering the investigation into your father’s case has been reopened, that might not be such a good idea … right?”

He didn’t want to be seen with a fugitive’s daughter. That would be a conflict of interest and not good for a distinguished detective’s career. The same reason Peter Ashford had dumped her and ripped her heart out years ago when she’d needed him most. Did her father know how much he had damaged her and Wesley’s lives? Did he even care?

“Right?” Jack repeated, his expression anxious. He wanted her to let him off the hook.

“Right,” she said brightly. “Now let’s get the tailor down here and make sure that when your date opens her door, you take her breath away.”

He gave an uncomfortable little laugh and Carlotta tamped down her own unease as she called the house tailor. The day was wearing on her—first the mysterious phone call, then Jack Terry dredging up all her troubles, plus this weird physical attraction that had sprung up between them. But the attraction was probably born of the knowledge that nothing could possibly come of it … there were simply too many obstacles.

While she described to the tailor what services they would need, she swung her gaze to Jack and was unnerved to find him blatantly studying her. She squirmed under his gaze and stumbled over her words. The man was too perceptive for his own good—if she spent much time in his company, she wouldn’t be able to keep secrets from him.

She hung up and gave him a shaky smile. “He’ll be right down.”

“Carlotta, is something bothering you?”

Damn those cop’s instincts. For one crazy second, she wanted to confess about the phone call, to see if he could trace it and….

And what? Hunt down her father and drag him back to Atlanta to stand trial on the investment-fraud charges, now trumped by charges for being a fugitive? And her mother for aiding and abetting? Would it really be better to have her parents in prison than to have them on the run? Either way, they would be unavailable to her and to Wesley. And if her parents were imprisoned, the stain on the family name would be even more permanently set.

“No, I’m fine. Now … let’s get you out of those jeans.”

His eyes lit with mischief. “Whatever you say.”

She smirked and pointed toward the dressing room. “I meant you need to put on the pants before the tailor gets here.”

He frowned and moved toward the dressing room, reluctance in his step.

Carlotta shook her head, but when the dressing room door slid open a bit, she couldn’t resist a naughty peek at Jack’s reflection as he shucked his boots and jeans, revealing white boxers and long, powerful legs, more tanned than she’d expected. Unexpected heat struck low in her stomach.

Plus ten points, she noted idly, wondering what the Alabama boy did in his free time to acquire that tan. Somehow she doubted it was playing tennis.

“See something you like?”

She glanced up to find him grinning at her as he stepped into the pants. Carlotta straightened. “Don’t flatter yourself, Detective.”

His rolling chuckle sent vibrations over her warm skin. The arrival of the tailor saved her from more embarrassing banter. Suddenly she wanted to put distance between herself and Jack Terry. The man triggered dangerous urges—the urge to tell the truth being the least hazardous of her impulsive reactions.

She stood back as the tailor, a distinguished older gentleman, took over. To her amusement, Jack seemed uncomfortable to have the man touching him.

“Do you dress right or left, sir?” the man asked as he knelt to mark the hem on the slacks.

Jack frowned. “Excuse me?”

Smothering a laugh, Carlotta silently signaled the detective by pointing to his crotch and flopping her hand right, then left.

When recognition dawned on Jack’s face, his neck flushed red. “What difference does that make?”

“It affects how your trousers hang, sir,” the tailor said crisply.

Carlotta’s shoulders were shaking. Jack glared at her and muttered, “Left.”

She turned away to enjoy a laugh at the big man’s expense, pretending to fold the dress shirt. It was nice to have something to lift her dour mood, if only temporarily … and the episode helped to level the field between her and the man who seemed to hold all the chips in their relationship.

Carlotta looked in his direction to see him holding up his arms while the tailor practically bear-hugged him to mark the waist on the pants. Not that she and Detective Jack Terry had a relationship. More of a … an association.

Jack flinched as the tailor made adjustments to the inside seam that had him putting his hands in places where another man’s hands obviously had never been. “Is this going to take much longer?” he asked irritably.

“That should do it,” the tailor said, standing and smoothing his hand over the back of the trousers—and Jack’s ass—which garnered the older man another stern look.

Carlotta pressed her lips together and managed to keep a straight face long enough to thank the tailor. But when the man was out of earshot, she glanced at Jack’s perturbed expression and burst out laughing.

“Are you finished humiliating me?”

“Yes, you can take off the pants.”

She watched him stride back into the dressing room and craned her neck to see if he would happen to leave the door ajar again. When it clicked shut, she frowned, then was irritated with herself. She had no business looking at Jack Terry or liking it—and the man’s ego probably didn’t need more feeding. Lots of women seemed to go for the base types.

She pursed her mouth as a memory surfaced. Jack had a history with Liz Fischer, her father’s former attorney … and lover. The woman had also come to Wesley’s aid when he’d been arrested, much to Carlotta’s dismay. She didn’t trust her, and the fact that Jack had admitted to bedding her was just one more reason to stop looking at him.

Something she had to keep reminding herself when he stepped back out in his snug jeans, the suit draped over his thick arm. Averting her gaze and walking in front of him, she led him to a register.

“I gave you my friends-and-family discount,” she said, holding up a little card.

“Thanks.”

“You might consider using the difference to buy a decent tie,” she suggested. “There’s a clearance table over there—two for the price of one.”

“Tempting. Maybe next time.”

Carlotta swiped his credit card. “You can come back tomorrow to pick up the suit. We can look for shoes then.”

“I thought I’d wear my boots.”

She made a face.

But Jack was staring at someone over her shoulder, the displeasure on his face clear as he returned his card to his wallet.

Carlotta turned and blinked in surprise to see Peter Ashford standing there, looking polished in dark designer slacks and shirt, his blond hair slicked back, his watch, signet ring and seriously expensive shoes befitting a successful investment broker. “Peter,” she breathed.

“Hi, Carly.” He eyed Jack Terry warily. “Hello, Detective.”