Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1

by Stephanie Bond

  Carlotta steeled herself to face Coop, telling herself that there was nothing to be embarrassed about. Jack was right—it was only a kiss. It wasn’t as if they’d been writhing on the floor naked, greased with herbed massage oil and having hot jungle sex, screaming each other’s names and howling at the moon until the break of dawn.

  It was just a kiss.

  Coop walked into the living room and like a good girl, she waited until the door was closed before she left the kitchen to greet him. He was tall and lean, with the casual, funky look of a rock star, complete with longish, neat sideburns and glasses. He wore dark overlong jeans, an open-collar shirt that she’d bet was vintage and a pale-colored four-button sport coat. When she met his warm, light-brown eyes, her smile wavered a bit. His gaze wasn’t critical, but the twinkle was gone.

  Or maybe it was her imagination.

  “Hi, Carlotta.”

  “Hi, Coop. I hear we have a funeral to plan.”

  The twinkle came back as he smiled. “A phony funeral—the best kind.”

  She lifted her hands. “Where do we start?”

  Coop patted a satchel he was carrying. “We have a strict budget, but I just want to go over a few things with you, to make sure it’s as believable as possible.”

  “Take your time,” Jack said, moving past them. “I’d like that vehicle to sit in the driveway for a little while.”

  She gestured for Coop to sit on the couch and he began to spread books over the surface of the coffee table. She noticed that he took in the sheets and pillow that Jack had used last night stacked in a chair.

  “Do you want something to drink?” she offered. “Jack made coffee.”

  “No, I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Are you and Wesley working today?” she asked, sitting next to him.

  “Not today. I have some business at the funeral home and I want to get things ready for tomorrow.” He smiled. “It’s going to be hard to pull off a funeral without a body under my uncle’s nose.”

  “How was Wesley…yesterday?”

  “Angry for a while,” he said, averting his gaze. “But he’ll get over it. I guess it’s hard for him to think of you as a woman.”

  Her cheeks warmed. “I want to thank you again for being so kind to Wesley the night before last.”

  “It’s okay…it was a difficult night for anyone who cares about you.” He gave her a little smile, his expression forthright and honest, his affection for her obvious.

  “Doing okay in there?” Jack asked from the kitchen.

  “We’re planning your funeral, Jack,” Coop called, then grinned at Jack’s guffaw.

  “Have you done this before?” she asked. “Planned a fake funeral?”

  “No, but this is about as exciting as it gets in the mortuary business.”

  Carlotta laughed and, having heard the story of his fall from grace, marveled at his seemingly unending good nature. Cooper Craft seemed to be at peace with himself.

  “I just need to know a few basics,” he said. “Things that people who know you would expect your brother to choose.”

  She bit into her lip. “Then we’re not talking about my parents, because even if they do show up, they wouldn’t know what to expect. They don’t know me anymore.”

  His eyes shadowed briefly, then he winked. “So what will your friends expect?”

  “Is there such a thing as a designer casket?”

  His laugh—a rich, mellow sound—made his eyes crinkle in the corners.

  She spent the next couple of hours becoming acquainted with casket styles and colors, flowers sprays, and “In Memoriam” card formats. Coop noted her selections on a legal pad.

  “This is all a little surreal,” she murmured.

  He nodded. “I’ll need a current photo of you. And what would you like in the eulogy?”

  “Oh…something generic. It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

  He shrugged. “I guess not. Who would you like to give the eulogy?”

  She couldn’t put any of her friends through that kind of trauma and Wesley would be a hard sell. “Would you mind doing it, Coop? Is that too much to ask?”

  “No,” he said quietly. “I think I can manage—since it’s not the real thing.”

  “Let’s hope we don’t need to go through with it,” Jack said from the doorway. “There’s still a chance that the Wrens will show before tomorrow afternoon. But meanwhile, I want you to put the funeral announcement in the newspaper, on your information phone message…anywhere you can, to get the word out.”

