Look what people are saying about the BODY MOVERS series …

“Bond keeps the pace frantic, the plot tight and the laughs light, and supplies a cliffhanger ending that’s a bargain at twice the price.”

—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1

“BODY MOVERS is one of the most delightful series I have read in quite some time. Stephanie Bond shows her audience what a wickedly funny mystery should be all about.”

—Suspense Romance Writers

“This series is simply splendid. Vivid, quirky, flawed, wonderful people fill its pages and you care about what happens to them. Like the prior volume, it is replete with humour as well as action. I can hardly wait to see all these characters again.”

—Huntress Reviews

“Here’s to Carlotta’s future misadventures lasting a long time.”

—RT Book Reviews, four stars, on Body Movers

“This is a series the reader will want to jump on in the very beginning. It’s witty, sexy and hilariously funny.”

— Writers Unlimited

“Body Movers is signature Stephanie Bond, with witty dialogue, brilliant characterisation, and a wonderful well-plotted storyline.” —Contemporary Romance Writers

Body Movers:

3 Men

and a Body

Stephanie Bond

www.mirabooks.co.uk

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

As always, thanks to my great editors Brenda Chin, Margaret O’Neill Marbury and Dianne Moggy for your support and for the guarantee that as of this date, the series will last for at least six books! Thanks, too, to my agent Kimberly Whalen of Trident Media Group for handling the logistics, to my critique partner, Rita Herron, for your unflagging support. Chris, my wonderfully creative husband, you continue to be my rock.

And thank you to my dear, dear first-grade teacher, Miss Alice Sue DeHart, for your cover quote. Somehow you taught first and second graders every subject in the same classroom, all day, between wiping faces and tying shoes and kissing boo-boos. You made learning fun, and books special. Miss DeHart, you are still fabulous. Thank you for being a part of my life for over thirty-five years.

1

Carlotta Wren bumped her cast against the door frame leading from the kitchen to the living room. “Son of a …” She bit back tears as pain lit up her entire left arm. Although she was lucky the fall from the balcony of the Fox Theater hadn’t resulted in more serious physical injuries, the prospect of another four weeks in this clumsy cast left her frustrated and antsy.

It wasn’t enough that she couldn’t do her job at Neiman Marcus at a time when she desperately needed the money (short-term disability paid only partial wages). But yesterday when Peter Ashford had brought her home from the hospital, he’d shown her a ring he’d had made for her—her Cartier engagement ring, which he’d recovered from the shop where she’d pawned it, with two more large diamonds mounted, on either side of the original stone. The past, the present and the future. He would keep it for her, he’d said, until she was ready to make a decision.

And on top of everything else, her brother, Wesley, was missing.

Wesley was supposed to have picked her up at the hospital yesterday in a taxi, and when he hadn’t shown, his boss, Cooper Craft, had offered to go look for him. As of last night, Coop hadn’t found Wesley, but Carlotta was hopeful that her brother would turn up this morning. He’d come strolling into the house, whistling, with a mouse in a jar to feed his snake, Einstein, oblivious to the fact that Carlotta had barely slept last night, worrying about him….

Worrying about Wesley seemed to be her fate in life. She’d raised him since he was nine years old, when their parents had skipped town so their father could elude charges for investment fraud. Over the past decade, they’d heard from their parents only through a handful of postcards … until recently.

When a look-alike had stolen her identity and been murdered, Carlotta had agreed to fake her own death. The D.A. wanted to try to smoke out her parents and in exchange, they’d offered to suspend Wesley’s probation for hacking into the courthouse computer records. But Kelvin Lucas, the D.A. who’d been denied the chance to prosecute her father, Randolph Wren, had reneged on his deal when her parents hadn’t shown.

After Carlotta had alienated Wesley for going along with the plan.

After she’d put her friends and coworkers through the traumatic ordeal of thinking her dead.

And after she’d slept with Detective Jack Terry, her temporary live-in bodyguard.

What no one knew was that Carlotta’s father had shown up, in disguise, and he’d recognized her, even though she was also in disguise. She hadn’t known it was him until later, when she’d found the note he’d slipped into her pocket: “So proud of you both. See you soon. Dad”

The scrawled words left her conflicted. During her parents’ long absence, Carlotta had worked up a powerful resentment. Sometimes, she even cheerfully hated them. Leaving without saying goodbye. Leaving her to finish raising Wesley when she was just a few months shy of graduating high school and barely equipped to take care of herself. Leaving no money, only a paid-for town house in a transitional section of Atlanta that was a far cry from the palatial home in Buckhead that they had lost.

College had no longer been an option. The only real expertise she’d had was … clothes. Her father had been a wealthy investment broker; Carlotta had worn nothing but the best since she could dress herself. Thankfully, she’d been able to turn that dubious skill into a career in retail. She’d been a top salesperson for most of her years at Neiman’s … until lately, when her life had seemingly exploded with complications and new relationships.

And old ones.

“Did shithead make it home yet?”

Carlotta turned to see her friend Hannah Kizer standing there, hands on hips. Dressed in pink pj’s with white bunny rabbits and without her severe goth makeup, Hannah looked almost human—pretty, even.

“Not yet.”

“Have you heard from Coop?”

“Not yet.”

“Don’t worry. Wesley can take care of himself, whether you want to admit it or not.”

“I wish you were right, but history has taught me otherwise.”

“How’s the arm?”

“Getting dressed is an aerobic workout. Thank heaven for front-closure bras.”

“Yeah, I had a broken arm once. Men wanted to jump in bed with me. I guess it made me seem vulnerable or something.”

“Or less likely to eat your prey?”

Hannah gave her the finger, then dropped onto the couch, picked up the remote control and turned on the small TV. When the picture came on, it was warped. “What happened to your big-screen TV?”

Carlotta sat next to her friend and pointed to the living room window, still covered with the boards the police had tacked in place. “Taken out during the drive-by shooting. I’m waiting for a new window to be delivered and installed, but we can’t afford to replace the TV. Wesley shouldn’t have bought it, anyway,” she grumbled. “We could’ve used that money for other things.”

Like paying toward what he owed his odious loan sharks, Father Thom and The Carver. Or paying down their credit card debt, which had ballooned in size since her identity had been stolen. Or catching up their loan payments, or any one of a hundred other bills they were late on.

Wesley said he’d sold his motorcycle to buy the TV, but she knew the television had cost more than his bike was worth. She figured he’d been gambling again, despite his claims to her that he’d stopped.

She turned her head to look at her friend. “Where could he be?”

“A thousand safe places,” Hannah assured her.

“Or a thousand unsafe places. Those thugs for The Carver who tried to force me into their van the other day said that Wesley had pulled a stupid stunt and was in big trouble. What if they kidnapped him?”

“Look on the bright side—his loan sharks probably won’t kill him because they want to collect their money.”

Carlotta glared at her.

Hannah’s smile fell. “Sorry. Just trying to lift the mood.” She flipped channels past the midmorning game shows, and stopped on a local talk show, Atlanta & Company, where local celebutante KiKi Deerling was being interviewed in all her silky blond, micro-mini glory, snuggling her pet pug on her lap. It was the guilty pleasure that Carlotta needed to take her mind off Wesley.

But a minute into the interview, Hannah scoffed, “Give me a break. This girl is only famous for being famous. She’s a total poser.”

Carlotta nodded, but nursed a little pang of envy toward the young woman who had inherited beauty, money and a last name that adorned a jewelry empire headquartered in Atlanta. “It would be fun to live her life for a day, though. No worries, just party after party.”

She gave Hannah a pointed look. “For once, we wouldn’t have to crash.”

“That girl is a waste of human skin. You’d think with all that cash she’d buy some underwear. I’ve seen her twat more than my own.”

“Thanks for the wholesome image.”

“And you’d think she’d learn by now that if she’s going to have sex with someone, she should sweep the room first for hidden cameras. I always do.”

“Really?” Carlotta said. “What married man are you dating this week?”

“His name is Troy and he’s a college professor.”

“What does he teach?”

“Ethics.”

“Oh, well then, plus ten points.”

On television the starlet held up her pet pug, which she’d dressed in a T-shirt bearing the name of the camp she was promoting.

“Camp Kiki?” Hannah said. “Is that where kids go to breathe fresh air, learn to snort coke and become anorexic?”

“Cut her some slack,” Carlotta said with a little laugh. “I’ve heard of this camp. It looks like she’s at least trying to do something good for underprivileged kids.”

“Underprivileged to her probably means anyone who doesn’t have a driver.” Hannah gave Carlotta a sideways look. “Sorry. I forgot that you used to be rich.”

“Not that kind of rich.”

“Are there classifications for how rich you are?”

“Sure.” Carlotta used the fingers on her good hand to count them off. “There’s inherited wealth, the kind that’s so massive the heirs live off the interest. Then there’s inherited wealth that has to be maintained, like taking over the reins of a family business. There are ranks within inherited wealth, depending on how prestigious the business—jewelry is near the top of the list. Then there’s aristocratic wealth, meaning there’s no cash flow, everyone just kind of exists off their family name and estate. My parents were farther down in the pecking order—they were bourgeois rich. My dad worked for his money.”

Hannah lifted an eyebrow.

“Or stole it, depending on who you believe.”

“And who do you believe?”

