Body Movers Books 1-3. Stephanie Bond

as she floundered forward onto the counter. Nose to nose with the wild-eyed Angela, she was too shocked and alarmed to speak.

      Angela twisted the chain, tightening it against Carlotta’s throat. “You’re fooling around with him behind my back, aren’t you?”

      Carlotta flailed, gasping for air and kicking emptiness. She could hear commotion around them, but she couldn’t process the noises because she was feeling light-headed. Even Angela’s voice fused into one long droning sound. When the pressure on Carlotta’s windpipe increased, self-preservation kicked in. She managed to get a handful of Angela’s blond hair and yank with all her strength. She was rewarded with Angela’s howl and her release. Carlotta fell back, sprawling on the floor, heaving and sputtering for air.

      And suddenly Angela was on her again, this time crawling over her and straddling her, hair and eyes wild, hands circling Carlotta’s throat. With what little air and energy she had left, Carlotta grunted and fought back, bucking and kicking, thinking that if she lived, she would probably be fired for creating a spectacle. Abruptly, Angela was dragged off her. Carlotta pushed to a sitting position, rubbing her throat, and saw a wide-eyed Michael Lane holding Angela, forcing her arms to her sides.

      “Calm down,” he ordered the woman who was struggling against him. “Security is on the way,” he assured Carlotta.

      “She’s screwing my husband!” Angela screamed, then sagged against Michael, sobbing. He gaped at Carlotta and as soon as he loosened his grip, Angela sprang to life, jerking away, then running haphazardly toward the escalator. “Keep the damn jacket,” she yelled over her shoulder. Michael looked back to Carlotta for guidance.

      “Let her go,” Carlotta said, sitting on the floor, dazed, trying to process what had just happened. A crowd had gathered, covertly looking over clothing racks and around shelving units. Her skin tingled, her face burning with shame as she pushed to her feet and righted her clothing. From the direction of the elevator Akin Frasier came jogging toward her, his head pivoting side to side, looking for potential perps. Her boss was right behind him.

      “Are you all right, Carlotta?” Lindy asked.

      “I got a report that you were being assaulted,” Akin said.

      “I’m fine,” Carlotta said, growing more mortified by the moment. “It was…a misunderstanding with a customer.”

      “Was it someone you knew?” Lindy asked.

      “Yes,” Carlotta admitted slowly. “It was Angela Ashford, but I think that she’d been drinking. She wanted a refund on something and became a little…belligerent when I offered a store credit instead.”

      “What did she do?” Lindy demanded.

      Carlotta swallowed. “She…uh…”

      “She tried to choke Carlotta,” Michael said dryly. “I was coming up the escalator and saw everything.”

      Akin’s eyes narrowed as he reached for his phone. “I’m filing a police report.”

      “No,” Carlotta said quickly, then gave a little laugh. “It was just a misunderstanding. I wouldn’t want to blow it out of proportion.” She gave her boss a reassuring smile, but Lindy Russell’s gaze was wary. A flush burned its way up Carlotta’s neck. The only thing that had kept Lindy from canning her over the clothes-returning business a few months ago was her exemplary sales record. An altercation with a customer was not helping her cause.

      “I don’t think a police report is necessary,” Lindy said finally. “How much longer on your shift, Carlotta?”

      Carlotta glanced at her watch. “Forty-five minutes.”

      “Why don’t you straighten up here and then go home? If Ms. Ashford returns, someone else will deal with her.”

      Carlotta nodded, knowing she was getting off lightly. Akin and Lindy walked away and the knots of people dispersed, leaving only her and Michael.

      “What was that all about?” he murmured.

      “She was drunk,” Carlotta said, picking up the jacket that Angela had left.

      “She said you were sleeping with her husband.”

      “I’m not,” Carlotta said, although she couldn’t make eye contact with him. “Peter Ashford and I go way back, but he broke off our relationship years ago to date Angela, and then he married her. End of story.”

      “Wow, I knew there was tension between the two of you, but I had no idea a man was involved.”

      “It’s all in her head.”

      “Are you sure?”

      Carlotta looked up at her friend’s concerned expression. “Yes. There’s nothing between me and Peter Ashford.” Anymore.

      “Okay,” Michael said, although his voice was still uncertain. “I have to get back to work. Are you sure you’re okay?”

      “Yes. Thanks for your help.”

      “No problem.”

      She watched her friend walk away and only then gave in to her frayed nerves. Her hands shook as she bagged and tagged the jacket with an ambiguous “hold” note. Then she made her way toward the employee break room, her legs still wobbly over the encounter.

      She felt her neck where it would surely be bruised and wondered if Angela really meant to hurt her. The woman’s accusation that she and Peter were having an affair reverberated in her head. What had Peter told his wife? Anger flared in her chest. He had no right to pull her into his marital difficulties.

      Just as he’d had no right to kiss her the other night.

      Her head was beginning to thump as she walked through the parking garage. She massaged the bridge of her nose and fought back sudden tears as the scene unfolded in her head. Good grief, hadn’t she deserved the confrontation? Kissing another woman’s husband—what had she been thinking? She couldn’t blame Angela for being angry. Even if the woman didn’t know the whole story, her intuition apparently told her that there were unresolved feelings between her husband and his former girlfriend. How maddening would that be?

      Carlotta squeezed her eyes shut against the confusion assailing her, but the sound of an accelerating car jarred her out of her reverie. She jerked around to see a long, dark car with tinted windows speeding toward her. She stood frozen for a split second, then dived to the side and landed with a whoomph on the ground between her car and the vehicle next to it. She lay there, her heart beating wildly, expecting the driver to stop, apologize and ask if she was okay. Instead, the car sped down the ramp of the parking garage.

      She pushed to her feet, cursing at the general craziness of Atlanta drivers who were too distracted by cell phones and road rage to be bothered with pedestrians. And she blamed herself for walking out in front of the car.

      It was only after she was behind the wheel and backing out of her parking place that Angela Ashford popped back into her brain. Could the woman be angry enough to try to run her down? Then she almost laughed in relief. Angela drove a luscious red Jaguar. She’d seen the woman climb into it on more than one occasion at the valet stand.

      The rash of crimes around the mall was another possibility—had someone targeted her for a mugging? That didn’t seem likely since the driver hadn’t even stopped to wrestle away her Coach bag. Then her blood went cold as the threat from her brother’s creditor ran through her head. A henchman had come to visit her at the store once before. Was it possible that they were following her, that they had tried to run her down as a warning?

      She shuddered and kept one eye on the rearview mirror as she drove home, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, no dark cars with tinted windows following her. Still, as she pulled her car into the garage, she was thinking about the fact that in a few days, that thug Tick would be back, demanding another payment that Wesley wouldn’t have. Even with his new job, he’d be lucky to have half of what the fat man would want.

      And