Tara Holloway 01 - Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure (28 page)

I owed him my life.

My wrist had swollen, the skin pulled tight over bones that didn’t seem to fit together anymore. The injury hurt like hell, but I endured it as if it were a penance. It was my fault Eddie had been shot. I was the one who’d asked for his help serving the search warrant. I was the one who’d failed to perform a thorough search of the house, failed to find the gun Gryder used against us.

Brett looked down at my arm, noting the swelling in my wrist. “We need to get you to a doctor, Tara. Right away.”

No way would I ride in the same ambulance with Gryder, give him the pleasure of seeing my tearstained cheeks. Instead, Brett helped me into the front seat of his car and followed the ambulance to the small local hospital.

Only one doctor was on duty in the ER facility, and once he learned the details of my injury, he made my treatment a priority over Gryder’s. I emerged from the hospital a couple of hours later. On my arm was a fresh white cast, a souvenir from a bust sure to go down in the annals of IRS history and proof positive of the dangers of my job.

*   *   *

The helicopter had flown Eddie to Parkland Hospital’s trauma center in Dallas. With Ross following close behind, Brett hauled ass back to Dallas, his speedometer not dipping below eighty-five until we hit the city limits. Brett glanced over at me occasionally on the trip, his eyes full of unasked questions I was in no shape to answer right then.

My eyes met his through fresh tears. “Obviously I’ve got a lot to tell you.”

“Ross told me why you were here today,” he said. “The rest can wait.”

Eddie was still in surgery when we arrived at the hospital. The smell of burned coffee from an empty pot left on too long met us at the door to the ER’s waiting room. A television mounted on the wall in the corner played an afternoon talk show, the volume turned down to a virtually inaudible level.

Eddie’s wife, Sandra, sat in a chair, dressed in a soccer mom outfit of sneakers, white shorts, and a green and gold striped polo shirt, her black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her frightened eyes looked up as we entered. Ross stood and helped me to a seat directly across from Sandra.

I reached across the space to pat Sandra’s hand, to reassure her, but I only managed to pat once before I grasped her hand in a desperate grip, as if by holding tight enough, I could somehow keep Eddie alive for her, for their daughters … for me, too. I lunged across the space and the two of us clung to each other, one of us terrified she’d lose her husband, the other terrified she’d lose her partner and friend.

Poor Sandra. Only in her mid-thirties and she might become a widow. And the girls. Oh, God, the girls! They might never again have their daddy to tuck them in at bedtime. Who would kick a soccer ball around the backyard with them if Eddie didn’t make it? Who would accept his coach of the year award? A fresh round of sobs exploded from my chest.

I sat back in my chair, violent tremors replacing my tears. A heavy pall of guilt settled over me. Eddie’d never had any trouble until he’d partnered up with me. Something about me just seemed to bring out the whacko in people. Now, Eddie might pay the ultimate price. This was my case. It should have been me who took the bullet. It should have been me in the operating room right now.

Brett slid into the chair next to me, his arm around my shaking shoulders. I needed him now more than ever. I leaned into him, my head ducked against his chest, taking all the comfort he could give. He ran a hand down my back, trying his best to soothe me.

The Lobo darted into the waiting room then, remarkably quick for a sixty-year-old on four-inch cork platform shoes, the hem of her peasant dress whipping around her meaty calves when she stopped abruptly in front of Ross. The attorney stood and, in hushed tones, gave her a status report. Lu’s brows drew together in concern. She nodded at me and Sandra, then stepped back outside the automatic glass doors and lit a cigarette, her hand quivering as she flicked the lighter. Through the glass, I saw her cheeks hollow as she took a deep puff.

Ross, Sandra, Brett, and I sat in somber silence for what seemed like an eternity, the only sound the hum of the fluorescent lights and the soft murmur of voices from beyond the swinging doors. Finally, a heavyset dark-haired nurse in pea-green scrubs stepped into the room, her gaze moving over the crowd before stopping on Sandra. “Mrs. Bardin?”

Sandra looked up, eyeing the nurse warily as if afraid to respond, afraid to hear the news about her husband. Through the glass doors, the Lobo spotted the nurse, tossed her cigarette into the bushes, and dashed inside, smoke wafting in with her.