The note her father had slipped to her scratched the skin of her chest where she was keeping it in her bra. She was afraid that Wesley might find it if she left it in her bedroom. And truthfully, she just wanted to keep it close. “I honestly don’t know. He was indicted for fraud, so the D.A. must have had a case, right?”

“Maybe. Maybe it was personal. What do you really know about the D.A.?”

“Just that he’s a lying asshole for reneging on our deal.”

“Well, there you go. Maybe he had some other motivation for charging your dad.”

“So why didn’t Dad stay and fight it? Why skip town and abandon his own kids?”

“I don’t know.”

“Would your parents do something like that?”

Hannah shifted on the couch, and it occurred to Carlotta that she had never talked about her parents. And frankly, Carlotta couldn’t picture the people who had spawned her bizarre friend.

“Has your father called you again?” Hannah asked, neatly sidestepping Carlotta’s question.

“No.”

Not that it had been much of a conversation. He’d phoned her at work a few weeks ago and said, “It’s Daddy.” She’d been so startled, she’d dropped her cell phone—and the connection.

“And I broke my cell phone, so I couldn’t even call back.”

Hannah frowned and pointed to the end table. “Whose cell phone is that?”

“Mine, but … it’s a new one.”

“How did you afford a new phone?” Hannah asked suspiciously.

“Peter gave me an extra one that he had lying around.”

Hannah picked up the sleek, razor-thin phone. “Right. This state-of-the-art gadget was just lying around. Did it belong to his murdered wife?”

“No!” At least Carlotta didn’t think so.

“Is he paying for your service, too?”

“It didn’t cost anything to add me to his plan,” she said defensively.

“Yet. Don’t kid yourself—the man plans to collect.”

“Peter’s been very good to me,” Carlotta murmured.

“You mean the man who dumped you years ago when your parents left town? The man who’s suddenly all over you when his wife has only been dead for a few weeks? Yeah, he’s a real stand-up guy.”

“It’s complicated.” No one knew that her father had also called Peter, who now worked for Mashburn & Tully, the investment firm where her father had been accused of stealing from customers’ accounts. Randolph Wren had asked Peter for his help in finding an alleged file that could prove his innocence. It was a secret that bound her and Peter together.

Then there was the ring….

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway made Carlotta leap off the couch. “It’s Coop,” she said when she saw the white van. She watched until he got out of the van—alone. “But Wesley isn’t with him.”

She opened the front door and stepped out on the stoop in the early morning heat, eager for news. “Did you find him?”

Cooper Craft was tall and lean, with light brown hair and long, neat sideburns. He lifted his gaze to hers and shook his head. “No. You haven’t heard from him?”

“No,” Carlotta said, feeling the stirrings of true panic. “I’ve been calling his cell phone every hour. How far could he get on a bicycle?”

He gave her a little smile. “He’ll turn up.”

But she could tell by his haggard expression that Wesley’s body-moving boss was worried, too. It made her sick with fear. “Come in. I’ll make coffee.”

2

When Coop entered the house Carlotta noticed that he was wearing the same clothes he’d had on yesterday. His hair was disheveled; his sideburns merged with an unshaved jaw. Her heart tugged when she realized he hadn’t been to bed. “Did you drive around all night?”

“I checked the hospital emergency rooms and a few places I thought he might be, but no one had seen him.”

“Hi, Coop.”

He looked up and did a double take at Carlotta’s stripe-haired friend standing barefoot and fresh-faced in her unexpectedly cuddly pj’s. “Hannah?”

She flapped her eyelashes. Hannah had a huge crush on Coop. “In the flesh. Um, this isn’t what I normally sleep in, in case you’re interested.”

Carlotta rolled her eyes as Coop smothered a smile. “Okay. Did you keep Carlotta company last night?”

“Yep.”

“Good.” He glanced at Carlotta, his gaze softening. “I was worried about you. How’s your arm?”

She squirmed. “It’s fine, thanks. How about that coffee?”

“I’ll make a pot,” Hannah said with a frown. “Yours is sludge.” When she disappeared into the kitchen, Carlotta motioned for Coop to sit down.

He lowered his long frame into a chair, then removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’m going to throttle Wesley for making you worry so much.”

Carlotta smiled to herself—for making her worry so much? Since Coop had hired Wesley to help him move bodies for the county morgue, he’d become a mentor to her brother. Whether Wes realized it or not, he looked up to his boss. And it appeared Coop was equally fond of him. Her heart swelled with gratitude. Wesley needed a positive male influence in his life.

Heaven knew their father had fallen down on the job.

The phone rang and Carlotta dived for it. “Hello?”

“Yeah … is Wesley there?”

Carlotta pursed her mouth, recognizing the guttural voice of a person who’d lost more than a few brain cells. “He’s not here, Chance. Didn’t you get any of the messages I left for you, asking if you’d seen him?”

“No.”

She touched her forehead. “No, you didn’t get the messages, or no, you haven’t seen him?”

“I ain’t seen him since the day before yesterday.”

She exhaled. “Do you know where he could be?”

“Uh … no.”

“With his girlfriend maybe?”

“Girlfriend?”

“Come on, Chance, he’s been coming home smelling like women’s perfume. Unless you’ve suddenly started wearing Chanel No. 5, he’s been spending time with someone else.”

“I would not know anything about that,” Chance said woodenly.

Carlotta wanted to scream. “Chance, this is serious. He could be in trouble.”

“Don’t worry, my boy can take care of himself.”

She gritted her teeth at the implication that Wesley was part of Chance’s “posse.” “If you see him, will you tell him to call me as soon as possible?”

“Sure thing,” Chance said, then disconnected the call.

Carlotta sighed. “His friend Chance Hollander hasn’t seen him.”

“What’s this about a girlfriend?” Coop asked.

“I thought you might know.”

“I know he’s got a thing for his probation officer.”

“But she has a boyfriend—remember, we met him at the Elton John concert.”

Coop gave her an amused smile. “Some women have more than one guy on the line.”

A flush climbed her face. Coop and Wesley had walked in on her and Jack Terry kissing, and there had been no mistletoe—or even December—in sight. She didn’t know if Wesley had told Coop that Jack had spent at least one night in her bedroom, but Coop probably suspected as much. Coop had also met Peter and was aware of their history. All of which would have to be sorted out at another time…. At the moment she couldn’t think past Wesley being gone.

Luckily, Hannah arrived with three cups of coffee, and a box of sweet rolls left over from one of her catering gigs the previous day. Carlotta took the food gratefully, her stomach rumbling from hunger.

“Wesley has to come back,” Hannah said dryly. “Or you’ll starve.”

Carlotta stuck out her tongue, but she appreciated her friend’s attempt at humor. And it was true. Wesley did all the cooking, and had done so for years. He was pretty good, too, darn his infuriating, scrawny little ass. Her eyes watered.

“Hey,” Coop said quietly, putting his large hand over hers. “Wesley is a smart kid. If he’s in trouble, he’ll figure out something.”

Carlotta nodded and inhaled a cleansing breath. If their parents’ leaving had taught her anything, it was that tears didn’t solve a thing. Action did.

“What now?” she asked Coop.

“I know he has an appointment to see his probation officer at eleven. I’d say if he doesn’t show, then you should call the police. Considering that thug’s comment to you about Wesley having done something stupid, this might have to do with the loan sharks he owes.”

Her heart squeezed, but she had to consider worst-case scenarios. “You’re right. He wouldn’t miss his appointment with Eldora. Not voluntarily.”

“Meanwhile,” Coop said, pushing himself to his feet, “try to think of somewhere he might’ve gone, or someone who might know where he is. I’ll keep making inquiries.”

“Okay,” she said, following him to the door. “And Coop.” She squared her shoulders, but that only caused pain to shoot down her arm. “I hate to ask this, but have you checked the … morgue?”

His brown eyes filled with sympathy, and he nodded. “I did. He’s not there.”

Tears of relief filled her eyes. “Thank you for caring.”

He gave her a little smile. “I can’t seem to help myself.” Then he turned and walked to the bottom of the steps. “You have my cell phone number if you need me.”

“Yes,” she called after him, waving with her good hand until he drove away.

Carlotta looked to her left and saw their neighbor Mrs. Winningham working in her yard. They weren’t the best of friends, but the woman had called 911 a few days ago when two of The Carver’s thugs had tried to drag Carlotta into their van. So she went down the steps and crossed to the fence that separated the yards of their respective town houses. “Hi, Mrs. Winningham.”

“Hello,” the woman chirped. “And you’re welcome.”

“Pardon me?”

“I said you’re welcome for the get well card I sent to you through your brother. He said you managed to only break your arm.” The woman sniffed. “Although I must say you made a spectacle of yourself, dangling half-naked from the balcony of the Fox Theater.”

“Yes, I’m good at that,” Carlotta said cheerfully. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen Wesley yet to get your thoughtful card. May I ask when you gave it to him?”

The woman looked perturbed. “I gave it to him yesterday morning. He said he was going to meet you at the hospital and bring you home in a taxi. Then he rode off on his bike.”

“And did he seem okay to you?”

“‘Okay’ is a relative term where your family is concerned, but yes, reasonably so.”

“Thank you,” Carlotta said as pleasantly as she could manage. “I’ll let you know when I get your card, Mrs. Winningham.” Her stomach rolled as she went back to her house.

“What’s wrong?” Hannah asked.

Carlotta told her about her conversation with the neighbor. “So Wesley didn’t just get wrapped up in some marathon poker tournament and forget. He was planning to meet me at the hospital like he said. Something bad has happened, I know it now.”

