Tara Holloway 01 - Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure (21 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Spoil Me

As I stood in the shower at home that evening, my stomach knotted up. Would tonight be my last date with Brett? I stuck my head under the spray as if I could wash away my doubts. If nothing else, at least I wouldn’t have to wait much longer to find out for sure whether Brett was a criminal. Christina was scheduled to attend Gryder’s seminar in just two days. I’d use the information she gathered, along with the documents Dave Edwards gave me, to seek a search warrant and launch a full-scale investigation of XChange Investments. If Brett were involved, damning evidence would surely turn up then.

And if it did? What then?

I slipped into a pair of jeans, a silky tunic-style top, and black flats. I was ready half an hour early, plenty of time to prepare my simple tax return, but I was too restless to concentrate. Once again, I set the papers aside for later.

The doorbell rang promptly at seven-thirty. Brett stood in the doorway, dressed in navy pants, a striped button-down, and the scuffed boots. Apparently he’d only been supervising projects today. He bent down and gave me a slow, lingering kiss.
Mmm
. He pulled me to him. “I missed you last weekend.”

I looked up at him.

He looked exceptionally handsome.

Undeniably sexy.

And totally innocent.

Sheez. What a doofus I was. Surely there was a logical explanation for why he met with Gryder and Shelton at the bank behind closed doors. Probably it had something to do with the landscaping project. A project that large had likely been financed. Maybe they were discussing the payment schedule. I wished I could ask him, but there was no way I could pry for details without giving away that I’d received inside information from someone at the bank.

“I missed you, too.” I locked my door and we headed out to his car.

While Brett drove, he talked about a new project he’d been hired for, a rooftop garden at a residential high-rise downtown. I stared out the window. I wanted to tell him about my job, too. About last Friday’s impromptu poker party with the ice-cream man. How Christina and I had waited in vain to buy crystal meth from Joe today. How Joe hadn’t showed so we’d offered sexual favors to our neighbors and busted them instead. But, despite the fact that the arrests went down without a hitch, Brett might freak out if I unloaded all of this on him.

Or would he see how capable I was? And how a strong and adventurous woman like me could bring an element of excitement and fun to his otherwise conventional world? Really, that was part of the reason he was attracted to me, wasn’t it?

I hoped he’d learn to accept what I did for a living. I wouldn’t quit my job for anyone, and I needed a stable, calm guy like him in my crazy and tumultuous life. But I also needed someone I could be completely honest with, and who was completely honest with me.

Brett lived in Upper Greenville, an older area of northeast Dallas that had once flourished, suffered decline, then been reclaimed and renewed by yuppies looking for both home ownership and a convenient commute to their jobs downtown. He pulled into the driveway of his house, a white brick ranch home with glossy black shutters.

As expected, the front yard was manicured within an inch of its life, the edges crisp, not a brown spot or weed anywhere. A white brick path wove its way from the street past a magnificent magnolia tree. Soon the tree would be covered with dozens of ivory, teacup-shaped blossoms. The base of the magnolia was home to a bed of large-leafed caladiums, no doubt grown in a greenhouse and just recently transplanted here once the risk of a late-spring frost had passed. The beds running along the front of his house were home to reddish flowering azaleas, which presided over bedding flowers ranging from white vinca to purple hostas.

Brett put a warm hand on my back as he guided me up the three steps to his front porch. After unlocking the door, he stepped back to allow me to enter first.

His den was decorated in typical bachelor style, spare with furniture chosen for comfort rather than fashion, including an overstuffed tan couch and matching recliner situated around a sturdy coffee table. The floors were dark hardwood, crisscrossed with the telltale scratches of dog claws. A flat-screen television was mounted on the wall next to the fireplace, a short bookcase below it. On top of the bookcase sat the close-up photo of me that Brett had snapped at the Sheltons’ lake house. The orange-hued wood frame perfectly matched the auburn highlights in my hair, letting me know it had been carefully and thoughtfully selected. Brett definitely had an artist’s eye for color. Clearly one of the many reasons why his landscape designs were so breathtaking and his services in such high demand.

