Bond, Stephanie - Body Movers 05 (4 page)

seemed single-handedly determined that Carlotta would

not be readmitted to the upper echelon.

“And I don’t care,” Peter added, putting the car into Park

and turning off the engine.

“I have to buy a car soon, or get the Miata fixed.” Although

one would probably cost as much as the other. And with

her wrecked credit stil on the mend, she probably

wouldn’t qualify for a new car loan—or for financing to get

the Miata repaired.

“You don’t have to rush into anything,” he said. “While

you’re here, use the extra car.”

Carlotta pressed her lips together. His argument seemed

logical, but Peter always seemed logical. It was how he had

talked her into accepting a cel phone on his plan, because

the incremental cost to him was negligible, while she

couldn’t get a new one until her credit mess was

straightened out.

He reached over to cover her hand with his. “Let me spoil

you, Carly.”

His blue eyes were so sincere. Shortly before Angela’s

death, she had run into Peter at a cocktail party she’d

crashed and thought she would die from wanting him. He

had turned out to be everything they had planned he

would be—successful and wealthy. Married and living in a

world that had shunned her, he had seemed so far out of

her reach. But he’d kissed her that night, had told her that

his marriage to Angela wasn’t good, and that he wanted

Carlotta back in his life. When Angela had died a violent

death and Peter had been blamed, it seemed that once

again, all was lost…especially when Peter had confessed to

his wife’s murder. But in the end, it was revealed that

Angela had been living the double life of a Buckhead

housewife and a high-class cal girl. Peter had confessed to

protect the reputation of a woman he felt he’d driven to

reckless behavior with his indifference.

The experience had endeared him to Carlotta, and even

though he came out of it a free man, she had felt that it

was too soon, that they were both too raw to resume their

relationship. And then there was Jack…and Coop…

“Drive the Porsche,” he said, gesturing to the interior of

the luxurious car. “Have fun.”

“What if I do something to it?”

“That’s what insurance is for.” Then he winked. “Besides, if

I can’t get you to fall in love with me again, maybe you’l

fall in love with my car.”

She laughed and stroked the armrest. “It is beautiful.”

Then she smiled. “Okay, but only until I get the Miata

fixed.”

“Fair enough. Let’s go inside. I’l get your suitcase.”

Carlotta stepped out of the car and glanced around the

garage that was nearly as big as the town house she and

Wesley shared.

“I’m starved,” Peter said, energetically pul ing her bulky

bag out of the small car trunk. “I think that zap you gave

me stirred my appetite. I was thinking of gril ing out by the

pool. How does that sound?”

Her mouth parted in surprise, then she chided herself.

Peter couldn’t very well live in this house and forever

avoid the place where Angela had drowned. “That sounds

fine. Do you gril ?”

He looked sheepish as he moved toward the door leading

to the house. “I’m learning, if you don’t mind being a test

subject.”

She laughed. “I don’t mind. Wesley does all the cooking in

our house.” She hesitated before fol owing him inside,

feeling self-conscious. She stepped into what appeared to

be a mudroom that contained a door to a powder room

and a wide closet.

“The laundry room is behind those doors,” he said,

pointing. “My housekeeper, Flaur, wil take care of your

clothes.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” she said quickly. Except for the

clothes that Michael Lane had inexplicably washed, dried

and folded while she and Wesley were away from the

house, she was accustomed to taking care of her own

laundry.

In the mudroom, several of Peter’s jackets hung on a Peg-

Board and a couple of pairs of knockabout shoes sat on

the floor. They walked through another door to enter a

spacious great room, which brought back more memories

of that night. Straight ahead was a jaw-dropping kitchen,

to her right, a den and sunroom with an eating area,

flanked by sliding glass doors that led out to the pool area.

The long wood table in the sunroom was where she’d sat

with Peter, consoling him after Angela’s body had been

found. The garish “designer” silk flower arrangement that

had sat on the table, the one Peter said he and Angela had

argued over because of the expense, was gone, replaced

by a demure lidded vase. The wall of cherrywood

bookshelves in the den above the fireplace were studded

with bric-a-brac, but seemed more streamlined than

before. Peter had obviously removed some of Angela’s

possessions from his home, yet her influence remained in

splashes of feminine color and the occasional designer

col ectible. And in a single framed black-and-white picture

of Angela taken in happier times.

Wood-lined ceilings soared overhead, with more wood at

their feet, polished to a shine. The first floor also featured

a formal living room, a formal dining room, an office, a

butler’s pantry and a home theater.

“Wesley would love this,” she said, gesturing to the plasma

TV and surround-sound speakers.

“He’s welcome to come over anytime and use it,” Peter

offered. “My house could use some living.”

“It’s such a lovely home, Peter,” she said, running her hand

over the curved moldings of a chair rail. Every element of

every room was finely designed and crafted. “Did you and

Angela build it?”

“Yes. Angie selected all the finishing details and the

decor.”

The implication hung in the air between them—if they’d

married instead, Carlotta would’ve been the one sorting

through Italian-tile samples and choosing custom-cabinet

hardware. She knew that Peter was wealthy in his own

right, and would inherit another fortune when his parents

passed, but seeing firsthand how he lived—how she

might’ve lived—left her feeling a little light-headed.

“Angela had good taste,” she said finally.

He nodded, then retrieved her suitcase and gestured

toward the stairs—one of two staircases, she’d learned

during the tour. “I’l show you your room and you can

unpack while I get dinner started.”

She fol owed him, holding on to the handrail as she

climbed the wide staircase. Ahead of her, Peter was

animated as he pointed out different rooms and some of

the pieces of art that he particularly liked. He seemed

almost giddy to have her there, but Carlotta felt a

heaviness all around her, as if there was a presence in the

house…Angela’s aura.