“Shh, you don’t know that for sure,” Hannah said. “Wait to see if he shows up at his P.O.’s office. Do you have the phone number?”

“There’s a business card on the bulletin board in his room.”

“Want me to get it?”

“Would you?”

“Want me to feed Einstein while I’m in there?”

“Please,” she said. The last time the massive python had gone unfed for too long, it had found its way out of Wesley’s room and into Carlotta’s bed.

When she returned, Hannah tried to entertain Carlotta by coaxing her to the back deck to stick her feet in the kiddie pool Wesley had bought for her—to make up, he’d said, for the lavish life she’d given up with Peter in order to raise him. The cool water felt good between her toes, but it only made her miss Wesley more.

“I’m sorry I have to leave,” Hannah said later, standing with her hands on her hips, back in full goth garb and makeup, the barbell in her tongue clicking against her teeth. “But I can’t get anyone to cover me on this corporate luncheon.”

“Go,” Carlotta urged, shin-deep in the pool and clutching the phone. “You’ve done enough handholding for a lifetime.”

“Call me to let me know what you find out. I should be finished in a couple of hours or so.”

Carlotta waved her off, and attempted to relax, trying to find some solace in the beautiful sunny day and the fact that the neighborhood that she’d hated living in was looking quite pretty today. When the trees were leafed out, they hid the shabbiness of most of the homes, their’s included. The gay couple that lived on the other side of them, whom they’d only seen and not met, had made upgrades to their house. Now that she thought about it, she decided her neighbors probably didn’t extend themselves because the Wren place was, as Mrs. Winningham had so often reminded her, “a blight on our good street.”

Ironically, Carlotta had vowed to update their place and make some badly needed repairs just before she’d broken her arm. For extra money, she had even contemplated joining forces with Hannah to go on some body-moving jobs for Coop—much to Hannah’s great delight. But that, too, would have to wait until after Carlotta’s arm healed.

“Come home safe, Wesley,” she whispered. “I have plans for us. You can’t leave me, too.”

In that moment, her hatred for her parents was a palpable black mass in the air around her. She shouldn’t have to deal with this alone. What if something happened to Wesley? Life without her brother was just too impossible to comprehend. She realized with a start how he must have felt when he thought she’d taken a dive off that bridge, before they had learned it was someone pretending to be her.

Their parents’ abandonment had forced them into a closeness that probably wasn’t healthy. She wondered if they would forever be emotionally dependent on each other, or if either would someday make room in their life for someone special. Wesley was particularly resistant to change—he still refused to allow her to take down the aluminum Christmas tree in the living room that their mother had put up mere days before she’d skipped town with their father. So it sat there in the corner, a sagging, tarnished emblem of their family, complete with little gifts underneath that had never been opened.

Except by Jack Terry, when he’d stayed at their house doing “surveillance” in case her parents showed up for the fake funeral. He’d thought he might find clues in them as to their parents’ whereabouts. He’d rewrapped the gifts, but Carlotta had been furious when she discovered what he’d done. Had been hurt. Confused. Torn.

With Jack, everything was muddy.

Meanwhile, the hands on the clock seemed to crawl. The phone didn’t ring. Wesley didn’t materialize. When she called the number on his probation officer’s business card at five minutes after eleven, she was nauseous.

“Eldora Jones speaking.”

“Eldora, this is Carlotta Wren, Wesley’s sister. We met a couple of nights ago at the Elton John concert.”

“How could I forget? Are you out of the hospital?”

“Yes, thanks, and feeling much better. I’m calling about Wesley. Did he make his appointment today?”

“As a matter of fact, he didn’t.”

Carlotta’s heart sank to her ankles. “Did he call to say he wouldn’t be there?”

“No, he didn’t. May I ask what this is about?”

“I hope it’s nothing, but my brother seems to be missing.”

“Missing?”

“He hasn’t been home, no one’s heard from him since yesterday, and he isn’t answering his cell phone.”

The woman paused, then said thoughtfully, “I did receive a call from a Richard McCormick saying that Wesley had impressed him in his interview yesterday morning. He’s set to start his community service with the city computer-security department next Monday.”

“He was supposed to meet me at the hospital after the interview, but he didn’t show.”

“Have you called the police?” Eldora asked hesitantly. Carlotta thought she detected more than professional interest in her tone.

“That’s next on my list.”

“Will you have Wesley phone me as soon as you … see him? He’ll have to make up the missed meeting.”

Carlotta promised she would, then hung up and put her head between her knees to relieve the light-headedness that suddenly overcame her. Please, God. She reached for the phone again and dialed Detective Jack Terry’s number from memory.

Jack had arrested Wesley for hacking into the courthouse computer. He’d reopened their father’s case. He’d investigated a couple of little murders that Carlotta had gotten involved in accidentally. And in between, he’d given her one or three mind-boggling orgasms. Theirs was a lust-hate relationship. After the fiasco at the Fox Theatre, during which he’d broken her fall, she was hoping she wouldn’t have to call him anytime soon.

Here we go again.

“Jack Terry,” said the rough-hewn voice over the line.

It was so unexpectedly comforting, Carlotta’s throat choked with emotion.

“Hello?” he said. “Is anyone there?”

“Jack,” she cried.

“Carlotta? What’s wrong?”

“It’s Wesley,” she said, openly sobbing now.

“Are you at home?”

“Yes,” she blubbered.

“I’m on my way.”

3

Six minutes later, Detective Jack Terry walked through her door. Carlotta had pulled herself together and had promised herself she’d behave professionally with Jack, just like anyone else would report a potential crime to any police officer.

Instead, she went into his arms and pressed her wet face against his ugly tie. He just held her and rubbed circles on her back.

“You have to give me something to go on here,” he finally said into her hair.

She sniffled and lifted her head. “Wesley’s missing.”

He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her for an awkward one-hand nose blow. “Let’s sit down and you can tell me what’s going on.”

They settled on the couch and she relayed what she knew, from how Wesley hadn’t shown up at the hospital the previous day to the fact that he’d missed the meeting with his probation officer.

Jack’s expression was serious, but not concerned. “So he’s been missing for less than twenty-four hours.”

“Yes, but something’s wrong, I know it.”

“Has he ever disappeared before?”

Carlotta hesitated. “This is different.”

Jack’s face relaxed. “Probably not. He could be with a buddy, hanging out, or maybe he found a card game.”

“His friend Chance Hollander called here. He doesn’t know where Wesley is.”

“That’s the guy who gave us the tip in the Angela Ashford murder, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “I don’t trust him. I think he’s into something illegal.”

“His friend could’ve been covering for him. Maybe Wesley was right in front of him, stoned, or sleeping off a hangover. Doesn’t Wesley have more than one buddy?”

“Not really,” she said, then frowned. “Not that I know of. But there’s a woman.”

“A woman?”

“I don’t know who she is, but sometimes he comes home smelling of expensive perfume.”

“I think I caught a whiff of that myself the night of the drive-by shooting,” he said, nodding. “That could be where he is.” He winked and thumbed away a tear from her cheek. “See, nothing to worry about.”

“But remember what those guys you arrested here said about Wesley being in trouble with The Carver.”

“I remember. I also remember telling you that if Wesley has gotten himself in deep with these guys, he’s going to have to figure a way to get out of it.”

“But what if they hurt him?”

His mouth twitched downward. “He’s young. He’ll heal. And maybe a beating is what he needs to convince him that these aren’t people he wants to do business with.”

She gasped. “But what if they kill him?”

“That’s not likely. An intelligent young guy like Wesley is more valuable to them alive.”

That made her smile slightly. “You think he’s intelligent?”

“Yeah. Unfortunately, he’s not very smart.”

“He’s only nineteen.”

“He’s not a kid, Carlotta. When I was nineteen, I’d traveled halfway around the world.”

“In the military?”

He nodded. “Don’t baby him. If you do, you’ll never have a life of your own.”

“So you’re telling me there’s nothing I can do?”

“Legally, not until he’s been missing for twenty-four hours. Off the record, though, I’ll do a little nosing around.”

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?”

Chance grinned. “It was genius, really. We got a transvestite to go to a strip club with us where the guy was hanging out with his cronies. When he went to the can, we sent in our himbo, and got some incriminating photos. Wesley told The Carver if you got hurt, the photos would be posted on the ‘Net.”

Carlotta shook her head in confusion. “But the man responsible for the drive-by shooting is in jail. He had nothing to do with The Carver.”

Chance winced. “I know. That part kind of sucks.”

Carlotta exchanged a horrified glance with Hannah. “We have to go.”

Chance slowly got to his feet and struck a cocky pose. “Hey, Goth Girl, can I persuade you to stay?”

Hannah blasted him with the extinguisher again, then grabbed her handcart and followed Carlotta out. They sprinted back to the van, where Carlotta punched in Jack’s number with a shaking hand.

4

Wesley twisted his handcuffed wrists to glance at his watch. He’d been locked in this bathroom for twenty-four hours. He’d missed the meeting with E., his probation officer. Carlotta was probably worried to death.

He was sitting in a grimy green bathtub, his head leaned back against the cool tile on the wall. No matter what he did, he seemed to screw up. He’d thought he was protecting his sister when he and Chance had embarked on the Great Strip Club Caper. Instead he had humiliated one of the most dangerous men in Atlanta for no reason—a man he still owed a great deal of money.