  “Will do.” Coop returned the books and pamphlets to his satchel.

  “Have you heard anything about an ID on the Jane Doe?”

  Coop hesitated. “You should talk to the coroner, Jack.”

  “Just asking.”

  “They don’t keep me informed,” Coop said, standing.

  Jack put his hands on his hips. “I know that look, Coop. You know something.”

  But Coop only shook his head. “I’m just a body mover, Jack. I’ll let the professionals handle this one.” He looked at Carlotta. “I guess I’ll see you when this is all over.”

  “Oh, no, I’ll be there tomorrow,” she said.

  Both men looked surprised. “How?” Jack asked.

  “In disguise, of course. Don’t worry—no one will know me.”

  Jack looked dubious as he walked Coop to the door, but maintained his silence until the other man had left. “I don’t think you should go tomorrow.”

  “Why not? It’s my funeral!”

  Jack lifted his finger until it almost touched the tip of her nose. “Because with your penchant for trouble, something’s bound to happen.”

  “Nothing you can’t handle, I’m sure.”

  He frowned. “I’m starting to doubt that.”

  “Besides, don’t you think I’ll be safer there than here alone?”

  He didn’t respond, but from the look on his face, she knew she had him. “Even you won’t recognize me,” she promised.

  “Don’t you have more yellow pages to look through? I’m going to call the coroner to see if anything else has turned up on our Jane Doe.”

  Carlotta called Wesley’s cell-phone number and when he didn’t answer, she left him a message about the memorial service tomorrow, wondering if the words sounded as strange as it felt to say them.

  “No developments here, but I’d like to talk to you if you get a chance to call me today.” But when she hung up, she felt his absence, his distance as surely as if he were in another country. He was making it clear that this was her deal with the D.A. and he wanted nothing to do with it.

  Catching her kissing Jack Terry had only added fuel to Wesley’s fire.

  She glanced over the top of the thick yellow pages volume to steal a look at Jack sitting across the room, engrossed in something on his computer screen. Unfortunately, she had her own fire to contend with, an internal blaze that seemed to be taking on a life of its own.

  “No matter what, this will be over tomorrow?” she asked.

  He looked up. “Yeah, no matter what.”

  So…their last night together.

  The unspoken words hung in the air all day as they maneuvered around each other. Three flower deliveries were left on the stoop for Wesley—one from his probation officer, one from Neiman’s and one from Walt & Tully. It made her think of Peter and wonder how this situation would affect their relationship—if it would be too much for him and he’d cut bait before he got pulled deeper into the Wren-family train wreck.

  Jack spent most of the day on his cell phone, following up with the car shop, the bank and the coroner, who had no news. Mixed in with the weird sexual fantasies Carlotta was having about Jack was the sickening realization that her worst fear was on the verge of coming true. Two days after the announcement of her death, her parents had not come to mourn their daughter or console their son.

  And if they didn’t show up at the funeral tomorrow, the whole world would know just how little h
er parents cared. She blinked back sudden tears.

  “You okay?” Jack asked, his gaze leveled on her from the breakfast bar.

  “Fine,” she murmured, blinking rapidly. “Listen, if you don’t mind, I’m not feeling well. I think I’ll go to my room and rest.”

  “What about dinner?”

  “I don’t think I can eat anything. I guess nerves are setting in.”

  “I understand,” he said quietly. “I’ll wake you if anything happens.”

  “We both know that isn’t likely.”

  As she was leaving the room, Jack said, “Carlotta.”

  She turned around.

  “I’m sorry.” He set down his pencil and ran his hand down his face. “I’m sorry.”

  Sorry that her parents hadn’t shown, that they were the kind of people that he would have to hunt down and put in jail.

  “Good night, Jack.”

  The fact that she fell asleep as soon as she crawled in her bed was testament to the mental gymnastics she’d been doing for two days. But her dreams were dark—snatches of her own funeral playing out, with friends lamenting her sad, loveless life of mediocrity…her parents were there, but when she reached for them, her hands went through them….

