Smooth Moves - Carrie Alexander

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a brief audacious-babe stage and a mistaken marriage of equally short duration—she had reached the conclusion that she wasn’t comfortable with the attention and perks that came with being a beautiful woman.

      “I’m not the type,” she insisted, shrugging Laurel’s hands away from smoothing out her hair. “Please don’t ask me to do this.”

      “You won’t have to actually sleep with Heartbreak,” Julia assured her. “In fact, the plan would be more effective if you don’t. Getting him all worked up and then leaving him frustrated would be quite a shock to the guy’s ego.”

      Allie chuckled. “No one’s ever done that before.”

      “We’ll coach you,” coaxed Laurel. “For one thing—” she grasped a bunch of gauzy fabric at Cathy’s midriff, pulling taut her batik Balinese blouse “—new clothes from my store would make a world of difference. Something sleek and stylish. There’s a waist and hips under here… I think.” She stepped back, considering.

      Cathy shifted on her chair, uneasy with the assessment.

      “What’s your bra size? I’ve got a new line of lingerie that’s just…” Laurel kissed her fingertips. “Heartbreak will never recover.”

      Cathy tightened her crossed arms. “Forget it. Nobody, least of all Zack Brody, is getting a look at my lingerie.” Or lack of it, she thought. Jockey for Her underwear was good enough for this woman. Satin and lace, corsets and garter belts weren’t her style. Or at least she was pretty sure they weren’t.

      “I can give you the right look,” Laurel said as if Cathy hadn’t spoken. “Julia and Allie can give you insight into Heartbreak’s mind. We’ll put the whole thing together. All you have to do is follow directions.”

      “I can’t,” Cathy said plaintively. Good thing they had no idea how much she wanted to. “Honestly.” She gestured at herself. “There’s no use. I could never pull it off.”

      “Not even for womankind?” Allie asked.

      “Or for plain old-fashioned revenge?” Gwen chimed in.

      Cathy’s heart clenched. “No.”

      “Yes,” Laurel said. There was iron in her voice, which belied the hurt expression she’d assumed in begging Cathy’s favor. “C’mon, Cath. You’re my only hope for retribution. Imagine for one minute how terrible I felt when that—that—smooth operator jilted me.” Laurel’s eyes shifted. “Think of how delicious an appropriate payback would be.”

      The women murmured in agreement.

      Cathy closed her eyes. “I couldn’t. No…” Her denials were losing strength. But not because of Laurel’s devastation or the future of womankind.

      Because of Zack.

      Twenty-odd years ago, she’d taken him to her tender, wounded heart. The thought of seeing him again, attracting him, seducing him, maybe even loving him—

      And making him fall in love with her in return.

      Cathy’s eyes opened wide. Of course. That was it. She was being handed the chance of a lifetime!

      The women watched her expectantly.

      Cathy made a snap decision.

      Disregarding both the legend behind Zack’s nickname and the genesis of her own insecurities, she took a deep breath and said with all the courage and conviction she could muster: “All right, then. I’ll do it.”

      The women cheered.

      For my own reasons, Cathy added silently, smiling weakly as Laurel hugged her around the shoulders.

      2

      ZACK BRODY hung off the side of the Eighth Street Bridge, staring down at the scalloped river. The water looked as black and hard as polished obsidian, each facet glistening coldly in the light from a crescent moon.

      The drop was harrowing.

      He hesitated, considering, where once he’d have leapt without fear.

      This early in the summer, the water would be cold. Shockingly cold.

      Deep. Dark. An oblivion.

      His fingertips scraped over rough stone. Bare feet shifted on a narrow ledge of rock, sending a pebble toward the water. Too small for him to hear its splash.

      Adam, he thought, his gaze rising to the glowing slice of moon. Laurel.

      Suddenly Zack propelled himself off the old stone bridge, his body arching as it sailed through the dark night. For one frozen-snapshot instant, he saw only the blue evening sky, dotted with stars. Then dense treetops, the blur of house lights. A slab of black water seemed to rush up to meet him.

      He sliced into it like a blade, his form lacking from his swim team days, but adequate nonetheless. Darkness swirled all around, silvered with tiny bubbles. The harsh cold bit into him, reaching the marrow of his bones, the shock of it driving every thought from his head.

      He hung suspended in the depths for one instant, then shot upward, lungs bursting, blood pumping. Home, he thought, breaking the surface, gulping air through an open mouth. Home at last.

      And this time he was glad of it.

      He began to swim, leaving the keys in his unlocked Jag without a second thought. He’d been gone not quite a year; Quimby wouldn’t have changed. It never had before. This was something he liked about his hometown. Excitement and challenge he’d found elsewhere, with his job as an architect at a cutting-edge Chicago firm. Quimby was for friends, family, bedrock values and lazy Sunday afternoons. Now that he was back, he and Laurel would establish a mutually workable truce. The town, though small, was still big enough for both of them. Even if he decided to stay for good.

      He swam briskly, his muscles loosening even though the river was colder than he’d expected. Vastly unlike the heated pool at Adam’s gym in Twin Falls where they’d swum five days out of seven for many months. That had been like being dunked in a bucket of warm soup. This was better.

      It had jolted him back to life.

      Zack put his head down and plowed through the water, leaving only a narrow furrow of wake.

      The memories churning inside him were more disruptive. On the eve of his wedding to Laurel Barnard, a serious car accident had put his estranged brother in the hospital and then in a wheelchair, fighting to regain the ability to walk. Despite the complications of the situation, perhaps because of them, Zack’s first obligation had been to Adam. Each day, each month of therapy had strengthened his younger brother’s body and eased Zack’s guilt, until, finally, both of them were healed. Both of them forgiven.

      Now to mend other broken fences. Zack lifted his head from the water, checking his progress. He’d swum past the bend. The Brody house was another seventy yards away, though only the peak of the roof and an expanse of dark shingles were visible amongst the lacy, draped foliage of the weeping willows lining the riverbank.

      Already the homey, comforting tranquility of Quimby was sinking into Zack’s pores. The still of the night was broken only by a smattering of porch lights, the blare of a television set near an open window, the shush-swish of the water as he cut through it. A lone bird called from one of the trees. Loop-loop-de-loop.

      One foot touched bottom. The other. Cold mud sucked at his ankles. He crashed through the reeds, rising from the water with the heavy denim of his jeans plastered to his thighs.

      He splashed noisily as he charged out of the river, expelling the cold from his lungs with a bullish snort followed by an exuberant shout. After climbing the slippery bank, he stopped near the white iron lawn furniture to press water out of his jeans in a gush, and realized his mistake. His wallet and all of his keys were in the car, parked at the bridge. He’d have to walk back there, shirtless, barefoot, dripping wet.

      He laughed out loud, his

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