Body Movers Read online

  “How have you been?” he asked to fill the awkward silence.

  “Oh, fine,” she said quickly.

  “And Wesley? He must be what—sixteen years old now?”

  “Nineteen,” she corrected, disappointed that he hadn’t noted the passing of every year, of every day since their breakup. Immediately, she recognized she was being unfair. It hadn’t been as traumatic an event to him as it had been to her.

  “Wow, he’s all grown up.”

  She nodded, wondering if he’d read of Wesley’s arrest but was diplomatically avoiding the subject.

  He pointed to the pink leather book in her hands. “And I see that you’re still collecting autographs. I guess you filled up the black book you always carried around.”

  “That was a long time ago,” she said, shoving the new book into her purse, not wanting to admit she’d replaced that black autograph book only recently—and not out of choice.

  “Can I get you a glass of wine?”

  Deciding there was nothing wrong with him using one of his drink tickets on her, she nodded.

  “White zinfandel?” he asked.

  “Pinot noir,” she said, letting him know that her tastes had changed, matured. But while he ordered her drink, she devoured him with her eyes—tall, commanding, self-assured, polished. This was the man who would have been her husband. No…Angela had told her what Peter had said about marrying Carlotta. Even if they had married, it wouldn’t have lasted.

  But it was easy to put those troubling thoughts aside when he walked back toward her. Easy to pretend that Peter was her husband, returning with her drink. “Thank you,” she said, taking the glass. His hand brushed hers, leaving her unreasonably flushed with pleasure.

  “To the good times,” he said lightly, lifting his glass.

  She nodded and clinked her glass to his, then drank deeply of the rich red wine. The flavors burst onto her tongue, the alcohol pleasantly burning the back of her throat. Almost immediately she felt the effects of the wine and warned herself to take it slow on an empty stomach. Seeing Peter again had already knocked her senses off balance—she didn’t need an accelerant.

  He studied her as he drank from his glass and she wondered what was going through his mind. Regret? Relief?

  Suddenly his nose wrinkled and he waved his hand in the air as the smell of cigarette smoke wafted their way from the bar. “Damn cigarettes. Let’s get some fresh air,” he said, nodding toward the patio doors.

  She agreed, telling herself that it was perfectly normal that they should have a conversation after the way things had ended all those years ago. She fell into step next to him, careful to maintain a respectable distance in deference to the overwhelming urge to wrap her legs around him.

  Dusk had settled on the patio where a handful of people stood talking quietly. Low light sparkled from luminaries hung all around that struck her as strangely romantic for what was supposed to be a business event. “What brings you here?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Thought it might be a good place to make some new contacts for potential clients. I’m an investment broker for Mashburn, Tully and—” He blanched. “Sorry, I still want to add your father’s name to the partners list.”

  “It’s okay,” she murmured. “I knew you were working there. I saw your wedding announcement in the AJC.”

  “Ah.”

  “Is Angela with you?” she asked lightly, glancing around.

  “No.” Then he cleared his throat. “So what are you doing here?”

  “I’m here with a friend.”

  One of his eyebrows arched. “Boyfriend?”

  “No. My friend Hannah.”

  “Someone you went to school with? Would I know her?”

  “No, I sort of…lost touch with the girls I went to school with. I hardly see them anymore.” Then she decided to out the elephant in the room between them that he refused to acknowledge. “Except for Angela.”

  He took a quick drink from his glass. “Yes, she always tells me when she, um, runs into you.”

  Another stretch of awkward silence descended.

  “I hear your home is very nice,” she offered. “Angela told me about the new pool.”

  He gave a dry laugh. “Pool, outside kitchen, waterfall, hot tub and guesthouse.”

  “Oh. How…nice.”

  He looked up. “I wasn’t bragging. It’s all a little more grand than I had envisioned. I mean, it’s just the two of us, and I’m not home—” He stopped. “I mean…I work long hours.”

  She thought about Angela’s flask of gin. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Peter’s “long hours” were taking a toll on their marriage.

  And God help her, wasn’t she just a little bit happy to know it?

  The realization left her flustered and searching for safer ground. “How did you like the jacket that Angela bought for you last week? Gorgeous, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, no, I’ve ruined a surprise. She said your anniversary was coming up and I completely forgot. Peter, I’m so sorry. Will you please act surprised?”

  “Sure,” he said quietly. “But our anniversary was three days ago.”

  Carlotta fumbled to cover her gaffe. “Well, perhaps she forgot about it, or is saving it for another special occasion…or she…changed her mind.”

  “Or perhaps she bought it for someone else.”

  Mortification bled through her chest at the implication.

  “Such as her father,” he added mildly, then smiled.

  She laughed in relief at the obvious explanation. “Of course. I’m sorry I mentioned it. I was just…”

  “Making conversation?” he supplied. “That’s gracious of you, Carly, considering all the things you’d probably like to say to me after the way I behaved when…when your life fell apart.”

  Carly. His pet name for her. A name she’d used several times when crashing parties incognito, under the disguise of wigs and accents.