  She started awake, breathless and perspiring. The clock displayed a few minutes past midnight. The house was completely quiet, no fan drone, no television, no air conditioning hum. Carlotta lay in the dark, listening to her thudding heart, the vestiges of the bad dream remaining in the corners of her mind.

  She felt so fragmented and out of control—and utterly alone. Throwing back her sheet, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and turned her head in the direction of the living room.

  Jack was awake, she could feel his body calling hers.

  She pressed her lips together, wavering. But if faking her own death had taught her anything, it was that she needed to live in the moment. And there was at least one aspect of her life over which she still had control.

  Carlotta went into the bathroom and rummaged in the cabinet below the sink, way in the back, until she found what she was looking for. She blew the dust off a box of condoms and removed one. Then she shrugged and grabbed a couple more.

  She straightened and pulled purposeful air into her lungs, then marched in the direction of the living-room couch.

  24

  By the time Carlotta had padded into the living room, she had lost her nerve. The low light from a table lamp revealed Jack sprawled on the couch wearing a white T-shirt and boxers. Her stomach clenched at the sight of his big body and the reality of what she’d been planning now seemed ludicrous. Humiliation zinged through her—some seductress she was.

  But before she could retreat, he turned his head and sat up. “Carlotta?”

  She put the condoms behind her back. “Sorry to wake you. I was just going to get a glass of water.”

  “Oh.”

  But she couldn’t bring herself to move. Even in the dim light, she could feel the power of his gaze. Beneath her cotton camisole, her nipples budded. Sexual energy bounced around the room, looking for an outlet. He couldn’t come to her, she knew, because his job forbade it. If this was going to happen, she had to go to him.

  She wet her lips. “Jack.”

  He stood and she could sense his restraint. She walked to him, stopping within arm’s reach. The sexual vibes rolling off his body brought dormant desire to the surface in a rush of blood that had her heart galloping. She looped her arms around his neck and held her breath in anticipation.

  “Carlotta, are you sure you want this?” he demanded, even as his massive arms hauled her to him.

  “Yes, Jack. Make me feel alive.”

  He did. His kiss was a hungry assault on her senses, the stubble of his beard grazing her face, his lips hard and firm on hers, his tongue thrashing into her mouth, a promise of what was to come.

  They undressed each other in fervent tugs, their clothes tossed to the floor with impatience. The shock of his warm muscular body against hers caused a warning light to go off in Carlotta’s head, but when his hands closed over her bare breasts, her brain pushed aside rational thought in favor of the incredible sensations coursing through her body.

  Her moan of pleasure seemed to stoke Jack’s own fire higher. His raging erection was in proportion to the rest of his big body and felt formidable against her stomach. She kneaded the wall of muscle that was his back, reveling in the firm contours, then clasped his thick cock, stroking him with a sense of urgency. It was as if they both understood that they needed to do this quickly—sexual blitzkrieg.

  He guided her to the floor and dropped kisses on her neck and shoulders while coaxing her knees apart. When his fingers found her feminine heat, she gasped and clung to his neck. “I want you now, Jack.”

  He fumbled for one of the condoms that had landed on the floor and sheathed himself. As hurried as his movements were, when he levered his body above hers, he hesitated a split second, his gaze locked with hers, before thrusting his rigid length into her.

  Carlotta cried out and rocked her hips against his, overcome with the deluge to her senses. They found a frantic rhythm and the friction instantly began to coax a long overdue orgasm from the depths of her body. His male scent, his powerful body, his fierce lovemaking heightened her every sense. She could almost feel each strand of carpet that ground into her skin as he plunged into her, deeper, harder.

  When she climaxed, her body contracted around his like a spring. She shrieked and sank her teeth into his shoulder as the spasms grew in intensity and spread through her body in one of the most satisfying orgasms she could recall. He pumped into her furiously, then his body convulsed with his own release. He groaned against her neck and twined his fingers in her hair as they both pulsed with latent tremors.