I picked up the wood frame, flattered he’d taken such pains in its presentation. My surprised smile, my tossed head, my hair blowing slightly in the breeze, all combined to show off my fun, natural, free-spirited side.

Brett’s dog, a male Scotty mix with dark eyes and long black hair, scrambled down the hall toward us, his nails clicking happily on the floor.

“Hello, Napster.” Napoleon put his front paws on Brett’s leg, wagging his shaggy tail as Brett greeted him with a two-handed scratch behind the ears.

I bent down. “Hey, there, boy. Nice to meet you.”

Napoleon abandoned Brett and turned to me. I ran my hand down his furry back. The dog emitted one quick, shrill bark.
Arf.

Brett smiled down at us. “That means he likes you.”

I gave the dog another pat. “I like you, too, boy.”

Brett let Napoleon into the backyard to relieve himself. Seconds later, the hairy little beast popped back in through the flap in the doggie door. We walked to the kitchen, where Brett grabbed a handful of T-bone-shaped treats from a box in the kitchen pantry and tossed them to the dog, who caught them in midair. Apparently the treats served as hors d’oeuvres, tiding the dog over momentarily until Brett could empty a small can of dog food into a bowl, warm it in the microwave, and set it down before his spoiled, but not at all rotten, pet.

Brett uncorked a bottle of wine and poured us each a glass. He searched through his fridge, coming up with a jar of maraschino cherries that hadn’t yet been opened, clearly purchased just for me. He used a spoon to fish a cherry out of the jar, dropped it into my glass, and held it out to me. “As you like it, milady.”

I gave him a smile as I took the glass from him. Apparently his dog wasn’t the only creature he was prepared to spoil.

He picked up his wineglass and took my hand, leading me out the French doors from the dining area to the backyard. Napoleon scampered after us, following us outside into the cool, moist evening air. Goose bumps spread across my arms momentarily until my skin adjusted to the outside temperature.

The evening had grown dark, but Brett’s backyard was well lit by the back porch light and the solar lights outlining the flower beds. His back fence was covered in trumpet vine, a few early blooms in bright orange dotting the green background. The rest of the backyard was a lush garden, featuring a white Victorian gazebo surrounded by redbuds in full pink bloom. A small koi pond with a gurgling fountain in the center flanked the gazebo. An opalescent gazing ball rested on a carved stone pedestal. I made my way over to the ball and waved my hands over it. “I’m going to get you, my pretty,” I said in my best Wicked Witch of the West voice.

Brett ducked and looked up at the sky in mock terror. “Don’t summon the flying monkeys!”

Too bad the thing wasn’t truly a crystal ball. Then I could look into it and have the answers to all those questions that had been nagging me for days.

Brett fired up his propane grill and slapped a couple of chicken breasts on it. While our dinner cooked, we sat on the white wooden porch swing that hung inside the gazebo. The jasmine climbing on the latticework enveloped us in its soft, pretty scent. Kicking off my shoes, I nestled against the back of the swing, the boards giving off a soft creak with my movements. Brett scooted closer to me and draped an arm along the back of the swing behind my shoulders, the warmth of his body taking the edge off the slight evening chill. I took a sip of my wine, savoring the flavorful liquid on my tongue.

Napoleon nosed around in the flower beds and, finding his bright yellow tennis ball, bounded into the gazebo bearing the ball between his teeth. The dog hurled himself into Brett’s lap, causing the swing to rock back at an angle. “Whoa, boy!” Brett held his wineglass up over his head, trying to prevent the liquid from sloshing over the rim. He pointed a scolding finger at the adorable beast. “Napoleon, mind your manners.”

Napoleon jumped down from the swing, dropped the ball at our feet, and issued a demanding bark.

“Yes, sir.” I gave the dog a firm salute, picked up the ball, and tossed it underhand into the yard. Napoleon darted after the ball at warp speed. In an instant, he was back with the ball, dropping it at my feet again. Bending over, I picked up the ball, now coated in gooey Scotty slobber, and tossed it across the yard again. Once again, Napoleon darted after it.

