Body Moves
JODI LYNN COPELAND
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Jenn Wilkins for her excellent insight on the breast-augmentation process and ensuring I didn’t take too many liberties in altering details for the sake of the story. Any mistakes made in descriptions or references are completely mine.
I am blessed to have wonderful critique partners. In particular, P. G. Forte was a huge help in seeing this anthology reached the end, with no huge holes left along the way. And again I have to say a huge thank-you to Jenn. Thanks so much, ladies, for all that you do!
Special thanks to my family, who despite my best efforts not to reach that point, always get stuck dealing with an overtired crab come deadline time.
And to my editor, Hilary Sares, and my agent, Laura Bradford—I am so blessed to work with you.
CONTENTS
Private Passion
Private Fantasies
1
Jordan Cameron sank back in his office chair and glared at the reflection of his father’s profile in the eighth-story window of the New York City investment firm. For the first time in over a decade, John Cameron wore no beard, and every trace of gray in his hair had been covered with dark blond. He looked more like Jordan’s older brother than his father. It wasn’t right and, clearly, neither was his father’s state of mind.
Jordan swiveled in the chair, curling his fingers around a brochure for the medical tourism resort his father returned from three weeks ago and had yet to stop talking about. He respected his father and never questioned his choices aloud. However, this latest decision wouldn’t allow him to bottle his exasperation. “Jesus, Dad, think about what you’re doing. It’s a passing fad at best.”
Inspecting himself in the golf green–etched mirror hanging on the wall kitty-corner from Jordan’s desk, John rubbed his first finger and thumb along his clean-shaven chin. “Oh, I think about it. Every time your mother sneaks up and pinches my ass. I forgot how strong my sex drive was until I spent a week at Private Indulgence. Thanks to that ‘fad,’ our marriage and love life are stronger than ever.”
Jordan sighed. From the way his father talked, you would think the resort staff had restructured his entire reason for being and not just his underdeveloped chin.
“Fine. Let’s say this place is the real deal and will be around for years to come; that still doesn’t explain why you feel the need to sink your entire life savings in it.” Not when he’d spent the last five years refusing Jordan’s investment advice because he claimed the only save place for his money was in the bank.
“Split the money. Let me put seventy percent of it into annuities.”
Barking out a laugh, John looked over. “Back in the day, we considered a split to be fifty-fifty.”
Back in the day, there wasn’t an endless supply of lowlifes coming up with every scheme under the sun in the hopes of getting their hands on an old man’s money. Jordan had heard the buzz on the medical resorts—Private Indulgence had never been among those said to be taking off. Even those resorts that claimed to be doing well had yet to provide convincing proof of their longevity. “At least give me some time to check this place out. You got to know too many of the staff to view it objectively.”
“Not to mention I was strung out on Percocet ninety percent of the time I was down there.”
“Exactly.”
His father crossed to the twin tan leather chairs opposite Jordan’s desk and slammed his hand down on the back of one. “By God, son, you’ve gotten so stiff, you don’t even recognize sarcasm anymore.”
“Oh, I recognize it. I just don’t find it humorous when it mixes my father with habit-forming drugs.”
John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose—a habit Jordan had picked up from him. Opening his eyes, he let his hands fall at his sides. “All right. You’ve got four weeks. Only because I want to see you away from this damned desk for more than a few hours at a time. This place is sucking you dry, stealing your zest for life—”
“And worrying Mom sick she’ll never have grandkids,” Jordan finished dryly. He’d been through this song and dance too many times to count. Sorry to say for his parents, he wasn’t one of those kids who lived to please only them. “She’ll get her grandkids when I’m ready. Right now, I’m enjoying the zest for life you seem to think I’ve lost by dating whatever women appeal to me.”
His father snorted. “Whichever ones are willing to come in second to your career is more like it.”
“Dad…” Jordan warned.
“I’m leaving.” John went to the door, turning back when he reached it. “Four weeks. If I don’t hear convincing evidence against the resort by then, I’ll be on the first flight to the Caribbean to share my investment decision with Dr. Crosby.”
With the snick of the office door, Jordan turned his attention to his laptop. He clicked on the bookmarked resort informational page for Danica Crosby, MD, the plastic surgeon cum owner of Private Indulgence who’d somehow convinced his father to sink his money into her resort.
Calling the plain-looking, glasses-wearing redhead who appeared on his screen a surgeon was pushing it, considering she was barely out of her residency. The sudden ache in Jordan’s gut told him that calling her business dealings with his father reputable would be pushing it even further, and in less than four weeks he would prove it.
“What in Hi’iaka’s name are you doing?”
With her friend and assistant’s question, Danica Crosby released her death grip on the alarm clock radio and set it on her desk. Lena stood in the doorway of Danica’s office, eyeing her as if she’d lost her mind. For now, her sanity was intact. God only knew what would happen in the next few minutes.
Danica pushed aside one of several wayward envelopes and grabbed a chocolate-covered almond from the starfish-shaped candy dish on her desk. She popped the nut into her mouth, letting its soothing taste and texture work their magic on her tension before giving the alarm clock’s red digital readout another glance. “Waiting. Three minutes from now, something bad is going to happen.”
Lena’s brown eyes flashed with hope. “You became psychic last night?”
“Wouldn’t you have felt some sort of psychic friends’ connection if I had?” Lena gave the expected dry laugh, and Danica continued soberly, “I grabbed my morning Pepsi out of the refrigerator this morning, only to discover there was no Pepsi to grab, even though I know there was one last night. An hour later, I almost cut my nipple off shaving.”
Day-Glo pink and lime-green hula-girl earrings—what Lena claimed to be her twin talismans, since her supposed visionary powers began the day she’d put them on—swayed with the scrunching of her nose. “Ew. Your breasts are hairy? I just thought you’d given up on dating because you realized you were a lesbian and were afraid to come out of the closet.”
“Not everyone’s a date addict like you.” Probably because not everyone had Lena’s cute build, which had only gotten cuter with the recent chopping of all but the last couple inches of her hair and subsequent dye job that turned her locks from near black to dirty blond with fuscha streaks.
“I prefer ‘serial dater.’”
“Whatever. I’m not one. I also don’t have hairy breasts. I was shaving my underarm and fumbled the razor. It nicked my nipple on its way down.” Danica winced. The memory hurt almost as