Wesley gave a little laugh. They’d just had a fake funeral for Carlotta, and his parents hadn’t bothered to show. He’d told Carlotta that their father had smelled a setup, but with so much time on his hands to think in this grimy, stinky john, he’d begun to wonder if Carlotta had been right all these years—that their parents didn’t give a damn about them, and wouldn’t risk apprehension even if one of their kids was lying in a pine box.

No, he told himself with a mental shake. The fact that he was doubting his father was just proof of how isolation and lack of food could mess with your mind.

It was his own fault if The Carver decided to carve him up and scatter his parts all over the city. He’d come to the shabby warehouse office in East Atlanta with a peace offering—the memory chip holding the photos he’d taken of the man with Cherry, a well-endowed transvestite, and a payment of nine hundred dollars on his loan. But before he could state his good intentions, he’d been hauled off his bike, relieved of his wallet, handcuffed, then tossed in this box.

They hadn’t fed him, but he’d drunk from the sink faucet to keep from becoming dehydrated. Mouse, The Carver’s collections man, told him they were keeping him until the boss decided what to do with him.

Wesley surveyed the tub he was in, wondering how many other people The Carver had dissected here, allowing their blood to run down the drain before gathering their limbs in garbage bags and disposing of them with the junk mail.

A scratch sounded at the door. Wesley glanced at the crack at the floor to see the shadows of two sets of shoes—Mouse had brought company this time. Wes’s heart jumped to his throat.

The dead bolt slid open, then the knob turned and the door swung wide. Mouse and another man walked in and unceremoniously hauled him up out of the bathtub.

“What’s new, fellas?” Wesley asked congenially.

“Shut up,” Mouse told him as they half dragged him out of the room and down a hallway. The floor was concrete and the studded walls had been gutted of drywall. “The boss wants to talk to you.”

“I can talk better with my hands,” Wesley said. “How about uncuffing me?”

Mouse clocked him up the side of the head. “I said shut up.”

Wesley blinked until the starbursts faded, and decided to take Mouse’s sage advice. They deposited him in an office—if thugs had offices. It was pretty much just a windowless room with a rickety straight-back chair and some menacing-looking stains on the concrete floor. There was a drain in the corner—just in case the room had to be hosed down, he guessed.

They slammed him into the chair and left, closing the door behind them.

He concentrated on not sweating, visualized glaciers and avalanches and other cold scenes. Ice fishing … igloos … polar bears … Klondike bars.

But when the door burst open, so did his pores. The last time he’d seen The Carver, the man had been inebriated and sitting on the john with his pants around his ankles, a piece of duct tape over his mouth, his wrists bound with a cable tie.

He had recovered well.

The loan shark was impeccably groomed, his skin tanned and glowing, his salt-and-pepper hair smoothed back from his face, every strand in place. Wesley didn’t know much about clothes, but the brown suit and collarless shirt looked expensive, as well as the square-toed shoes. The only thing that hinted the man was a gangster was the thick rope of gold around his neck.

Oh, and the switchblade in his hand.

With one click, a six-inch blade appeared. Wesley leaned forward and vomited the water that had been sitting in his stomach, splashing the man’s expensive square-toed shoes.

“Christ,” the loan shark said, taking a few steps back. “Are you going to piss yourself next?”

Wesley lifted his head and licked his dry lips. “I hope not.”

“Me, too.” The Carver leaned down to get in Wesley’s face. “You stupid little shit, I ought to gut you for what you did to me.”

“I’m sorry,” Wesley mumbled.

He looked incredulous. “You’re sorry?”

“Someone shot up my house when my sister was home. I thought it was your guys. I was wrong.”

The Carver paced all around him. Wesley tensed, expecting to feel the blade plunge into his bony body, disemboweling him. Sweat rolled off his nose and dripped onto the floor.

“I brought the memory chip from the camera to give you,” he offered.

“Where is it?”

Wesley kicked off one of his tennis shoes. “Under the insole.”

The Carver used the knife to lift the insole, then withdrew the blue memory card, pierced on the tip. “This is the only copy of the pictures?”

“Yes.”

The man dropped the punctured card on the floor, then stomped on it for good measure. Every time his heel came down on the chip, Wesley flinched.

When The Carver stopped, he was panting and slightly disheveled. Using his hand, he smoothed his hair back in place, then bestowed a slow smile on Wesley. “But I can understand that you were trying to protect your sister.”

Wesley swallowed hard. “You can?”

“Sure. I have sisters. That’s why I’m going to let you live.”

Relief flooded Wesley’s body.

“In return for a fee.”

“Fee?”

The man began grooming his nails with the tip of the knife. “For pain and suffering.”

“H-how much?”

“Twenty-five large.”

Wesley felt weak again. “I don’t have twenty-five grand.”

“Then you need to raise it, Wesley. By five o’clock.”

“I don’t know anyone who has money like that.”

“Think hard,” the loan shark said. “Because if you don’t come up with the money, you’re a dead man. Then who’s going to protect your sister?”

Wesley bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

“I’m a busy man, so you’d better be thinking of who you need to call. I’m going to have a sandwich. I’m sending Mouse in with your cell phone—he’ll make the calls for you. If you try to signal someone or get the police involved, your sister is as good as dead.” He walked closer. “Here’s a little incentive.”

The Carver grabbed Wesley’s arm and with a twist of his wrist, sliced a two-inch letter C into Wesley’s forearm.

The pain was intense. Wesley gasped as his blood dripped onto the floor to mix with the other stains. Since his hands were still cuffed, he pressed his arm to his chest to stem the bleeding. He ground his teeth to keep from crying out in pain.

“With every phone call, you get another letter,” The Carver said, his voice deadly calm. “So unless you want my entire name tattooed on your arm, you’d better make them count.”

The man strode out of the room and nodded to someone. Mouse walked in holding Wesley’s cell phone, all business. “Who do you want me to call?”

Wesley’s mind raced.

“You don’t want to keep the boss waiting,” Mouse advised.

“Chance Hollander.”

“Is the number in your phone?”

“Yeah.” His arm was throbbing. “Can you uncuff me, man? My hands are numb.”

“No can do.” Mouse operated the phone with his fat fingers, then held it to Wesley’s ear. “The volume is turned up so that I can hear everything. No funny stuff, got it?”

“I lost my sense of humor on the floor,” Wesley said. “Watch your step.”

He prayed that Chance would pick up. After two rings, he did. “Wes?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Where the fuck are you, man? Your sister is worried sick. She came over with some pierced chick and they kicked my ass—”

“Dude, listen. I’m in a bind and I need twenty-five grand. Can you help me out?”

“Twenty-five grand, are you nuts? Have you been kidnapped or something?”

“Or something. Can you get it?”

“Yeah, sure. But it’ll take me a couple of days.”

“I don’t have a couple of days. What can you scrape together in a couple of hours?”

“Bad timing, dude. I just paid my carriers, and my girls, and I bought a new hot tub—”

“How much?”

“It was a steal—a ten-thousand-dollar model, but I got it for five.”

Mouse rolled his eyes and Wesley grimaced. “Not the hot tub! How much can you get together?”

“I could probably find a grand in the couch cushions, but that’s about it.”

Wesley swallowed against his disappointment. “Okay, thanks anyway.”

“Dude, where are you—”

Mouse closed the phone. “You know what this means.”

“Come on, man,” Wesley pleaded. “Give me a mulligan.”

Mouse frowned. “What’s a mulligan?”

Note to self: Don’t use golf terms when negotiating with street criminals. “A freebie. No one has to know.”

“No can do.” The big man went to the door, opened it and shook his head.

The Carver came in still chewing his sandwich, and sighed heavily, as if Wesley were causing him to miss his favorite TV show. He opened the switchblade. “Hold him, Mouse.”

Wesley resisted, but could only look away. It took more strokes to carve an A into his skin, more finesse, more blood. He screamed like a girl.

The Carver used a white handkerchief to wipe the blood off his knife. “I hope for your sake your next call is more productive.” He retracted the blade and left the room.

Mouse held up the phone. “Who now?”

Wesley couldn’t think for the pain. His blood was everywhere.

“Come on, kid. We all want to go home. Give me a name.”

“Liz Fischer. The number is in there.”

Mouse dialed it, then held the phone up to Wesley’s mouth.

Liz had been his father’s attorney and had gotten Wesley off on probation when he’d been busted for hacking into the courthouse database. Recently they’d started banging—everything that Chance had told him about older chicks was true. Carlotta would have an aneurysm if she knew.

Liz answered on the first ring. “Wes? Are you okay? Jack Terry called me asking if I’d seen you.”

So Carlotta was beating the bushes. “Uh, I’m fine … for now. But I have a situation here and I need some cash. A lot of it.”

“How much?”

“Twenty-five grand.”

She gasped. “What kind of trouble are you in?”

“The expensive kind.”

“Wesley, you know I adore you. But I can’t get involved in whatever mess you’re in. I have my career and reputation to think about.”

He tried to keep his voice steady. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

“I’m sorry. I just can’t help you. Maybe you should call the police—”

Mouse flipped the phone shut, then sighed. “I should’ve worn a dark suit.” He went to the door, opened it and shook his head.

The Carver reappeared, a paper napkin tucked in his collar like a bib. Wesley considered making a run for it, but he was having trouble even holding his head up. Besides, he was still wearing only one shoe. And he wouldn’t get far with his hands cuffed. Mouse held him for the next carving, but Wesley didn’t put up much resistance as an R was engraved on his arm. He didn’t even have the strength to squeal. The Carver left with no conversation.