  Her mouth opened and closed. Here stood the man who had ripped out her heart and abandoned her, and now when given the opportunity to ask him why, she didn’t know what to say. She’d always known why, hadn’t she? Would it really make a difference to hear him admit that he couldn’t deal with the scandal of her parents’ actions, and the responsibility of an instant family? Would it change anything other than to tear open wounds that had long since healed?

  “We were young,” she said, turning away from him, trying to keep her voice steady. “I understand why you did what you did.”

  He stepped beside her. “Then maybe you can explain it to me, because I don’t understand why I did it—why I left you alone to deal with the fallout of your parents leaving, of raising a child.”

  “It wasn’t your responsibility,” she said, closing her eyes against his nearness. “It was mine. Your life was going down a different path.” She looked up and smiled. “As it should have. Everything worked out for the best.”

  He looked as if he wanted to say something, but instead he drained his wineglass.

  “Peter, hey!”

  They both turned to see a middle-aged man walking toward them, all smiles. A memory chord vibrated in Carlotta’s mind.

  Peter straightened and even to her his body language seemed guilty as he extended his hand to the older man. “Hi, Walt.”

  “When did you get back from Boston?” the man asked.

  “This afternoon. The meeting with Matthews went well.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Walt said, then cut his gaze to Carlotta, his curiosity plain.

  “Walt, this is Carly, an old friend. Carly, this is Walt…Tully.”

  Carlotta blinked—her father’s former partner. No wonder he looked familiar. She’d been to countless company gatherings at his house, had gone to school with his daughter. And no wonder Peter was acting so strangely. But even though her father had stained the company’s reputation, she had nothi
ng to atone for. She stuck out her hand and when the man took it, smiling, she said, “I’m Carlotta Wren, Mr. Tully. It’s been a long time.”

  He seemed confused, then surprised, then uncomfortable. “Er, Carlotta, yes, of course. How are you, my dear?”

  “Grand,” she said with a big smile. “How’s Tracey?”

  “Hmm? Oh…she’s fine. Married a doctor and lives in Buckhead.”

  One of Angela’s lunch buddies, no doubt. “That’s wonderful. Will you tell her I said hello?”

  He frowned. “Of course.” Then his gaze went back and forth between her and Peter.

  “I was just leaving,” she said cheerfully, setting her glass of wine on the nearest flat surface. “Peter, it was nice to run into you. Give Angela my best. Good evening, Mr. Tully.”

  She turned and fled, fighting tears as she wound her way through the crowd back into the kitchen. If she’d needed proof that being in Peter’s life would have been a constant embarrassment for him, she had it. Walking blindly, she nudged a tray of fish-shaped pâté from a sideboard and sent it crashing to the floor.

  “Who are you?” a man wearing a chef’s hat bellowed. “Get out of here!”

  She spied Hannah in the fray, who beckoned her toward the door where they’d met. “What’s wrong?”

  Carlotta bit her lip to keep her tears at bay, but failed.

  Hannah grabbed her arm. “What happened?”

  “It’s nothing,” Carlotta mumbled. “I don’t feel well.”

  “Liar,” Hannah said, herding her out into the hallway. “Did one of Wesley’s thugs follow you here?”

  “No,” Carlotta said, then released a hysterical laugh at the absurdity of her life. “It was just a guy…I used to date.”

  Hannah frowned. “A guy? I’ve never seen you worked up over any guy you dated.”

  “This was a long time ago. I’m overreacting. It’s nothing.”

  Hannah stared at her, more curious than concerned.

  Carlotta wiped her eyes. “I shouldn’t have come. I’m still worked up over Wesley’s situation. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Hannah squinted. “If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.” She turned and walked down the hallway to the elevator and stabbed the call button.

  “Carlotta!”

  She turned to see Peter leaving the main entrance of the party and making his way toward her. She turned back to the elevator and stabbed the button again. “Come on,” she muttered.

  “Carlotta, wait!”

  When the door opened, she rushed aboard and pushed the button to close the doors, but Peter was too quick. The doors rebounded open and he walked on, his eyes dark and troubled. The doors slid closed, sealing her into an intimate space with the man she had loved for most of her adult life.

  “What do you want, Peter?”

  “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “I was afraid if I introduced you, well…I was afraid that he would say something…inappropriate.”

  She watched the buttons light up as they descended slowly, then gave a little laugh. “It’s okay, Peter. I’m used to being snubbed by people like Walt Tully. Do you want to hear something funny? That man is my godfather— that’s how close our families used to be. But the last time I saw Tracey, she pretended she didn’t even know who I was. It seems I’m invisible to most of the women I once thought were my friends.” Her voice sounded surprisingly calm to her own ears. “Except for your wife, that is. Instead of ignoring me, she treats me like a servant when she comes in to shop. She flaunts her life with you and grinds me under her heel. She told me last week that giving me a commission is her little good deed, as if I’m some kind of pet project.”

  His mouth tightened and he shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  She clenched her jaw, her chest aching. “Stop saying that.” The elevator doors opened and she brushed past him. “Goodbye, Peter.”

