Smooth Moves

“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 skin already shuddering into goose bumps. A fine welcome home.

But first the house.

Thank God it hadn’t sold during the months when he’d thought he’d never care to return to Quimby. The old place was comfortably the same. A two-story white frame structure, simple and pleasing in proportion, encircled by an open porch whose roof was supported by gracefully turned columns.

He left a wet trail through the freshly mown grass as he strode up the lawn to the low brick patio that extended the outdoor living space. Though there were none of his mother’s usual pots of flowers and herbs, the lilacs were still in bloom, drooping with purple cones of flowers that had begun to turn brown. The massive rhododendron bush that had consumed the narrow span of land between the Brody house and the Colton’s modest two-story cottage next door was bursting with pink buds.

He surveyed the lawn. No evidence of debris, weeds, scattered leaves or twigs. Julia had been as efficient as ever with the maintenance; no doubt she’d hired Reggie Lee Marvin, the town’s resident jack-of-all-trades, to do the yard work.

Zack crossed the patio, leaving more wet footprints on the redbrick. While his heart was warmed by his return home, the rest of him was slowly turning to ice. Shivering, he mounted the porch steps to check the back door. Locked, of course. Even in Quimby, Julia would not leave a house in her care unlocked.

As he walked around the porch, his gaze rose to the roof. The second-story bedroom windows might be open. Adam had been an expert at shinnying up the columns after a curfew-breaking night of escapades. Zack, the good son, had rarely found the need.

An echo of Adam’s boyish taunt seemed to float on the night air. Anything you can do, I can do better….

Zack’s features tightened. He deliberately tamped down the memory. The brothers’ good-natured rivalry had grown serious upon Laurel Barnard’s involvement. Tragically, as it had turned out.

If only he’d known. If only their confrontation had been straight and cool instead of a clash of mistaken pride and misleading accusations.

As for Laurel…

Her intentions remained indecipherable.

A breeze fingered through the foliage, carrying a faint whiff of the lilac’s sweet perfume. The smell brought up a sickening memory—the night he’d proposed to Laurel. Zack leaned against the smooth white column, his stomach lurching.

What the hell? he asked himself, swallowing the dry coppery taste in his mouth. His return to Quimby wasn’t supposed to go like this. Granted, he hadn’t expected the usual favorite-son-arriving-in-a-blaze-of-glory welcome. But a year had passed. By now, the misunderstandings—and outright lies—that had led to the ditched wedding were all water under the bridge, for lack of a better phrase. The brothers had forgiven each other, and Zack held no grudge against Laurel. Whatever her motive, she’d been desperate. And pregnant.

Perhaps.

He raked his hands through his wet hair, glancing up when a light went on next door. Were the Coltons home? They might still have his spare key. Allie, who lived outside of town with her own family now, had said her parents were loving California so much they’d instructed her to pack up their parkas and snow boots and take them to Goodwill. But that had been a while back.

Zack angled his head. A light was on in the master bedroom, painting the windowpanes a buttery gold through a pair of sheer curtains. Tenants, maybe.

A woman in a towel and nothing else walked past the lit window. An instantaneous heat blowtorched his groin.

Because the towel was on her head.

Leaving the rest of her…

Naked.

“Sweet Mary,” said Zack’s lips, all on their own.

The rest of him was pleading. Please come back.

He stared, no longer feeling the dampness or the cold. Oxygen was short in his lungs. He stood tall, crossing his arms on top of his head, sucking in the night air without noticing the lilac’s lingering scent.

His chest expanded.

His gaze fixed on the partly raised window.

Imagine that. The Coltons’ new tenant was either completely uninhibited or had lived in the house long enough to take the lack of neighbors for granted. Possibly she didn’t realize how clearly one could see through the flimsy curtains she’d drawn across the window. Particularly with the light on.

If that were the case, he should look away.

He meant to. Until she came back. And sat, presumably at the foot of the bed, although he couldn’t quite tell from his ground-level position.

After a moment of fiddling, she held out one arm and luxuriously stroked the opposite palm across it. Lotion, he thought, catching the glisten of pearly moisture on pale skin. Her palms rubbed together. Eyes closed, she threw back her turbanned head. Arched her throat. Slick fingers slithered across her exposed neck and delicate collarbone in a languid caress.