Wesley was on the verge of passing out.

“You’re killing me, kid,” Mouse said. “Give me a name—a good one.”

With what little strength he had left, Wesley considered his options—all of them bad, but one of them viable. Objectionable, but viable.

He gave Mouse the name and hoped for the best.

5

Carlotta stood in her living room and glared up at Jack. “Why are you just standing there? Do something!”

Jack seemed to struggle for patience. “Carlotta, we can’t just send in a SWAT team to storm the place. We need a warrant, and I can’t get one without probable cause. I need some kind of proof that Hollis Carver kidnapped Wesley or—” He broke off. “Or that he’s holding him.”

“You were going to say proof that he’s killed him, weren’t you?”

“No.”

“So that’s the guy’s real name—Hollis Carver?”

Jack nodded.

She threw her hands in the air, and cringed when pain zipped up her left arm. “If you’re on first-name basis with this criminal, why don’t you call him up and ask him if he has Wesley?”

He hesitated. “With Hollis Carver, the communication is one-way.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning,” Hannah interjected, her eyes narrowed at Jack, “The Carver is a narc. And the police leave him alone, right?”

Carlotta looked back to Jack. “Is that true?”

He scratched the back of his neck—she was starting to learn his “tells.” He didn’t want to say.

“Jack?”

“I can’t divulge anything that might impact open and future investigations. But Hollis Carver has been helpful to the APD in cleaning up the city.”

“Cleaning it up?”

He jammed his hands on his hips, feet wide. “Yes. Believe it or not, Carlotta, there are a lot worse criminals in this city than The Carver. People selling poison crack cocaine. Sickos running pedophile rings. Serial killers—as if I have to remind you. Hollis Carver lends money to foolish, desperate people. Unless he starts killing off nonpaying customers, it’s his business, not the police department’s.”

She stepped as close to him as she could get without touching him, and lifted her chin. “So he has to kill Wesley before you’ll get involved, is that what you’re saying?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I sent a couple of uniforms to Carver’s warehouse to take a look around. If we find something that might have belonged to Wesley—his bike, for instance—then we’ll have something to work with. Until then, you need to calm down.” He glanced at Hannah, who was parked on the couch. “Help me out here.”

Hannah scoffed. “You’re on your own, Starsky.” She continued flipping through TV channels.

Carlotta looked up at him, changing tack. “I’m scared, Jack.”

He sighed. “Carlotta, you’re not responsible for the decisions made by the men in your family.”

“Why are you bringing up my father?” Her throat constricted and she self-consciously rubbed her arm over the area where the note was tucked into her bra. Her heart beat faster, then she relaxed a little—Jack couldn’t possibly know about the note.

He glanced away. Another tell. He was keeping something from her.

But then, she was keeping something from him, too.

He looked back, his expression akin to pity. “I just hate to see you keep getting dragged down by other people’s mistakes.”

Carlotta set her jaw. “Wesley isn’t ‘people,’ he’s my brother.”

Jack’s phone rang and he stepped away to take the call. Her chest ached with frustration and a clump of emotions she couldn’t identify. Jack’s attitude was a timely reminder that they were too different, that too many obstacles lay between them. And that he had a very low opinion of her family.

“Hey,” Hannah said from the couch. “You know that Kiki chick we were watching on TV the other day? She’s fucking dead.”

Carlotta turned, grateful for the distraction, even if the news was disturbing. She walked over to glance at the warped picture on the TV screen flashing Breaking News: Kiki Deerling Dead At 21. “Turn it up.”

“As we first reported earlier today, Kiki Deerling was pronounced dead at a Boca Raton, Florida, hospital around three this morning, after being found unconscious by her publicist at a club during a birthday party in honor of Deerling herself. So far, authorities are being very hush-hush as to the circumstances surrounding the starlet’s death. Stay tuned for more details as they are available.”

Carlotta made a mournful noise for the loss of a young, vibrant life. She had never met the woman, but like millions of people, felt as if she knew her just from the hundreds of TV impressions. And maybe Kiki didn’t deserve her celebrity, but neither did she deserve an abbreviated life.

“Probably drugs,” Hannah said matter-of-factly. “Otherwise, why wouldn’t they say?”

“Maybe the truth isn’t titillating enough,” Carlotta said.

Hannah glanced in Jack’s direction, then lowered her voice. “Listen, considering you and the brooding detective have a history, maybe you should request that someone else work Wesley’s case.”

Carlotta surveyed Jack’s broad back and her anger intensified. He obviously believed that whatever happened to Wesley, her brother deserved it. “Jack does seem a little too invested in the other side.”

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway drew her attention. She walked to the window and her frustration spiked at the sight of the man climbing out of the luxury SUV. Just what she didn’t need right now—a visit from Peter. Although it was strange to see him driving something other than his little two-seater sports car.

Then the passenger side door opened and she shrieked. “Wesley!” She brushed past Jack, who was also staring out the window, and closing his phone.

“Guess I can call off the nationwide search,” he said dryly.

She shot him a hateful look, then bounded out the door as fast as her cast would allow her to move. Jack and Hannah were right behind her.

Wesley was wearing clothes she’d never seen and pulling his bike out of the back of the SUV. He looked drawn, but safe. Beneath his long-sleeved shirt, his arm seemed stiff. “Hey, sis.”

“Is that all you have to say? ‘Hey, sis’? Are you okay? Why haven’t you called? Where have you been? Why are you with Peter?” she demanded in a rush, then gasped, seeing the cuts and bruises on his face. “What happened?”

“Relax,” he said, lifting his arm to deflect her attention. “I’m fine. I had an accident on my bike and got a little scraped up, that’s all. I didn’t call because my phone battery died. I was close to Peter’s neighborhood when it happened, so I went to his place. He let me clean up, and gave me a ride home.” He tugged at the hem of the overlong shirt. “I owe him for the clothes.”

“No, you don’t,” Peter interjected with a flat little smile. With his blond good looks and impeccable wardrobe, he could’ve held his own on the cover of Hamptons magazine. Carlotta gave him a grateful smile, then looked back to her brother. She wanted to believe his explanation but … “What were you doing all the way up in Peter’s neighborhood?”

Wesley looked pained. “I rode up there to get in a card game. Sorry. The good news is that after playing all night, I broke even.”

Carlotta pursed her mouth, even more suspicious now that he so readily admitted to going back on his promise to her not to gamble. She looked at Peter, who seemed to be looking everywhere but at her. She glanced at Jack, whose expression told her he didn’t believe Wesley’s story any more than she did. Then he shrugged, obviously willing to forget the entire incident.

She was irritated with the lot of them. “We’ll talk later,” she muttered to Wesley. “Meanwhile, you need to call Coop, who was out all night hunting for you, and your probation officer.”

“Okay,” he said. Then he went over to shake Peter’s hand. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem.”

Okay, now she was really suspicious. Peter and her brother barely knew each other, but Wesley had never bothered to hide his disdain for Peter’s actions when their parents left, dumping her and leaving her in the lurch. On the other hand, she had told him about their father calling Peter, so maybe Wesley had warmed toward her former fiancé. Or maybe he’d ridden to Peter’s house to talk about the phone call….

Wesley disappeared into the house, taking his secrets with him for the time being. Hannah gave them a group wave. “Since the prodigal son has returned, I’m outta here.”

“Thanks, Hannah, for staying with me,” Carlotta said to her friend. “I’ll call you.”

After Hannah pulled away in her van, Carlotta was left standing between Jack and Peter, each of whom seemed to be waiting for the other to leave.

“I need to talk to you,” Jack said to her pointedly. When Peter gave him a hard look, he added, “It’s business.”

“Can’t it wait?” she asked, not in the mood for more sparring.

“No.”

Peter shuffled his feet. “I guess I’ll be going.”

“I’ll walk with you,” Carlotta said, then followed him around to the driver’s side of the SUV, giving them some privacy from Jack.

“Peter,” she said quietly. “What really happened?”

“It happened just the way Wesley explained.” But his blue eyes were evasive, his tone practiced.

Her heart swelled with gratitude. “I have a feeling that I owe you a great debt.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Peter said, taking her good hand and lifting it to his mouth for a kiss that conjured up images of other things he used to do to her when they were younger. “I’ll always be here for you, Carly, and for Wesley.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. When Wesley had gone missing, it hadn’t even occurred to her to call Peter. In fact, she’d gone out of her way to conceal most of the Wren family doings from him. She didn’t want him to know that the warning his parents had given him ten years ago—that her family would go to the dogs—had pretty much happened.

“Don’t forget that I’m holding something for you.”

The ring. “I won’t forget.” And her heart was so full of good memories and goodwill toward Peter for helping Wesley, she would have agreed to marry him at that moment if he’d asked.

Instead he honored her previous request not to rush her, and climbed in his vehicle. She waved until the car disappeared, then turned back to Jack, whose disposition seemed to have further soured.

“What did you need to talk about?” she asked. “If it’s about Wesley, I don’t believe his story for a minute—”

“It’s about your father,” he interrupted.

Her heart stuttered. “What about him?”

“A Holiday Inn in Daytona Beach, Florida, was robbed at gunpoint a few days ago. When all the fingerprints were run, one set matched up to Randolph Wren.”