  “Carlotta.” He kept up with her until they reached the hotel entrance. “Give me your ticket, I’ll have the valet send for your car.”

  She gave a little laugh. “I parked my own car, Peter, and walked one whole block to get here.”

  He looked ashamed. “Then at least let me walk you to your car so I won’t worry about you.”

  It was something in his voice that weakened her resolve—the protective note that made her feel so cared for, so safe. Darkness had fallen and in truth, she wasn’t looking forward to walking back to her car alone. And this might be her last chance to be with Peter, ever. “Okay,” she said against her better judgment.

  When they reached the sidewalk, away from the lights of the hotel, they slowed, as if by mutual consent. A spring chill had settled over Midtown, and Carlotta shivered slightly, although the goose bumps could just as easily have been caused by Peter’s proximity. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, and more memories flooded back—the perfection of his profile, the way his brow furrowed when he was deep in thought.

  The sidewalks in this area were nearly deserted, but cars zipped by on Fourteenth Street in a steady stream. Peter walked on the outside of the sidewalk, between her and the traffic, like a good southern gentleman. Carlotta desperately wanted to talk but didn’t know what to say, afraid if she started talking, she might say too much. So she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, satisfied at the moment with breathing the same air as Peter.

  “I can’t believe it’s been ten years,” he said finally.

  A response seemed unnecessary.

  “Have you heard from your parents?” he asked gently.

  “We received a few postcards over the years, but even those have stopped.”

  He looked pained. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize for something that isn’t your fault.”

  “I’m sorry for leaving you stranded when you needed me the most.”

  Her heart thudded in her chest. She studied the toes of her shoes, afraid to look at him, afraid she would burst into tears over the admission that she’d longed to hear for over a decade.

  “I was a coward,” he said. “I let my family talk me into something I didn’t want to do.”

  So, his family had pressured him to break off their relationship. She had suspected as much, but now that she knew, she wasn’t sure what hurt the most—that they had considered her spoiled goods, or that Peter hadn’t defended her.

  He grimaced. “I’m not being fair to my folks, though. They were doing what they thought was right. I was the coward for not standing up to them.”

  She stopped next to her Monte Carlo Super Sport, which, she acknowledged, probably seemed garish to him. The damn car seemed to represent the sorry state of her life. She looked up and shielded her eyes against the lamplight. “What do you want me to say, Peter? Do you want me to agree with you?”

  The pained look was back on his face. “I already know that you agree with me, Carly.” He reached down and picked up her hand, sandwiching it between his. “I’m asking you to forgive me.”

  She felt the pulse in his thumb throbbing against hers, the warmth from his hands surrounding hers like when they had made love, with the kind of abandon that only two teenagers could possess. She had always teased that his body was like a furnace, and he had always said she put the fire in his belly. Her body tingled in response to his touch, as if answering some long-forgotten call.

  “Is that what you need to be at peace, Peter? For me to forgive you?”

  He looked into her eyes and squeezed her hand tighter. The tension between them crushed her ribs and constricted her airways. It was as if they were suspended, as if time stood still, poised to resume when one of them spoke or moved or breathed.

  “No,” he said in a raspy voice, releasing her hand. “Even if you forgive me, I can’t say that I will ever be at peace.”

  She pushed her tingling hand inside her jacket pocket and tried to compose herself. “We can’t turn back the clock, Peter. We’re different people now. You have your life, and I have
mine.”

  He smiled. “You’re right. When did you become so pragmatic?”

  “Ten years ago.”

  He sighed and nodded. “What choice did you have?”

  She pulled out her car keys and hit the keyless entry button. “I should go.” She opened the driver’s-side door and dropped her purse inside.

  “Carly.”

  She turned toward his voice—an old habit, easily resumed.

  He stepped toward her and dropped a kiss on her cheek. The unexpected closeness of his body to hers sent a surge of desire rippling through her stomach. He groaned softly and suddenly the innocent kiss went from cheek to mouth, and his lips seared hers. She gave in to the overwhelming rush of longing and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. His mouth devoured hers and instantly, she was home. She knew his mouth, knew how he tasted, how he liked to flick his tongue against hers, how he slanted his head just so for better leverage.

  She moaned and kissed him with all the pent-up years of longing for him to come back to her, to climb into her bed and thrust his body into hers and whisper against her neck that he’d loved her all along. She kneaded the cords of his back and pressed her aching breasts against the wall of his chest. But when the hardness of his erection pressed into her stomach, warning bells sounded in her head. And when she heard footsteps approaching, reality came crashing back. She tore her mouth from his and stumbled back. She didn’t know the couple walking by, but she was still awash with shame.

  “Carly,” Peter said on an exhale, then pulled his hand down his face. “You’re killing me.”

  She covered her mouth with her hand, unable to believe what she’d just done—what she’d been about to do. “You’re a married man, Peter.”

  “I know,” he said, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “Stop saying that,” she said. “Stop saying that!” She brushed past him and swung into her car seat.

  “Carlotta—”

  She held up her hand to cut him off. “This was a big mistake. Go home, Peter. Go home to your wife.”