Her numb feet exited the store. Valerie was alive and somewhere nearby—or had been.
Carlotta stood there for a moment, paralyzed with elation and indecision. Now what? She needed to think. Moving blindly, she wheeled to go back to the coffee house.
And plowed hard into Jack Terry.
Chapter 8
“EXCUSE ME,” Jack said, grasping her arm to keep her from falling. “I—”
His eyes bulged and any hope Carlotta had of him not recognizing her in the red wig evaporated.
“Carlotta? What the hell are you doing here?”
She shook herself free. “Good morning to you, too, Jack.”
“Don’t start batting your lashes, goddammit. Talk.”
“I don’t know what you’re implying,” she said primly. “What are you doing here?” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you following me?”
His face went all mottled. “No. I’m not following you. I’m wondering why instead of having breakfast in bed in that outrageous suite of yours, you’d be loitering in a seedy part of town.”
“I’m not loitering. I had coffee at a little place a couple of blocks away, bought a postcard, and came here to mail it.” As proof, she pulled the postcard from her bag. “See?”
“Did you forget to mail it?”
He had a point. “N-No,” she said, trying to recover. “I…decided to write something else on the postcard and mail it later.”
He picked up a lock of the red wig. “And do you always get morning coffee in disguise?”
She pushed his hand away. “In the coffee shop, I saw those two guys who followed me and Peter, and I didn’t want them to recognize me.”
Jack squinted. “So you put on the disguise after you got to the coffee shop?”
Oh, crap. “Uh-hm.”
He crossed his arms. “You’re usually better at lying. But I’m going to give you a chance to come clean.”
Her mouth watered to tell him the night she’d discovered the post office box receipt, he had been the first person she’d called because she’d wanted to share her jubilation. But he’d preempted her announcement with the news that Liz Fischer was carrying his baby. “Because you’re so honest about everything, Jack?”
His shoulders fell. “Okay. We might as well have this conversation now.”
She raised her eyebrows and waited.
“I’m sorry about the Liz situation.” He sighed. “More than you know. It was a random night a couple of months ago—it didn’t mean anything at the time. Maybe I was trying to prove something to myself, but that’s no excuse. I was careless, and my actions hurt you. I’m sorry, Carlotta—truly.”
Mixed emotions coursed through her as she processed the words of his apology. She’d practiced what she would say when they were alone, but all the clever, breezy retorts she had thought of abandoned her. “I’m so mad at you, Jack, for messing up everything.”
Emotion flickered in his gold-colored eyes. “So am I.” Then he straightened. “That said, you seem to have recovered pretty quickly. You didn’t think to mention your engagement before I got on a plane to come out here? I have feelings, too, you know.”
“No, I don’t know,” she corrected, her ire returning. The Great Impregnator had some nerve to be irritated at her for moving on. “Besides, when I called, I had a lifeless man on my hands.”
“You’d better get used to that,” he said with a dry smile.
She crossed her arms. “Peter might not be Mr. Exciting, but I don’t have to worry about him getting another woman knocked up ten minutes after leaving my bed.”
He pressed his lips together and had the good grace to dip his chin in concession. “Peter will give you the kind of life you deserve.”
She knew Jack meant it as a compliment, but she was so confused about Peter’s loyalties, it was lost on her. And the fact that she couldn’t be one hundred percent happy about her engagement made her even more mad—at herself.
“So are you ready to tell me what you’re doing here?” Jack said, nodding to the storefront.
“I already told you.”
“Wrong. I know exactly why you’re here, Carlotta.”
She swallowed. “You do?”
“You found the piece of paper with the address on it in the dead man’s mouth, then put it back, didn’t you?”
Dead Johnson had a note in his mouth with this address on it? “You got me.”
“I knew it. I told Coop no way you missed that.”
Damn, she was slipping. But if Dead Johnson had that info, why was he following her? Why not do his own surveillance of the box? Wait—maybe he didn’t have the box number.