Then she gave herself a mental shake at her absurdity.

Angela was gone, and Peter was ready to move on.

Stil …it felt eerie to be given full run of the woman’s

house, especially in light of Angela’s outright dislike of her.

Carlotta couldn’t blame her, though. During the

investigation of the woman’s death, it was revealed that

Peter carried a picture of Carlotta in his wallet. Angela

must have known, and it had to have eaten at her.

“This is my room,” he said, stopping to allow Carlotta to

peek inside. The room was enormous, with an elaborately

trayed ceiling and skylight. At the end of the room was a

sitting area, with a fireplace and flat-screen TV, with a

veranda beyond sets of French doors.

Near the bed, she saw a dressing room through a doorway

that she assumed serviced his-and-her walk-in closets.

Through another doorway she glimpsed the bathroom and

a waterfall shower.

The bedroom furniture was dark and heavy and of the

highest quality—the king-size bed alone had probably cost

as much as his Porsche, she surmised, picturing Peter’s

long frame stretched out on its length. The linens and

curtains were earth toned and sumptuous, the inlaid

designs in the wood floor a masterpiece. She wondered if

he kept the Cartier engagement ring he was “holding” for

her somewhere in this room.

“It’s…wonderful,” she murmured, but shrank a little inside,

mortified at what he must think of her housing situation.

When she moved back to the town house, things had to

change.

“I’m glad you like it,” Peter said. “The room I had in mind

for you is across the hall.”

She fol owed him to a set of double doors that opened

into a suite that was as light as his was dark. The furniture

was maple, the linens fresh and airy, the area rugs plush. It

was feminine in every sense, including the enormous

closet and the spalike bathroom. Angela’s influence was

apparent in every corner of this space. “It’s wonderful,”

Carlotta murmured.

“There are three other guest rooms if this one doesn’t suit

you, including one in the basement.”

Her eyes widened. “You have a basement?”

He grinned. “Where else would I put the game room and

wine cel ar?”

“Where else indeed?” Carlotta did a ful turn in the center

of the room, noticing that she had a veranda of her own,

facing the front of the house, where the veranda off

Peter’s room faced the rear. “It’s positively lovely, Peter. I

feel like a princess.”

“Good,” he said, then picked up a lock of her hair. “You

deserve to feel like a princess. Take your time settling in.

When you come down, I’l show you the alarm system so

you’l feel safe when you’re here alone.”

“Okay.” When he closed the door behind him, she fel

backward on the luxurious bed, enjoying the bounce of the

mattress. She gazed up at a skylight that was lined with

prisms, turning the sun’s waning light into a thousand

shimmering rainbows. Her life up until now seemed a

thousand miles away.

“Oh,” Carlotta sighed, “I could so get used to this.”

4

Wesley waited until the Town Car pul ed away, then

walked up to the front door of the Fulton County Morgue,

a building so nondescript that most people driving by

didn’t notice it. He’d never been through the front door

before—as a body mover for Coop, he’d always entered

through a side or rear delivery door with their solemn

cargo. He walked up to a reception desk and flashed his

body-hauler ID, then asked for Coop.

“Dr. Craft is in the lab,” the woman at the desk told him.

“Sign in and go on back. It’s next to the crypt.”

“Got it,” he said, then signed his name and sauntered

back, whistling under his breath. The Oxy seemed to be

wearing off more quickly than before—a headache

sparkled in his temples and his eyes felt itchy. But he

didn’t want to dose before seeing Coop, not when he was

trying to prove to the man that he could be trusted again.

He shivered as he walked down the wide, harshly lit

hallways—the expression “as cold as a morgue” was no

exaggeration. The place was forty fucking degrees. Good

for dead people, not so good for people with a pulse.

He found the lab and pushed open the door to the sound

of raised voices. On the other side of the room, two men

squared off. Tall and shaggy Dr. Cooper Craft, former chief

medical examiner, wore a lab coat over jeans and black

Chuck Taylor tennis shoes. Short and owlish Dr. Bruce

Abrams, current chief medical examiner, wore slacks and a

sport coat. The slighter, older man was bristling, his

birdlike neck stretched forward.

“Cooper, I’ve come to terms with you being here in the

lab. But I can’t have you undermining my authority with

the other M.E.s.”

Coop shrugged, unfazed. “Then tel your people to stop

coming into the lab to ask me questions.”

“They’re accustomed to seeking your approval,” Abrams

said. “It’s up to you to remind them that you’re not their

boss anymore, that—” The man wiped his hand over his

mouth.

“That I’m just a lab rat and a body mover,” Coop supplied.

“No problem, Bruce. I didn’t mean to cause you extra

trouble. I know you’re swamped with this Charmed Kil er

business.”

The other man nodded, then pul ed out a handkerchief

and mopped his forehead. “Between the police and the

media, I’m feeling the pressure.”

“Let me know if can help,” Coop said.

The man jammed the handkerchief back into his pocket.

“Just stay out of my way.”

Abrams turned and stalked toward the door, flicking his

gaze over Wesley before walking past him, out of the

room.

Coop lifted his hand to Wes. “Come on in. Sorry about

that.”

Wes walked in. “If Abrams doesn’t want you here, how did

you get the job in the lab?”

Coop made a rueful noise. “The State Coroner’s Office

asked me to come in and tackle the backlog of unsolved

cases. It was meant to lighten Abrams’s load, but he

doesn’t see it that way.”

Coop moved toward a microscope, as if he’d already

dismissed the matter. “Hand me that tray of slides on the

table, wil you?”