Her entire body tingled. She shook her head in confusion. “What are you saying? That my dad robbed this hotel?”

“No. All I’m saying is that sometime recently, your dad was there. He could’ve been a guest, or visiting a guest …”

“Or he could’ve robbed the place,” she finished.

Jack’s face told her that it was a distinct possibility. “I’m driving down to take a look, but I wanted you to know. I’ll let you decide whether you want to tell Wesley.”

“I’ll go with you,” she offered.

“Absolutely not.”

“But I’m off work right now—it’s perfect timing.”

“What part of ‘absolutely not’ don’t you understand? Carlotta, you can’t get involved in your father’s case! I can’t spend all my time saving you from the scrapes you get yourself into.”

“But that’s the beauty of it. I’ll already be with you.”

“No. No. No.”

“Are you taking your girlfriend, Liz?”

He puffed up, meaning she’d hit a nerve. “She’s not my girlfriend. But … I thought I might ask her to ride along in case I bump into her client while I’m there.”

“So they can have a tumble for old times’ sake? That’s nice of you.” She squinted. “Why don’t you have a partner for these kinds of things, Jack?”

“I’m on the waiting list, but the department is short of manpower.”

“So when are you leaving?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

She shook her head, frustrated with the whole situation. “Don’t mention this to Wesley. And let me know if you bump into dear old Dad.” Carlotta turned and walked stiffly toward the house.

“Carlotta, don’t be like this. I didn’t have to tell you, you know.”

But she didn’t look back because she didn’t want him to see the abject humiliation coursing through her. Her father had left a stink on the family that they couldn’t seem to get away from. It was mortifying to think that of all the policemen who could capture her fugitive father, it would probably be Jack who ultimately brought him down.

6

Carlotta gave the new living room window one last swipe, then stood back to admire the shine. But instead of crystal-clear sparkle, the glass was smeared with cloudy streaks.

“You have to use newspaper to get the best shine,” Wesley said from behind her.

She turned and frowned. “You don’t say? I see you decided to grace the world with your presence today. It’s almost noon.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I was up most of the night before.”

Seeing the dark circles under his brown eyes, she nursed a pang of remorse. He looked so much like their father—lean, with sharp features a male model would kill for. But he didn’t have their father’s confidence, the ability to win over a room. Wesley was more cerebral. He preferred his books to people. She was sure he had no idea how handsome he was. “Are you ever going to tell me what you were doing?”

“I told you. I was playing cards.”

“Uh-huh.” She eyed his clothing. “It’s pretty warm today for long sleeves, don’t you think?”

He shrugged, but she could see the bulk of a bandage beneath the fabric of his shirt.

“You must have scraped your arm pretty badly,” she said, fishing.

“Man against asphalt, asphalt always wins.”

“Hmm. Did Peter bandage you up?”

“Yep.”

Wesley still wasn’t looking at her. His reluctance to talk about what had really happened cemented her decision not to mention what Jack had told her about their father. After all, the robbery in Daytona Beach could be a dead end, a mistaken identification.

“Mrs. Winningham said she gave you a get-well card for me.”

“She did, but I lost it.”

“When you had the accident on your bicycle?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

He was so lying about the bicycle accident. “That’s okay, I’ll tell her I got it anyway. Are you working with Coop later?”

“Not today. I have to check in with my probation officer.”

“She sounded pretty worried about you yesterday.”

“Really?”

It was the closest thing she’d seen to a smile on his face since he’d arrived home. “Really. And she said that you impressed the city computer guy you interviewed with. You start your community service Monday?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Are you going to be able to work with Coop and do your community service, too?”

“Yeah. Coop is cutting back on body retrievals for a while. He said he was doing special projects for the morgue.”

“The morgue has special projects?”

Wesley shrugged and walked into the kitchen. “Want a sandwich?”

“No, thanks.” But she followed him. “I’m sure Coop was relieved to hear from you last night.”

“I guess.”

“Wesley, he was worried. He spent the entire night driving around looking for you.”

“He shouldn’t have. Besides, he did that for you, not for me.”

“That’s not true. He’s very fond of you.”

“Maybe, but he’s got it bad for you.”

A flush climbed her neck. “Coop is … nice.”

“Yeah, but he’s not loaded like Peter.”

Carlotta arched an eyebrow. “Is that an endorsement for Peter?”

He turned back to the refrigerator. “Are we out of milk?”

“Look in the back.” Carlotta wondered about his sudden attachment to Peter. Something illicit had definitely transpired. She could think of only one reason Wesley would call Peter—money. What had Wesley gotten her former fiancé in the middle of?

And how would she ever be able to repay the man?

“What are you doing after you meet with your probation officer?” she asked quietly.

Another shrug. “I’ll probably go hang out with Chance.”

She frowned. “I don’t like you spending time with that derelict.”

“He’s not so bad.”

“Wesley, he told me what the two of you did to your loan shark at the strip club.”

He paused in the door of the refrigerator for just a second. “He shouldn’t have done that.”

“Hannah and I kind of beat it out of him.”

“It was just a prank.”

“It could’ve gotten you killed! He said you did it to protect me?”

Her brother shrugged again.

“You don’t have to protect me, Wesley.”

He closed the refrigerator door, his eyes wide. “These men are dangerous, Carlotta. You don’t know.”

“So stop doing business with them. Get your life together. Think about college.”

He looked anguished for a few seconds, then angry. “I changed my mind about the sandwich. See you later.”

She knew better than to try to stop him. He was through talking. The front door banged, and she only hoped that whatever had happened the night he was gone had scared him straight.

She turned her attention back to the streaked window, attacking it with cleaner and a page of newspaper fished out of the mail basket. When she stood back, the sun shining through the spotless window was almost blinding. “You were right, you little shit,” she mumbled.

Guilt plucked at her for not telling him about the note their father had left and the development in Daytona Beach. She pulled the piece of paper out of her bra and read it again. Randolph had been within arm’s length of her. He could have pulled her aside, revealed his identity … given her a hug and a kiss … and an explanation. Why hadn’t he?

Because he didn’t trust her. He knew she’d gone along with the fake funeral to lure her parents out of hiding. Had he felt betrayed?

Anger whipped through her—he had betrayed them first. He and her mother, Valerie. Her father had left town to escape a trial and, presumably, jail time. But her mother, who always maintained a martini in one hand and a cigarette in the other, didn’t even have an excuse. She had simply chosen her husband over her children. Carlotta had gotten past being angry for herself, but she would never forgive their mom for abandoning Wesley at the age of nine.

He’d slept in Carlotta’s bed for a year, clinging to her, crying for his mother every night until he was too exhausted to stay awake.

Carlotta’s eyes watered just remembering. No one but she knew how Wesley had suffered. He’d been a slight kid, with a genius IQ, and the creative capacity to concoct all kinds of stories about why their parents had left. Eventually he’d decided that their father was some kind of secret agent forced to go underground. She knew Wesley had outgrown the elaborate tales intellectually, but she wondered if he still entertained some of those childhood fantasies emotionally.

Over the years, she’d vacillated between hoping their parents were found and hoping they were lost forever. But she was starting to worry that Wesley would be at dangerous loose ends until there was some resolution to the jagged tear in their family.

Was their father close to turning himself in? Was he growing tired of life on the lam? Was that why he’d gotten sloppy and left fingerprints at a crime scene? She shook her head, trying to imagine her parents as a crime duo—her dad wielding a gun while her mom walked around holding open a designer bag for everyone to deposit their wallet in.

Frankly, the most ludicrous part of it all was the thought of Valerie entering a Holiday Inn. If her mother had any say, they would hold up only five-star establishments.

No, Carlotta couldn’t picture her parents as armed robbers. They wouldn’t have to resort to anything so overt. Randolph Wren could charm anyone out of his or her life savings, and Valerie was the kind of woman that men threw money at. Model-thin and beautiful, with an aura that mesmerized those around her, she was movie-star glamorous, and everyone had been happy to be in her entourage. Carlotta suspected that being on the run had been hard for her mother, who was accustomed to lavish attention. But it only demonstrated how emotionally dependent she was on Randolph … and on her vodka.

The phone rang, rousing Carlotta from her dark thoughts.

“Hello?”

“It’s Coop.”

She smiled into the phone. “Hi, there. You just missed Wesley.”

“That’s okay. It’s you I want.”

She gave a little laugh, enjoying the easy flirtation. “In that case, what can I do for you, sir?”

He groaned. “So many things. Seriously, though, did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Are you kidding? I’m so bored, I’m cleaning.”

“I figured you might be going stir-crazy being off work, so I have a proposition.”

She pursed her mouth. “I’m listening.”

“Well, this isn’t exactly romantic, but I have a VIP body pickup in Boca Raton, and I wondered if you’d like to ride along. We could leave tomorrow and have a couple of days of fun in the sun beforehand.”

“Boca Raton? Oh, my God, is it Kiki Deerling?”

“You know her?”

“Just from television. She’s hard to miss.”

“Yes. This trip is to pick up her body, but no one can know about it. I signed a confidentiality agreement, so mum’s the word.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”

“So how about it? Want to hit the road for a few days? Separate rooms, of course … unless I can persuade you otherwise.”

She laughed at his teasing tone, but entertained a little shiver of excitement. A few days alone with Coop, getting to know each other, no pressure. He wasn’t holding a ring for her, and he wasn’t hell-bent on capturing her father. His only angle was tempting her with sandy beaches and icy drinks.