One palm slid to her nape. Her head lolled, turning her face toward the window. The curtains fluttered, giving Zack a glimpse of starkly lit detail. She was beautiful. Creamy skin, cheeks tinged with a pink warmth from the bath. Full, pursed lips. Thick lashes, dark brows, drawn like black ink against the cameo of her face.

Zack blinked. What was he doing—concentrating on her face? Sheesh. If he was going to be crude, might as well do it right.

His gaze lowered incrementally, in sync with her hands. She rubbed lotion over her upper chest, then slid both hands lower, cupping her left breast, lifting it slightly. His mouth watered, imagining the weight of it in his own palm, the flavor of it on his tongue. The breast was small, but full and round, centered by a pale brown areola.

The curtains billowed, giving him a clearer look. Hands clenching, eyes narrowing, he concentrated his vision down to a laser point as the woman’s nipple drew into a small tight bead.

Desire raced his pulse. She was incredible. A fantasy sprung to life.

The breeze died, dropping the sheer veil of fabric into place. Still, he couldn’t have looked away even if he’d wanted to. The woman was massaging a sheen of lotion into her breast, carelessly grazing her nails over the knotted nipple. He ached to give it more attention. Only when she reached again for the lotion, blocking his intimate view, did he remember where he was and what he was doing.

Ogling. Leering.

And in Quimby, too. Favored son or not, the chief of police would slam Zack into a jail cell for committing such a crime against common decency. Regardless of the rest of the world, the law-abiding local citizenry still claimed to believe in modesty and morality.

Zack backed toward the deep shadows beneath the porch. Slowly. Even though the woman was rubbing lotion into her other breast with a circular motion that made his blood run hot from his scalp all the way down to the numbed soles of his bare feet.

She reached forward, folding a leg up to her chest. The motion made the coiled towel tumble from her head, releasing a thick skein of wet dark hair. With a sound of dismay, she tossed back her head—and froze. Her eyes widened, their stricken gaze glued to the fluttering curtain.

Zack eased toward the shadows.

With the towel bunched against her bare breasts, the woman flew to the window and peered out. Her mouth was open. She seemed to be breathing hard, her face aflame beneath the sheaf of dark hair. He took another big step backward, trusting the overhang of the porch roof that now blocked his view would deny hers as well.

After a long tense moment and one last breathy exclamation, he heard the sash slam and the clatter of blinds descending with unseemly speed. Had she spotted him?

The probability made him smile.

Mmm. Turned out his early, unexpected homecoming had its pluses after all.

CATHY’S VOICE shook as she spoke into the cordless phone. “What does Zack Brody look like?”

“You’ve seen photos,” said Julia Knox, off-handedly. Confused that her embarrassment was sprinkled with what seemed a lot like titillation, Cathy hadn’t explained why she was asking.

“I’ve seen Laurel’s engagement photo. The one she uses as a pincushion.” Cathy squinted as she parted the slatted blinds. The Brody house next door was dark and silent; perhaps she’d been mistaken. Which could be worse. If the peeper wasn’t Zack Brody, then who…? Did she want the frying pan or the fire?

No choice. “What does he look like without a gazillion pins sticking out of his face?”

Julia chuckled. “Oh, he’s a handsome sonovagun.”

Cathy gritted her teeth. “Well, gosh, I know that.”

Zack Brody’s looks were as legendary as the rest of him. There were those who said he should have followed Eunice LaSalle to Hollywood; the younger generation was more likely to suggest a male modeling career in New York. His photographs were prominent in several locations throughout Quimby, including athletic team pictures in the trophy cases at the high school and an award-winning senior photo on permanent display at the local photography studio. Good old Heartbreak was even in evidence at city hall. When Cathy had gone to get her business license, there was a black-and-white Zack smiling out at her, snapped in the act of receiving a commendation from the mayor for his lifesaving rescue of Faith Fagan at Mirror Lake. Naturally, she’d studied the shot. Zack’s charisma had shone even in a still photograph. He was handsome, clean-cut, very Kennedyesque in the best of ways. But, at twenty, still a boy.