“He’s such a sweetie. Where’d you get him?”

“I found him on a country road outside the city. The folks out there said he’d been dumped a few days earlier. Poor thing was half starved.”

The dog was lucky he’d survived. He could’ve been hit by a car or bitten by a rattlesnake. But Brett had rescued this mischievous little mutt, showing once again what a sweet, caring guy he was. And sweet, caring guys aren’t con artists. Right?

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Things Heat Up

Napoleon bounded back with the ball yet again, pressing it against my leg. He was panting, winded from the playtime. I threw it one last time, all the way to the far fence where it bounced off the wood and landed in the ivy. The dog nosed around, searching under the greenery. This time when he found it he lay down in the ivy and simply chewed the ball.

Brett checked on the chicken, slathering the pieces with barbecue sauce and flipping them over so they’d cook evenly. In the kitchen, I set the table while Brett removed a tub of potato salad and another of cole slaw from the fridge. When the chicken was ready, we sat down to our meal. Brett poured us each another glass of wine.

“How are things going at the Sheltons’ lake house?” I asked, taking a bite of the chicken.

“We’re almost done with the decks and gazebo. We’re still waiting on the ground cover and bushes, but the live oaks finally arrived. In a couple days we’ll be ready to put them in. That’ll be a big job since we ordered mature trees.”

“The project seems to be moving along quickly,” I noted.

“Stan wants the landscaping completed by May.” Brett picked up his fork and poked at his potato salad. “He even paid a premium so we’d make the project our top priority. But things would go faster if Chelsea Gryder would stay out of our hair.”

That comment got my attention. “Chelsea?” I asked, taking another sip of my wine, trying to appear casual. “How is she getting in the way?”

“She and Michael are staying at Stan’s lake house. Michael is usually gone all day, but Chelsea just hangs around, drinking and sleeping, watching television. The minute the crew starts up the equipment in the morning, she comes out half dressed and hungover and complains the equipment is too loud. I’ve explained to her several times that the only way we can meet Stan’s deadline is for the crew to start at eight each morning. I suggested she turn on a box fan in the room or try earplugs, but she just gets snitty.”

It was easy to visualize Chelsea with bloodshot eyes, her oversized breasts hanging out of a robe as she lambasted the crew. At least now I knew for certain Gryder was residing at the lake house. That information could come in handy.

“You said Michael is usually gone all day?” I tried to sound nonchalant. “Any idea where he goes?”

Brett shrugged. “Not sure. Probably out taking care of his investments.” Brett passed me a basket of rolls.

I took a piece from the basket and tore off a small bite. “Has Michael told you any more about his business?”

Brett shook his head. “No, but he and Stan seem to be at odds with each other right now. Michael apparently recruited an investor who is a major client of First Dallas Bank and Stan was none too happy about that.”

No wonder. Stan was probably trying to keep his hands clean. Or at least to make it look like his hands were clean. By distancing himself as much as possible from Gryder’s business dealings, Stan could feign ignorance of Gryder’s pyramid scheme, at least to any of Gryder’s clients who might come to the bank, demanding to know where their hard-earned money had gone. But if an important client of First Dallas Bank got wind that Shelton had wired his money out of the country, the client might demand a thorough investigation into the bank’s practices. If it was discovered that Shelton failed to properly document the wire transfers, he could be in deep doo-doo.

Since Brett had raised the issue, I could dig for details now without seeming obvious. “Do you see Stan and Michael a lot?”

“Here and there,” Brett said, noncommittal.

I wondered if “here and there” included private meetings at the bank. I chose my words carefully, wanting more details but not wanting to tip my hand, either. “I’ve heard some bad things about these foreign currency exchange programs. Apparently some are nothing more than pyramid schemes. Outright scams.”

Brett’s face flashed shock and alarm. His brows drew together as he looked at me. “Really?”