Suddenly Carlotta’s mind raced to assemble disparate bits of information. “I’ve never been to Boca Raton and my geography is a little rusty. Would we be driving close to Daytona Beach?”

“Right through it, as a matter of fact.”

A wicked smile curved Carlotta’s mouth. “What time do we leave?”

7

Wesley squeezed the hand brake on his bike and grunted when pain seized the muscles under the bandage on his forearm. He’d convinced Peter not to take him to the emergency room for stitches, but that meant the wounds would take longer to heal.

His opinion of Peter Ashford had never been high. Wesley had been young when the guy had dumped his sister shortly after their parents had left town. But he remembered how Carlotta had cried herself to sleep holding Peter’s picture, how the man’s absence seemed to affect her more than the absence of their parents. Probably because, like Wesley, she had expected their parents to return any day. Peter, on the other hand, had apparently made it clear he wasn’t coming back.

Carlotta had been devastated, and Wesley knew she blamed their folks for Peter breaking the engagement. She’d said he hadn’t wanted his family name intertwined with theirs, tainted from their father’s behavior. As Wesley had grown older, though, he’d blamed himself for Peter leaving. It seemed obvious that the man hadn’t wanted to be saddled with a kid.

But since Peter’s wife had died, he’d certainly been trying to make up for his past behavior, coming around and acting protective of Carlotta. When Wesley started to feel bad about taking advantage of Peter’s guilt, he told himself that he was doing the man a favor, giving him a chance to get back into the Wrens’ good graces. Peter had agreed not to tell Carlotta about the incident at The Carver’s warehouse—or the money that had changed hands—and for that, Wesley was grateful.

He must have been one hell of a mess judging from the expression on Peter’s face when he’d picked Wesley up at the prescribed badass corner after Mouse had counted the cash with his thick fingers. Ashford hadn’t said, but he was probably glad he’d driven his luxury SUV instead of his Porsche to shuttle Wesley and his bike home. Still, it was going to be hard to get bloodstains out of leather upholstery.

To his credit, the man had asked only if Wesley wanted to go to the hospital, holding his tongue about what had transpired until after Wesley had showered and eaten a pizza that Peter had ordered. Then, while he cleaned the wound on Wesley’s arm and wrapped it with a bandage, he’d extracted the story one well-placed question at a time.

The guy should’ve been a lawyer, Wesley thought wryly.

He wheeled into the parking lot of the building that housed the probation office to which he’d been assigned after his arrest for breaking into the courthouse computer. Once a week he checked in with E. Jones, his surprisingly hot probation officer, who cut him zero slack. His pulse picked up just at the thought of seeing E. In those dark moments when it looked as if he might not get out of that dingy, windowless room alive, he’d imagined E.’s smile and the way her red hair fell over her shoulders. She was way out of his league, but he could dream.

He locked up his bike and slung his backpack over his shoulder with his good arm. His cell phone rang. Both the movement of retrieving it and the name on the display made him wince—Liz Fischer. He connected the call. “This is Wes.”

“Wes,” she crooned. “It’s Liz.”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“I was just calling to see if you were okay. After your phone call yesterday, I was worried.”

Right. “I’m fine.”

“I hope you understand why I couldn’t get involved, Wes.”

“I do.”

“Good. But I’d like to make it up to you.”

His eyebrows shot up. “What did you have in mind?”

“Come over tonight.”

His cock twitched. There was no denying the woman was a looker, and great in the sack. But he wasn’t sure he could trust her.

Of course, she had no reason to trust him, either. He had ransacked her files on his father’s case in her guesthouse, the place where she stored her archives, as well as “entertained.”

“Maybe,” he said. “I’ll let you know.”

“Don’t take too long,” she said, then hung up.

He put away the phone and walked into the building, thinking he could do worse for evening entertainment. But he’d been planning to cook a nice dinner for Carlotta, considering she’d been so worried about him, and that her already pathetic kitchen skills were now further hampered by the cast on her arm.

Even though his own dexterity would be curbed somewhat by his bandage, he could outcook Carlotta using only his thumbs and elbows. It was a good thing she was so damn pretty—no man was going to marry her for her culinary skills.

He walked into the now-familiar office and nodded to the now-familiar surly woman behind the check-in desk. “Wesley Wren to see E. Jones.” He scanned the waiting room as nonchalantly as possible. The Carver had once sent a man here to remind Wesley that he was behind on his payments, and the thug had punctuated the message by snubbing out his cigar on Wesley’s hand. That wound was still pink and puckering. If he didn’t find a way to get out of debt soon, his entire body would look like a strip of badly cut meat. Thankfully, though, no one in the room seemed to care he was there.

The old bat at the window sniffed. “You can go on back.”

He walked to E.’s office door, adjusted the sleeve of his shirt so that it didn’t emphasize the bandage underneath, and rapped.

“Come in.”

He swung open the door and miserably pondered the tightening of his chest when Eldora Jones lifted her green-eyed gaze to his.

“Hello, Wesley.”

“Hi.”

“Have a seat.”

He did, across from her desk. She wore a white buttoned-up blouse that might have been prim if not for the curves it clung to.

“How are you?” she asked. Her voice sounded friendly, but he’d been meeting with her long enough to know that even an innocuous question was usually leading somewhere.

“Good.”

“Why did you miss our appointment yesterday?”

He shifted in his chair. “I … was with some guys, lost track of time. Sorry.”

“You couldn’t call?”

“Battery on my phone died.”

“Your sister was really worried. She was afraid you were hurt.”

“I’m fine.” He smiled and lifted his hands, but the motion pulled the tightened skin under the bandage. The sudden pain took his breath away and made his arm jerk involuntarily.

“Did something happen to your arm?” she asked.

“Bicycle accident,” he said, continuing with his lie. “I scraped it.”

She studied his face with a half smile, her green eyes saying she didn’t believe him. “Sounds as if you were lucky. You could’ve been hurt much worse.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“You do realize that missing your scheduled meetings is a violation of your probation?”

Wesley wet his lips. “Thanks for letting me reschedule.”

“Next time you won’t get off so easily.”

He nodded.

“But I’m glad you’re okay,” she added softly.

He glanced up sharply at her tone. She sounded as if she … cared. But E. averted her gaze, cleared her throat and opened his file folder, back to business.

“I heard from Richard McCormick. He said he was very impressed with your computer knowledge when the two of you spoke. He said if your community service work goes well, he might even consider hiring you.”

Wesley knew it was meant to be a compliment, but he had no intention of toiling away in a cubicle for city wages until he keeled over. “He seemed like a nice enough guy.”

“When do you start?”

“Monday.”

“Is that going to be a problem with your body-moving job?”

“Nah, Coop’s cool with my community service. He said he’d work around it.”

She made a couple of notes, then closed his folder. “Is there anything else you’d like to talk about?”

“Thanks for the concert tickets. I heard Elton was great.”

“Yeah, the show went on after they took your sister to the hospital. I’m glad she’s okay.”

“Thanks.” He fidgeted. “Did your boyfriend enjoy it?”

A little wrinkle appeared in her forehead. “Leonard? Yes, he enjoyed the concert.”

Wes’s mouth watered. He wanted so badly to tell her that the concert wasn’t the first place he’d met Leonard.

E. sat back in her chair. “Are you gambling?”

“No.” Not at this very moment, anyway.

“Still hanging out with that drug-dealer friend of yours?”

E. had intercepted him on an errand Chance had asked him to run in exchange for money Wesley owed him. Wesley hadn’t known for certain what was in the gym bag, but he’d had a pretty good idea. E. had allowed him to take the bag back to “where it came from,” without any repercussions.

“He’s not a bad guy,” he said of his friend Chance.

“He’s going to land you behind bars … or worse.”

Wesley wiped his hand over his mouth to keep from telling her that her boyfriend, Leonard, was also keeping company with his drug-dealing friend. “I’ll take that under advisement,” he responded, standing. “Are we through?”

E. pressed her lips together, then gave a curt nod. “I’ll see you next week. Take care of that arm.”

Wesley left the building in a foul mood. By the time he rode to Chance’s condo, his arm was throbbing.

His chuffy friend grinned widely when he opened the door. “Dude—you’re alive!”

Wesley howled in pain when Chance pulled him into a choke hold hug. “Watch my arm, man.”

“What happened to it?”

Wesley set his jaw against the pain, leaning over and holding his arm. When he could talk again he said, “My loan officer decided to take a pound of flesh.”

“Is it broken?”

“No. I don’t think that would hurt as bad.” Although Carlotta might argue the point.

Chance dug into his pocket. “Here, dude, take a couple of these.”

Wesley stared at the white pills suspiciously. “What are they?”

“OxyContin. It’s great stuff, man. Will make you feel good fast.”

“Thanks.” He took one and swallowed it dry.

Chance dumped the rest into Wesley’s hand. “For later, dude. If you want to feel like you’ve just been laid by the woman of your dreams, chew it. Want something to drink?”

“Soda, if you have it.”

“Coming up. What the hell happened to you?”

“I went to try to patch things up with The Carver.”

Chance’s eyes bulged. “Dude! Are you suicidal?”

“I thought it was the best thing to do, under the circumstances. He was going to come after me eventually.”

Chance cracked open a can of Mountain Dew and handed it to Wesley. “So what did he do to you?”

“Cut me up a little.”