Cathy said as much to Julia, wanting to know what he might look like now…when he was stripped to the waist, every bared muscle wet and glistening. Without her glasses, she hadn’t gotten a clear look at his face. But the body had left a lasting impression.

“Ah, there you go.” Julia sounded far too cheerful. “Zack only gets better looking as he ages. He’s an adult now, you see, not just an exceptionally handsome young man. His masculine pulchritude’s at full power.”

You bet. Cathy tried to transfer the pinpricked face of Laurel’s fiancé onto the virile body she’d glimpsed in the shadows beneath the Brody’s porch.

She sank onto the bed, her joints soft as pudding. “I don’t think I can do this.”

Julia understood at once. “Nonsense. It’s going to be such fun. We won’t let it go too far.”

Cathy thought of her unwitting exposure at the open window and gave a dry laugh that turned into a cough. By all appearances, she was way past too far.

“Er, Julia…when exactly is Zack due to return?”

“Sometime tomorrow.”

“You’re sure?”

“He’s pretty reliable.”

“Except when it comes to weddings.”

“Mmm, there is that.”

Cathy sighed. “Julia? Do you believe Laurel’s side of the story?”

“There’s been no evidence to the contrary.”

“But from what you’ve said, it sounds like Zack hasn’t been in contact since he left. Other than to ask you to look after the house.”

“His silence is awfully suspicious.”

Cathy tugged up her towel, her own silence skeptical.

“Shoot,” said Julia, “we wouldn’t even have learned about his brother’s accident if it weren’t for Gwen’s persistent nosiness. Zack knows how much we all care for Adam. We’d’ve liked to have known how he was doing.”

“Well, see—that’s what I mean.” Cathy wondered why she was defending a man called Heartbreak. Especially when the odds were that she’d end up his next victim. “I don’t blame Laurel for being put out, but considering that he cancelled because of a family emergency…”

“If he’d stopped to explain, sure, we’d all have understood.” Julia’s tone grew mulish. “But he didn’t. He left poor Laurel stranded at the church in a five-thousand-dollar designer wedding gown. There were six bridesmaids. Seventy-five guests. Seventy-five plates of salmon in mint sauce. It was a frigging fiasco.”

“I suppose so.”

“All part of Heartbreak’s pattern.”

Cathy hesitated. “He’s that bad?”

“How shall I put it?” Julia’s laugh was contemplative. Maybe even nostalgic. “Aw, Cath. You won’t fully understand until you meet him, but the best I can explain is that Zack is so darn good he’s bad.”

“So good?”

“The best. The ultimate smooth operator. Every woman he dates thinks she’s died and gone to heaven. Next to the usual mouth-breathing social cretins that pass for eligible bachelors in Quimby, Zack’s a sweet-talking miracle. No girl can resist. And, wow, believe me, it’s great while it lasts.”

“But?”

“But then the dream ends,” Julia said evenly. “One day, one way or another, you wake up and realize Zack’s moved on to the next woman just when you were getting ready to order the monogrammed towels. And then you don’t even get the pleasure of hating him because he’s so incredibly charming even when he’s dumping you.”

Cathy blinked at the phone. “I’d be devastated.”

“Yup.” Julia sounded anything but. “And that’s why we call him Heartbreak.”

“Yet you still like him,” Cathy said. “I can tell. All of you adore him.”

“That’s Heartbreak’s greatest skill. He’s the only man on earth who’s on friendly terms with all of his former girlfriends. As good as he is at romance—and he’s excellent—he’s the world’s best breaker-upper.”

It was some comfort, Cathy decided. If she did get with the plan and play up to Zack, the worst that could happen would be that he’d let her down easy. Which wouldn’t be so bad. Really. She’d have plenty of company, and the consolation that at least she’d made the attempt. Maybe she’d be spoiled for other men, as Gwen said, but that would be nothing new.

There had to be a loophole she was missing. “You’re saying Laurel doesn’t count?”