The nurse walked over and knelt in front of Sandra. “Your husband’s still unconscious, but the doctors say he was very lucky. The bullet lodged in his skull, just behind his ear. He’s lost a lot of blood and part of his earlobe, but there’s no apparent brain damage. The doctors expect he’ll make a full recovery.”

“Oh, thank God!” Sandra cried, throwing her clenched fists in the air in unbounded relief. Sandra, the Lobo, and I stood, grabbing each other in bear hugs, tears of relief flowing freely down our faces.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Coming Clean

Brett drove me home from the hospital, a heavy silence hanging between us. He opened the passenger door and helped me out of his car. At my front door, I handed Brett my keys and he unlocked my town house. Inside, I hung my raid jacket on a hook in the coat closet and aimed straight for the kitchen. Henry scrutinized me contemptuously from atop the armoire as I walked past without bothering to give him a pat on the head. Annie ran out from under the couch and trotted after us, apparently feeling brave today.

“I could use a glass of wine.” With my left hand, I wrestled a bottle from the wooden wine rack on the counter, nearly dropping the damn thing.

Brett took the bottle from me. “You’re not supposed to drink alcohol when you’re on painkillers.”

“Oh. Right.” Damn.

Annie jumped into my lap as I flopped into a seat at the kitchen table. Brett returned the bottle to the wine rack and poured us each a glass of juice instead.

He slid into the chair across from me. He took a drink, then slowly twirled his glass with his fingertips, watching me intently, waiting for me to say something, to explain.

But hell, I didn’t even know where to start. All I could think of to say was, “I’m sorry I wasn’t totally honest with you, Brett.”

Fortunately, he appeared more confused than angry, at least for now. “Why didn’t you tell me you were investigating Gryder?”

I looked down at the cat on my lap and ran my hand down Annie’s back, trying to build my nerve. I took a deep breath and forced myself to look at Brett. “I wanted to tell you, Brett. Really. But…”

“But what?” He continued to peer expectantly into my eyes.

I squirmed under his piercing gaze. I didn’t want to tell him that I’d doubted him, that I’d suspected he might be in cahoots with Shelton and Gryder. But he’d saved my life today, saved the life of my partner, too. If I owed him my life, then I owed it to him to be honest, too, didn’t I? “Until today I thought you might be involved in Gryder’s scam.”

Brett’s eyes flashed with shock before dimming with hurt, and his usually strong shoulders slumped. “My God, Tara.” His voice was soft and sad, with an undertone of indignation. “How could you think that?”

I looked down, unable to meet his wounded gaze any longer. I had been utterly stupid to question his integrity and my distrust hurt him, deeply. He had every right to feel offended, betrayed. I’d feel the same way if someone I cared about had misgivings about me. Still, there had been grounds for suspicion, hadn’t there?

I took a deep breath, steeled my nerves, and spilled my guts. “It started with the brochures you took to Gryder at the lake house and the box of checks and cash you brought back to Shelton. It seemed odd that the two of them would trust you with so much money if you weren’t involved with them. At the hotel, I heard you arguing with someone on the phone, something about a deal for fifty grand in cash. You seemed pretty cozy with Shelton and Gryder at the ballpark and when I asked you later what you three had been talking about you said it wouldn’t interest me, which seemed evasive. You mentioned you had some investments that had paid off recently and I thought those investments might be with Gryder’s company.”

I stopped to gauge his reaction, but Brett said nothing, just waited for me to continue.

“An informant from First Dallas Bank tipped us off about some suspicious activity relating to Gryder. When I interviewed the informant, he said you came into the bank several times with Michael near closing time and had private meetings with Stan. And then, last night, I saw your car parked in front of Shelton’s house.”

Brett was quiet for a moment, his expression pensive as he tried to sort through everything I’d just thrown at him. Finally he spoke. “I didn’t give much thought to the boxes Stan and Michael asked me to shuttle back and forth. I figured I was simply doing them a favor, saving them some travel between the lake house and Dallas, and that their business wasn’t any of mine.” He paused a moment, skewering me with a pointed look. “Apparently they trusted me more than you did.”

I cringed at the dig, knowing I’d earned it but hating it all the same.