“Really? I always wondered if the rumors were true. Did he use a bowie knife?”

“Switchblade.”

“Cool.” Then his friend blanched. “I mean—fuck. That had to hurt like a son of a bitch.”

“Yeah.”

“And he wanted twenty-five grand?”

“Yeah. A fee for pain and suffering, he called it.”

“Sorry I couldn’t help you out, man.”

“That’s okay. I got it.”

“Where?”

“Friend of the family.”

“Sweet. So does that clear your debt with The Carver?”

“Hell, no. Like I said, that was just a fee to let me keep breathing. I still owe the guy, like, twelve grand. But I’m making payments.”

“I’m glad you’re back. I have an economics exam next week. Think you could take it for me?”

Chance’s sense of self-preservation was more keen than anyone’s he’d ever met. “Sure. Meanwhile, I need a game. Can you keep your ears open?”

Chance grinned. “Sure.”

“I’ll need a bankroll. Same deal as before—you pay the sit fee, we split the winnings?”

“Deal. I’ll make some phone calls right now. Have a seat, man, and let the drug kick in.”

Wesley walked into the living room—a bachelor’s dream of black leather furniture and oversize electronics. Predictably, the large flat screen was showing porn, this one of a homemade variety. What the film lacked in quality it made up for in candid angles. Wesley switched the input to the latest Xbox gaming system and pulled up Poker Smash. He settled into a chair and played a few hands. The adrenaline and the caffeine helped to speed the painkiller through his system. He glanced around at Chance’s toys, conceding that his friend lived a charmed life.

His life would’ve been like this if his father hadn’t been forced to abandon his family. Wesley remembered the piles of toys he’d had when he was little, the expansive bedroom painted with blue sailboats, the platform that had held a running train with a real switching station, the navy-and-gray uniform of the private school he’d attended. When his father had been indicted, the train had been sold along with the house. And although Wesley had been allowed to finish the year at his school, by the next fall, his parents had been gone for several months. Carlotta had sat him down and explained that they didn’t have the money for private school, and soothed him with the promise that he’d have much more fun in public school, anyway.

He hadn’t. He’d been a shy, smart little kid with big glasses, a prime target for bullies. And he’d missed his parents terribly. He’d saved his acting out for home. In hindsight, he’d been a real pain in the ass to his sister … and it seemed that things hadn’t changed much. Ten years later, he was still getting shoved around, and was still being a pain in the ass to his sister.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Get that, will you, man?” Chance shouted.

Wesley looked up to see his friend talking on his cell phone in the kitchen and scribbling on a piece of paper. He pushed himself to his feet and got a head rush from the painkiller. Chance was right—the OxyContin was damn good stuff. Wes walked carefully to the door and opened it, then balked.

E.’s boyfriend, Leonard, stood there, tall, dark and beefy. “Is Hollander around?”

“Uh, yeah, he’s on the phone. Come on in.”

When Wesley stepped aside to allow him to pass, he noticed the man was carrying a black gym bag similar to the one that Chance had asked him to deliver to some shady character in a shadier part of town—the errand that E. had thwarted. It was ironic that her boyfriend appeared to have picked up where Wesley’d left off.

He closed the door. “I’m Wes.”

Leonard flicked his gaze over him as he paced. “Yeah, we’ve met before.”

“Right. I didn’t know if you—”

“Hollander!” Leonard yelled, obviously impatient.

From the kitchen, Chance held up a finger—his middle one—but wrapped up his conversation and snapped his phone closed. “Wes,” he said, striding toward them, “there’s a big game next Wednesday and you’re in it. Five grand a seat, twenty seats, and the pot is forty large, twenty to the winner.”

Wesley nodded, but glanced sideways at Leonard. He didn’t trust the man with his business, and it didn’t help that he pretty much hated him for being with E. in the first place, and deceiving her to boot. He looked at Chance. “I’m outta here. Call you later.”

He grabbed his backpack and banged the door shut behind him. He opted for the stairs instead of the elevator, but the OxyContin slowed him down a bit. Once he got outside, though, the fresh air helped to clear his head. He was unlocking his bike when he heard the sound of heavy footsteps behind him. He recognized Leonard’s hefty shadow before he could even look up. When he straightened, he half expected the guy to kick sand in his face.

“Does E. know what you do on the side?” Wesley asked, trying to look taller.

“No,” the guy said through big, gritted teeth. “And if she finds out, I know where to land with both feet, capiche?”

Wesley bit down on the inside of his cheek. “Is that all?”

“No. Got a message for you from The Carver.”

Wesley swallowed. Shit, he didn’t see that coming. “You work for The Carver?”

“Listen up, dickhead, because this is the deal of a lifetime. A way to clear everything you still owe.”

Wesley broke out in an instant sweat, exacerbated by the drug pumping through his bloodstream. Deal of a lifetime?

Something told him this was going to be anything but.

8

Carlotta checked her watch and tried to ignore the fierce itching under her cast. She’d been ready for more than an hour. Her suitcase sat next to the door and her heart pounded with nervous excitement. She was eager to get out of this house for a few days, and she was looking forward to spending time with Coop. Even though she knew he had a crush on her, she also knew he wouldn’t pressure her, like Peter, or mess with her mind, like Jack.

And when the time came, it would be easy to slip away from Coop for a few hours. She nursed the tiniest bit of guilt over using the trip as a cover to get to Daytona Beach, but no one had to know. She would locate the Holiday Inn where her father’s fingerprints had been found, and ask a few questions of her own. Maybe he was working there. If he was in disguise, Jack could easily overlook him. He could talk to him and not know it was him … her father would love that. She wasn’t even sure that she would recognize Randolph, but after her brush with him at the fake funeral, she at least knew to be looking past the obvious.

At the sound of Kiki Deerling’s name on the television, she turned her head to listen. Knowing that they would be bringing Kiki’s body back to Atlanta made her feel more connected to the dead girl. Carlotta reached for the remote control and turned up the volume.

“Fans of Kiki Deerling are still reeling from the news of her sudden death in Boca Raton, Florida. Details surrounding the starlet’s final moments are still sketchy, but initial reports are that Deerling might have suffered a severe asthma attack. Deerling’s publicist, Marquita White, issued the following statement, quote, ‘We are so saddened by the horrific tragedy of Kiki Deerling’s passing. This is an extremely difficult time for her loved ones and we ask the media to please respect the family’s privacy,’ unquote.

“Meanwhile, members of the Deerling family are not talking to the press. Here’s a clip showing Kiki’s ex-boyfriend, Grammy award-winning singer Matt Pearson, being turned away at the door of the Deerlings’ home in Boca Raton by Kiki’s older sister, Kayla. You can clearly see that Kayla has been crying. They appear to exchange angry words, then Pearson leaves, stumbling twice on the way back to his car. It’s widely known that she disapproved of her sister’s alliance with Pearson.”

Kayla Deerling was an older, brunette version of her more famous sister, except of a more normal weight, Carlotta observed wryly. She ran a restaurant in Buckhead called Diamonds, which was all the rage with the critics. Reservations were hard to come by and the menu was way out of Carlotta’s price range.

“Pearson has been arrested twice for alleged heroin use, and has been in and out of rehab in the past few months. Deerling and Pearson have not been linked romantically for over a year, and Deerling has been photographed with many other men since. Sources say that Matt Pearson wasn’t on the Boca birthday party guest list, but showed up unannounced, and Kiki herself let him in.”

Matt Pearson was portrayed in the media to be arrogant and reckless, and Carlotta had heard enough reports of him trashing hotel rooms and smashing sports cars that she was inclined to believe it was true. What was it about bad boys, she wondered, that made women overlook their wayward behavior?

“No memorial arrangements have been announced, but the Deerlings own a cemetery plot in their hometown of Atlanta, where the family has many business investments, including the flagship store for the Deerling jewelry empire, and Diamonds restaurant. Experts tell us if there’s an autopsy, it could be a week or more before Kiki is laid to rest. Despite the initial reports linking her death to asthma, rumors abound that drugs played a part in the young woman’s collapse. Stay tuned for upcoming details on the tragic death of Kiki Deerling.”

Carlotta turned down the volume, shaking her head at the pointlessness. It was a very sad ending for a woman who might have gone on to more noble pursuits, but instead would be memorialized for her excessive partying and personal humiliations played out in the tabloids.

At the sound of a car pulling into the driveway, Carlotta clicked off the TV and jumped up to look out the window. Seeing Coop’s white van, she smiled. “Wesley, I’m leaving!” she called. “See you in a few days!” She doubted if he heard her, since the fan in his bedroom was still running, but she looked toward the hallway in case he emerged. She had waited up until midnight last night before giving in and going to bed, but had left a note on his door telling him she was going on a road trip with Coop. Wesley was clearly avoiding her because he didn’t want to discuss what had happened. And she wasn’t ready to pry the truth out of Peter. In fact, she hadn’t even told him that she was going out of town.

Wesley was avoiding her; she was avoiding Peter. Round and round we go.

Maybe by the time she returned to Atlanta, Wesley would be willing to open up. Carlotta sighed in the direction of his closed bedroom door. They seemed bound and yet separated by old and new secrets. A few days away from each other would probably do them both good.

The doorbell rang. She hurried to the door and opened it, unable to suppress her smile. Coop looked handsome and fit in a black T-shirt and jeans, dressed more casually than usual, and wearing it well. Her heart tripped ridiculously, as if they were going to the prom.

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