I nodded, continuing to watch him intently for a few seconds. His expression was pensive, as if he were mentally sorting through facts, trying to determine if what I’d just told him had any relevance to his client and his client’s houseguest. But when Napoleon trotted in and pawed at Brett’s leg, insisting on a bite of chicken, Brett’s attention shifted to his pet.

Brett seemed genuinely in the dark about Gryder and Shelton’s illegal activities. But how could I know for sure? Many criminals feigned ignorance in an attempt to keep their sorry asses out of jail. If Brett were merely on the fringes as a gopher he might not even be aware the program was a scam. Many a sap had been duped into unwittingly helping con artists.

But Brett was too smart to let himself be used, wasn’t he? Then again, he’d already played courier for Shelton and Gryder. That alone could implicate him in their scheme, though it was not likely to be enough for any charges to stick. More likely, Brett would become a witness for the prosecution, feeding the government facts that could be used to nail Stan and Michael—assuming his involvement only went so far as unknowingly shuttling deposits, that is.

We finished dinner and for dessert enjoyed a scrumptiously creamy chocolate cheesecake Brett had picked up from a local bakery.

“Mmm, that cheesecake was incredible.” I ran my finger over the rim of my plate, capturing the last bit of whipped cream my fork had missed. I was about to stick my finger in my mouth when Brett grabbed my hand and brought it to his lips, licking the cream from my finger. He eyed me with a devilish, sexy grin as he sucked gently on my fingertip, the same effective foreplay technique that had sent me for a sensual loop at the lake resort.

Gulp.
“Whoa.” His manipulations created exciting sensations, forcing all thoughts of currency scams to the far recesses of my mind. I tilted my head and eyed Brett. “Is that a promise of things to come?”

He released my finger from his mouth, enveloping it in his warm fist. “Count on it.”

As our dinner settled in our stomachs, we settled on the sofa, Napoleon curled up on the cushion beside us. Wasting no time, Brett dimmed the lamp and began to nuzzle my neck, applying his lips lightly to those sensitive sweet spots, igniting my need. My eyes closed involuntarily, his warm, gentle ministrations hypnotizing me.

Moving faster today, as if fueled by lingering, pent-up desire, Brett put his arms around me and pulled my body to his, one hand cupping my rear as he pressed himself against me. I wanted him. And clearly, he wanted me. My body began to buzz with anticipation, virtually vibrating with sexual energy. No, wait. Something was vibrating. But it wasn’t me.

“Damn.” Brett pulled away and stuck his hand into the front pocket of his pants to retrieve his cell phone. He consulted the readout and groaned. “I’ve got to take this. It’s my boss.” He said hello into his phone, holding up one finger to let me know he’d make it quick.

Napoleon rolled over onto his back beside me, his legs in the air, wriggling around and begging to have his belly rubbed. “You and me both, buddy.” The dog’s eyes closed in pure bliss as I scratched his chest.

Brett sat up straight, his brows lifted in surprise. “They did?” A short pause. “That’s fantastic news. Thanks for calling.” He snapped his phone shut, leaped off the couch, and threw his fists in the air. “Yes!”

Brett executed a happy dance across his living room floor, an odd mix of hip-hop gyrations and the Texas two-step we’d all been taught in sixth-grade gym class. He rushed over to me and pulled me up from the couch, in the process upsetting Napoleon, who complained with a halfhearted growl. Brett clutched me to his chest, my feet no longer touching the ground, and twirled around the room with me. As fast as he was spinning me, I was afraid I might lose my dinner if he didn’t stop soon.

Finally, he set me down, his arms around my waist. His eyes shone bright with excitement. “The American Society of Landscape Architects chose me for this year’s Landmark Award. For my work at city hall. They’ll present the award to me at the annual meeting in Fort Lauderdale next month.”

“Brett, that’s wonderful!” Recognition by his professional peers was certainly something to celebrate. I was happy for him, proud of him, as if he were … mine.

Brett gave me another hug, then stepped back, taking my hands in his and meeting my gaze, his face serious and expectant. “Come with me, Tara. It’ll mean even more if you’re there with me.”