“The phone call at the hotel was with one of my landscape suppliers. The guy made a bunch of promises to me, then tried to jack up the prices after I’d placed a large order. When I was talking with Stan and Michael at the ball game, they spent the whole time trying to outdo each other with their sexual exploits. I would’ve walked away, but since Stan invited us to the game I didn’t want to be rude.”

“What about the closed-door meetings at the bank?” I asked. “And the investment?”

“Chelsea’s car was towed when she parked illegally at a nightclub in Dallas. Michael left Chelsea his car to use and bummed rides with me to and from the lake property and bank a few times while the car was in hock. Every meeting I had with Stan was about the landscaping project. He and Britney changed their minds about a few things and I had to rework the plans several times. Michael sometimes sat in on our meetings so he could mooch scotch from the minibar in Stan’s office. The investment I mentioned was some land northeast of the city that I bought a couple of years ago. An oil and gas company paid me a small fortune to drill a well on the property.”

He’d covered all the bases but one. “Why were you at Shelton’s last night?”

“I wasn’t, Tara. I was at my parents’ house. Stan’s their next-door neighbor. He’s lived there since I was a kid. Hell, I used to mow his lawn.”

“Oh.” Damn. “Wish I’d known that.”

Their relationship as longtime neighbors further explained why Shelton trusted Brett with the checks and cash, and why Brett hadn’t considered the arrangement necessarily peculiar. I gave Brett a feeble, contrite smile. His explanations made perfect sense. Which meant I’d made a perfect ass of myself and, quite possibly, ruined a perfect relationship.

He leaned toward me across the table. “Why didn’t you just ask me about these things?”

“How could I, Brett? If you had been involved it would’ve blown the investigation. And how would I have known if you were telling me the truth? I had to find out for myself. It was my only choice.” I hesitated a moment before reaching out to him. He let me take his hand. I gave it a firm squeeze. “I’m sorry I ever doubted you, Brett.”

Brett stared at me for a moment, his expression confused, disappointed, troubled. But who could blame him for feeling such a mix of emotions? I’d given him a lot to deal with. Hopefully, not too much to deal with.

“You were going to tell me tonight about what happened on Tuesday.”

“Right.” I remembered our earlier phone conversation, Brett’s concern when I had put the discussion off. I’d gotten lucky. After what went down today, a drug-dealing ice-cream man with a shotgun hidden under his freezer would seem like chump change.

After I gave Brett the rundown of Joe’s arrest, he emitted an elongated groan, looking down at the table and running his hands through his hair until it stood up in crazy spikes. “How did you feel today, Tara? How did you feel Tuesday when you arrested the ice-cream man?” He looked up at me. “Weren’t you scared?”

“Terrified,” I admitted. “But once things were over, I felt good. Proud, even.” Annie stretched out her nose to sniff my cast as I scratched at the dry, itchy plaster encircling my thumb. I sat up straighter in my chair. “My work means something, Brett. I’ve taken a drug dealer off the streets and put a con artist out of business. I’ve kept elderly couples from losing their life savings, protected kids from drugs, maybe even saved lives.” I wasn’t bragging. I was simply letting him know why I found my job so fulfilling, why I wanted to keep doing it—despite the risks.

Brett’s face softened. He looked down, his fingers drumming on the tabletop as he appeared to be thinking things through, attempting to sort out his feelings, make sense of this mess. Finally, his fingers stopped drumming. He shook his head once as if to arrange his thoughts and looked up at me.

My heart seemed to stop beating as I asked the million-dollar question. “What are you thinking?” I hoped he wasn’t thinking it was time for me to find a new job or him to find a new girlfriend.

“Three things.” He counted on his fingers as he spoke. “First, I’m hurt you would think I’d be involved in a scam, but after everything you’ve told me I can see how you got that impression. Second, seeing that bastard standing over you with a gun pointed at your head made me more frightened and more furious than I’ve ever been in my life.”

The first and second things weren’t so bad. “What’s the third thing?”

His cocked his head. “You look hot with a gun in your hand.”

“Hot, huh?” I could deal with hot.

He gave me a small, sexy smile. “I’ve never dated a woman who could handle a gun. On some weird level, it’s arousing.”

“I’ve got handcuffs, too, and I’m not afraid to use them.”

