Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1. Stephanie Bond

and get it over with?”

      His advice rankled her. She didn’t like people knowing so much about her perpetual indebtedness. “I told you, I’m not that desperate … yet.”

      “So if it’s not Wesley and it’s not money, what is it?”

      “It’s … personal.”

      Michael’s eyes gleamed with interest. “Want to talk about it?”

      Carlotta hesitated. As chief grinder of the store’s gossip mill, Michael was always looking for grist. “Actually, I was wondering if you could recommend someone … professional … who I could talk to about … everything.”

      “Oh. My therapist, Dr. Delray, is fabulous and he accepts our company insurance. He’s taking new patients only on referral but I’d be happy to put in a phone call.”

      “That would be super. And if you don’t mind, Michael, I’d like to keep this quiet.”

      He made a zipping motion across his lips and Carlotta hoped that she could trust him.

      On the other hand, anyone who’d been privy to her recent goings-on might be relieved to know that she was seeking help.

      She took her place on the sales floor and tried to push aside thoughts of her father. But as the day unfolded and customers blended together, her imagination began to spin wild scenarios.

      If her father was aware of some of the details of her and Wesley’s lives, was he spying on them? The notion had her distracted, looking around, constantly scanning for someone hiding behind clothes racks. Would she even recognize her father? He was bound to have aged in ten years and no doubt had altered his appearance to avoid detection. Same for her mother.

      She glanced around, suddenly claustrophobic as shoppers zigzagged by her. Either one of her parents could be within easy reach and she wouldn’t know it.

      “Hello, Carlotta.”

      Carlotta turned to see one of her best customers, Dixie Neilson, walking up wearing a cheery smile. The flamboyant, trim older woman with a dramatic shock of silver in her dark hair—and her impressive purchases—never failed to lift Carlotta’s spirits. “Hi, Dixie. What can I do for you today?”

      “I need a new dress, darling, for a dinner party. I was thinking something red and slinky and ridiculously expensive.”

      Carlotta laughed. “I think I have just the thing.” But while she was helping Dixie select a dress, she continued to scan the throng of shoppers. Later, while she rang up Dixie’s sale, a tall man by a rack of women’s cruise wear caught her eye. He seemed out of place as he flipped through the hangers of bright clothing. Who wore a long coat in the dead of summer? And he kept looking in her direction….

      She handed Dixie the dress in a garment bag and said goodbye. The long-coated man was still there, still looking her way.

      Carlotta wet her mouth and tasted perspiration on her upper lip. She could spot a disguise a mile away; she’d donned enough of them in her party-crashing days.

      A touch to her arm startled her so badly, she cried out.

      “Easy, girl,” Jack Terry said. To the people who had turned to stare, he sent an easy smile, dissolving their idle interest.

      Carlotta’s heart leapt to her throat as she perused his dark suit and tacky red, white and blue striped tie. He was on duty. “What are you doing here?”

      “Trying to get your attention. You’re awfully jumpy.”

      She told herself to relax or else she’d only raise his suspicion. “Sorry. I guess I’m more tired than I realized.”

      “Ashford keep you up late?” he asked dryly.

      She hesitated, trying to decipher the expression on his face. Jealousy? Impossible. More likely, he was still smarting over the fact that he’d been wrong about Peter’s guilt in Angela’s murder. “That’s none of your business, Detective.”

      One eyebrow arched. “Back to ‘Detective’ are we?”

      “Looks like you’re on duty.”

      “I am, which is why I need to make this quick.”

      Her stomach flipped. Did he know about her father’s phone call? “Need to make what quick?”

      “I got a call that my suit is ready.”

      “Oh.” She exhaled in relief. “Right.”

      He squinted at her. “Are you okay?”

      “Yeah.” But she glanced again at the suspicious-looking man, who nervously averted his gaze.

      “Someone you know?” Jack murmured.

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

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

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

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

      “This is harassment,” the man stammered.

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

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

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

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

      “I’m not the criminal here.”

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

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

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

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

      “Thanks for catching that guy,” she murmured.

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

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

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

      She located the garment bag with