  Neither one of them spoke for several long seconds. Only the sound of their recovering lungs filled the air. Carlotta closed her eyes, waiting for the remorse to set in. But it didn’t. She felt good—satisfied.

  Jack rolled over, but pulled her with him until she lay on his chest. After another minute of silence, he expelled a noisy breath. “Want to talk about this?”

  “No,” she murmured.

  “Good,” he said in his deep baritone and simply stroked her arm. They lay like that for a while, then he sat up and pushed to his feet and removed the spent condom. She thought he was going to get dressed and told herself not to be disappointed, but instead he extended his hand.

  “Let’s take a shower and try that again.”

  25

  Wesley opened the door of Chance’s BMW and swung out. “Thanks for the ride, man.”

  “Don’t mention it. Uh, dude, about your sister’s funeral today…that’s not really my scene, you know?”

  “Yeah, I understand. No problem.”

  “Hey, I just thought of something. Do you think it’s possible your parents might show up?”

  No one had ever accused Chance of being quick-minded. “Anything’s possible, I guess.”

  “Well, don’t sweat it. Now that you’re alone, we’re going to make that poker dream of yours happen, man. I mean, not to speak ill of the dead, but your sister was a bit of a drag, always riding you about playing cards.”

  “Yeah. See ya.” As Wesley turned toward the house, anger sparked anew in his stomach. Carlotta was always telling him what and what not to do, but when their father had called, she’d told Hannah instead of him. She’d probably told the cop too and the D.A. Maybe that’s why they’d cooked up this trap for his dad.

  He’d spent all night on his computer equipment at Chance’s tapping into Carlotta’s cell phone records—with the right equipment and a little cash, anyone’s records were available. She’d told him her phone had broken Sunday. The last call had come from one of those Internet calling cards—impossible to trace.

  Their father calling explained why she’d been in a funk for the past few days—the reason he’d been willing to believe that she’d killed herself—b
ut it didn’t excuse her from telling him about the call or siding with the D.A. against her own family.

  And taking up with that jerk cop.

  Remembering the detective’s warning that he might be approached when coming in or out of the house, Wesley glanced around for any signs of persons loitering or sitting in cars. Their little portion of the neighborhood was quiet and nothing seemed out of place. But he turned at a noise behind him.

  “Wesley, there you are,” Mrs. Winningham said, walking toward him on her side of the fence, holding a casserole dish.

  “Hello, Mrs. Winningham.”

  “I heard the tragic news about your sister. I’m so sorry.”

  “Uh, thanks, Mrs. Winningham.”

  The woman tsked-tsked. “I always thought she was a troubled young woman, and she kept such odd company. The girl with the belts and chains attached that horrid black wreath to the door.”

  Wesley tried not to roll his eyes. What a waste of taxpayers’ money to have Jack Terry doing surveillance, when Mrs. Winningham did it for free.

  “Do you think your parents will come back, dear?”

  “I don’t know.” He hoped not…hoped they could smell a trap…hoped his dad would follow him and approach him when he was alone to find out what was going on.

  “Have you thought about selling the house?” his neighbor asked hopefully.

  “No ma’am, I haven’t.”

  “Well, you should consider it.”

  When he didn’t respond, she lifted the casserole dish over the fence. “I made you this nice chicken casserole.”

  Southerners grieved with mayonnaise and cream of mushroom soup. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll need my dish back.”

  “I’ll make sure you get it.” He waved goodbye, then climbed the steps, unlocked the front door and pushed it open.

  The first thing he noticed was the makeshift bed on the couch, but his relief that maybe the cop had done the right thing was erased when he saw the clothes strewn everywhere, and the condom wrappers. Fury pulsed through his body. While he stood there, shaking, Carlotta’s bedroom door opened and Jack Terry emerged, freshly showered and pulling on his suit jacket. When he spotted Wesley, he pulled the door closed behind him. “Morning, Wesley. I didn’t know you were here.”