“Oh, Laurel,” Julia scoffed. “Sure, she’s out for revenge. Her pride was hurt pretty spectacularly. But if Zack so much as crooked a finger at her, she’d go running into his arms, I guarantee it. Even if it was just for the thrill of planning another fancy wedding. Wouldn’t surprise me a bit if she’s saved the dress for a second go-round.”

Cathy returned to the window and peeked out again. “You think?”

This time, Julia’s laugh was faintly bittersweet. “Laurel’s been after Zack for as long as I can remember. And she’s determined to make a ‘good’ marriage. Not just anyone will do.”

Still no sign of occupancy next door. “I’ve never understood why it wasn’t you he was marrying,” Cathy ventured. Julia was intelligent, personable, polished; she seemed like Zack Brody’s perfect mate. More than any of the other women.

Including myself, Cathy admitted.

“Oh, well, what can I say?” There was a shrug in the Realtor’s voice. “Zack and I had split way before Laurel finally got her shot.”

“Sounds as though you took it well.”

Julia’s pause was short. “We’d run our course.”

“No hard feelings, huh?” But not a little regret, Cathy surmised.

“Having your heart broken by Zack Brody is a singular experience.”

Cathy made herself laugh. “One you want me to share?”

“Ah, but we’re not sending you in unprepared. This time will be different, I promise. It’s not your heart at risk.”

“Gosh, I sure hope so.” Cathy’s attempt at levity rang hollow. She shivered instead, her arms clamping the towel around her torso.

“Just remember,” Julia said, “Heartbreak’s comeuppance is long overdue.”

Which was not what Cathy intended, but Julia wouldn’t welcome the confession. Besides, Cathy was doubtful about whether she’d be capable of the duplicity necessary when it came to the crunch, let alone the too-farfetched-to-contemplate seduction aspect of the whole business.

Unless it really had been Zack watching her from the porch next door. If so, she’d mistakenly gotten off to the best—make that breast—start imaginable.

Hah. Maybe he hadn’t gotten a very good look through the curtains, at such an angle.

Then again, maybe he had.

She leaned against the wall, weighing her reaction to the possibility that he’d seen everything. Both her instant embarrassment and the subsequent attack of nerves were what she’d expected. More surprising was the exquisite seeping warmth caused by the thought of continuing the game. Imagine seducing Zack, she thought, and her lips parted in anticipation. She expelled a soft breath. With her new friends’ help, she might even be able to do it successfully.

“Now, Cath,” Julia said, bringing her back to the conversation. “Please stop worrying. You’ll do splendidly.”

“But I can’t—I’m not—I have no…va-va-voom,” she said, having unexpectedly caught sight of herself in between the scarves she’d draped around the cheval mirror. “It’s plain to see.” Disregarding the limpid look in her eyes, she dragged her fingers through her tangled hair, adjusted the drooping towel. “What you want is someone with more, uh, obvious enticements.”

Julia tsk-tsked. “Not for Zack.”

“He’s a guy, isn’t he?”

“But a guy with discerning tastes.”

He almost married Laurel, Cathy realized. How discerning could he be?

Oh, that wasn’t fair. Laurel Barnard was certainly lovely. And often friendly, if slightly reserved. She managed her dress shop with skill and pride. Her personality was, at times, pleasant. She was just…a tad weak in the character department.

And Cathy set great store by character.

She made a face at her reflection. Pot calling the kettle black. For goodness sake, she was about to embark on a superficial seduction ploy of epic proportions! She, the woman who ranked appearance below “showers daily” and “knows how to read” among the qualities she looked for in the opposite sex.

It won’t be superficial if it’s about love, whispered the hopeless romantic part of her that had yearned after Zack since fifth grade.

And, woo, girl, you sure could use the help, countered the self-doubting voice that she’d never quite been able to vanquish. The cruelty she’d once endured as a homely, chubby, social outcast had blighted her confidence. Even to this day, though rationally she understood that she’d always been a worthy person. School yard taunts shouldn’t—didn’t—matter.

Way back when, the friendship of a spirited, confident ten-year-old boy named Zack Brody had been the only kindness she’d known. He was the one new schoolmate who’d seen the girl she was inside, not out. Long after she’d moved away and grown up and become “beautiful,” she’d remembered Zack for that.