My heart twirled with joy in my chest. Unfortunately, five inches lower, a stab of guilt sliced through my stomach. This man—this sweet, smart, sexy man!—wanted me to share in his big moment, and I’d been harboring doubts about him for days. He’d be absolutely crushed if he knew. I opened my mouth, intending to say “Brett, we’ve got to talk,” but instead the words “I’d love to” came out.

Uh-oh. I was in way over my head now.

Before I knew what was happening, Brett swept me up in his arms. In my heart, I knew I should protest, tell him we couldn’t make love until we knew each other completely, had no secrets, no suspicions between us. But I couldn’t resist. I wanted him. I was the only one with secrets and suspicions, and I was just a rookie agent with too much imagination and too little experience. Brett would prove to be innocent, and everything would work out. Right?

Of course.

I melted against him as he carried me to his bedroom.

*   *   *

Brett didn’t turn on the bedroom light, the space lit only by the moonlight streaming through the wooden window blinds. He wasted no time sliding my shirt up over my head, undressing me quickly as if not wanting to give me time to think, to change my mind, to say no. But I wouldn’t say no this time. I wouldn’t put a stop to things. Hell, I wasn’t sure I could even if I wanted to. My entire body pulsed with an accumulation of raw, hot desire, and if I didn’t allow Brett to quench this burning flame I’d self-combust.

I took off my jeans while he draped my shirt over one of the posts at the foot of his four-poster bed. He emitted a lustful groan of approval when he turned and took in my red lace bra and thong. He threw back the plush navy comforter. I slid out of my shoes and onto the fresh white sheets. The thought of him planning for this moment, preparing to make love to me, wanting the experience to be perfect, made me feel wanted, desired, feminine. And now, I’d show him that he was wanted, desired, and oh, so masculine.

Brett shed his clothes in record time, flinging his socks, pants, and shirt aside and climbing into bed with me, now wearing nothing but a pair of blue boxer briefs that hugged his lean, muscular thighs and buttocks and emphasized his manly bulge. In one swift, smooth motion, he slid a hand behind my neck and covered my mouth with his, my body with his warm body. The coarse hairs of his chest met the lace of my bra, the textures creating pleasurable sensations against my skin. He ran a hand down my side, then back up again, seeking the apex of my breast and finding it, his fingers encircling my breast while his rough, callused thumb played back and forth across the sensitive, swollen tip.

Brett’s skillful ministrations removed, once and for all, any reservations I might have about him. In fact, they removed any conscious thought whatsoever. Even if someone had presented me with incontrovertible proof that Brett was a con artist, I wouldn’t have been able to stop then, to deny myself the pleasure promised by his firm flesh pressed against my inner thigh.

Seconds later, my bra was gone, and Brett’s chest was pressed directly to mine, skin to skin, man to woman, lover to lover. He wrapped his arms around me and turned us as one to the other side of the bed, positioning me on top of him, still kissing me deeply as he cupped my buttocks and ran a finger inside the line drawn across my backside by the strap of my thong panties. He twirled his index finger, wrapping the thin lace strap around it, drawing his hand, and my panties, down. I wriggled out of them and he tossed them aside.

Completely naked now, I straddled Brett, the warmth and wetness of my womanhood pressed into his abdomen. I leaned forward, the tips of my nipples just touching the flesh of his chest. I brushed them back and forth across his skin, teasing, titillating. His eyes flashed darker in the soft moonlight, and his chest vibrated as his heart pounded within. It was my turn to put my lips to his, to breathe warm breaths against him, and ask, “You like that, don’t you?”

Brett emitted a primal sound, half groan, half growl. In a split second, he rolled me onto my back and stood to remove his briefs and retrieve a condom from his night table, sliding it quickly over his erection. Back on the bed, he knelt over me, putting a hand on my inner thigh and pushing my legs farther apart so I could better receive him. His fingers sought his target, finding it ready, willing, waiting. Then, with one mind-blowing thrust, Brett plunged himself into me.