Body Movers: 3 Men and a Body

She smiled. “Thank you, Jack.” She reached up to stroke the bruise around his eye. “I see your shiner is fading.”

“Yeah.” He caught her hand and folded it into his.

His eyes were the color of amber, bright and direct. Sexy.

“How’s your arm?” he murmured in a husky tone that implied he was asking how incapacitated she was.

“My arm.” She felt the pull of his body on hers, like a force field. But she remembered too well the negative fallout the last time she’d given in to that attraction.

Besides, if the note from her fugitive father fell out of her bra, it would probably kill the mood. “My arm is itching, actually.” She made a face and wiggled her finger under the edge of the cast.

He smiled, and the surface tension dissipated. He pushed himself to his feet. “I should go. I’ll call you if I find anything. Meanwhile, if Wesley shows up, let me know.”

“Okay. I’m sorry for the drama,” she added sheepishly.

“Don’t mention it,” he said. “Wesley’s lucky to have someone who cares about him. I’m not sure he deserves it.”

“Do any of you male types deserve it?” she asked lightly.

“Touché.” He left, grinning.

Carlotta stood at the edge of the window and watched him drive away, wishing she could put her finger on her feelings for the man. Then she shook her head at the futility of such an exercise. The next time she and Jack crossed paths, they could be at each other’s throats.

But he had made her feel better … and empowered to do something more than wait to get a call from Wesley—or the morgue.

She called Hannah, who answered after the third ring. “Any news?”

“No. But I was wondering if you’d like to take a little field trip when you got off work. I need your muscle.”

“You got it. Pick you up in an hour.”

She was waiting outside, holding a fire extinguisher, when Hannah pulled up in her refrigerated catering van.

“Are we going to a fire?” Hannah asked, looking like the Goth Chef in her white smock.

Carlotta tossed the extinguisher on the floorboard, then climbed in awkwardly. “No, but it was the closest thing I had to a weapon. Chance Hollander is into all kinds of shady stuff. I just want to be prepared in case we have to fight our way out of there.”

“Gee, if it’s a weapon you need, I have an arsenal.”

Carlotta squinted at her. “I don’t think I want to know that.”

“Knives, I mean. I’ve got a bagful in the back—from paring to cleavers, straight edge, chisel ground, hollow edge, serrated.” She bounced in her seat with excitement. “Who are we going to hurt?”

“No one, hopefully. But I want to question Chance Hollander to his smarmy face, and who knows what kind of people I might run into at his place.”

“So I should arm myself.”

“One knife, Hannah. Just one. And let me do the talking.”

They parked in the visitor lot for his building and climbed out. “We need to grab some empty food boxes so we look like we’re catering a party,” Carlotta said. Hannah stacked empty boxes on a handcart and wheeled them toward the entrance. Carlotta followed, carrying the fire extinguisher. The concierge buzzed them in.

“We’re catering a party for Chance Hollander,” Carlotta said, then smiled apologetically. “But I’ve forgotten his unit number.”

The concierge not only gave her the unit number, but held the elevator door for them. She tipped him five dollars.

“Nice work,” Hannah murmured.

“All the party-crashing subterfuge we’ve learned occasionally comes in handy.”

They got off on the top floor and Carlotta took in the upscale decor with a twinge of envy.

“Wow, Wesley’s friend must be wealthy,” Hannah remarked.

“Chance Hollander is a trust fund baby, with lots of idle time on his hands.” They found his door. Carlotta rang the doorbell and pushed Hannah in front of the peephole. “If something’s going on, he won’t open the door to me. Try to look friendly.”

Hannah’s attempt at a smile looked more like a grimace, but a few seconds later, Chance Hollander greeted them, dressed in a short Hefner-esque paisley robe. He was blond and tanned, with the chuffy body and casual posture of a person who enjoyed excess.

“Yeah?” As soon as he spotted Carlotta, he tried to shut the door, but he was no match for Hannah. She shoved him so hard he stumbled backward and landed on his ass on a zebra-striped rug shaped like an animal hide, in the middle of a room crammed with black leather furniture.

Carlotta rolled her eyes. Why was it that people with money usually had no taste?

They walked in and Carlotta closed the door behind them. “We just want to talk, Chance.”

“I don’t know where Wesley is,” he said.

Carlotta narrowed her eyes at him. “You know something, you little shit. And you’d better tell me.”

He got a surly look on his face as he reclined on his elbows. The robe had fallen away to reveal baggy briefs and a spare tire. “Or what?”

She handed the fire extinguisher to Hannah. “Would you pull the pin, please?”

“Here, trade me.” Hannah pulled a gleaming twelve-inch cleaver from a box. “This only takes one hand.”

Carlotta’s eyes widened, but Chance’s startled yelp vanquished the reprimand on the tip of her tongue.

She hefted the heavy cleaver while Hannah aimed the hose at Chance’s dingy briefs. “Christ, what is it with you rich people and underwear? A three-pack of Hanes at Target for ten bucks—give it some thought.”

Chance grinned. “Where did you get the dog, Carlotta? I kind of like her.”

Hannah blasted his crotch with foam, eliciting a scream from him. When the dust settled, Hannah leaned closer. “The cleaver is next, fat boy. Start talking.”

“It was Wesley’s idea.”

Carlotta’s stomach churned. “What was his idea?”

Chance sat up, defeated. “He thought The Carver was behind the drive-by shooting at your place. He was scared that you were going to get hurt. So he came up with a plan to blackmail the guy.”

“Blackmail The Carver? How?”