“Good to know.” He relaxed back in his chair. He paused for a long moment, his eyes gazing into mine. “I’m not going to lie to you, Tara. I’ll fear for you every day.” He took in a long breath and let it out slowly. “More than anything, though, I want you to be happy. Your work is important and it means a lot to you. I’ll just have to sack up and deal with it, huh?”

I stood, walked around the table, and grabbed him in a bear hug, my chin on top of his head. “You’re a great guy, Brett,” I said into his wild hair.

He gently pulled me down onto his lap. “No more secrets?”

“No more secrets. I promise.” I gazed back at him and drew an
X
over my heart with my index finger. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

He put his forehead to mine. “Don’t ever hope to die, Tara.”

He had a point. In my line of work, it just might happen.

My stomach growled then, reminding me not only that I’d missed lunch but that I’d also invited Brett over for dinner tonight. “Hungry?”

“Starved.”

We fixed two bowls of Fruity Pebbles. When we were finished eating, Brett rinsed our bowls and spoons in the sink and stuck them in the dishwasher. Henry wandered in then, loudly demanding his dinner. While I fed the cats, Brett went out back to feed the orphaned dog.

When Brett returned, he pulled me to him and kissed my forehead. Complete and utter exhaustion took over my body and I leaned against him for a moment, barely able to stand on my own. We took our glasses into the living room, plopped side by side on the couch, and drank our juice while unwinding and watching a sitcom on BBC America.

Brett’s hand rested on my knee, his thumb rubbing soft circles around my kneecap. A warm heat raced up my leg, stopping at my upper thigh and turning into a warm pulse of desire. Who knew a kneecap was such an erogenous zone?

My earlier exhaustion was now forgotten. I closed my eyes and leaned my head against Brett’s shoulder as his circles slowly made their way up my thigh. “Promises, promises,” I whispered.

Brett scooped me up and carried me upstairs to my bedroom, leaving the light off. We slid onto my rumpled bed. Brett kissed me gently, caressing my stomach, his hand slowly working its way from my belly up under my shirt, inch by inch, much too slowly for my current state of arousal.

“Brett?”

He nuzzled my ear. “Yeah?”

“Make me forget everything that happened today.”

He paused for a moment, moaned, then bit that sensitive spot between my neck and shoulder. I gasped with pleasure.

This time as we made love, cries of passion echoed off the walls. The sex was rough, primitive, and profoundly satisfying. We ended up rolling off the bed, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, to finish our lovemaking on the floor. Anne watched us from her hiding spot under the dresser. I probably should be ashamed to be doing this in front of her. But I wasn’t about to stop.

When we were both spent, Brett rolled onto his back next to me, panting from exertion. When he was finally able to catch his breath, he glanced over at me. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Did I make you forget?”

I gave him a fully gratified grin. “Forget what?”

*   *   *

The alarm blared at seven
A.M.
Friday morning. Damn. I’d forgotten to turn the thing off the night before.

Brett snuggled up to my back, spooning me as he spoke softly into my ear. “I want to show you something.”

I shot him a sexy smile over my shoulder. “I thought you showed me everything last night. Some things twice.”

“Not quite.”

We decided we could both use a vacation. We called our offices to let them know we’d be playing hooky today.

“You’ve earned some time off,” the Lobo agreed. “Just be sure to fax Viola your firearm-discharge report.”

Ugh. Another form. Another interrogation. Another entry in my personnel file. I hoped the incidents wouldn’t affect my chances for promotion later.

Brett and I took a long, leisurely shower together and had two more bowls of Fruity Pebbles for breakfast before heading out with the dog in tow. At my request, Brett stopped by the nail salon, patiently perusing a
People
magazine while the technician trimmed, filed, and painted my nails, repairing the damage caused to my French tips by the preceding day’s gunplay.

When I was finished at the salon, we drove to Brett’s house. On the way, I called Alicia from my cell and updated her on recent events.

“I used to wonder whether you were brave or crazy,” Alicia said when I’d finished. “I’ve decided now you’re both.”

Napoleon yapped happily and jumped on us as we came in, overjoyed to see his master who’d been AWOL and to receive his overdue breakfast. While I stood by, ready to break up a fight if necessary. Napoleon sniffed the bigger dog, who sniffed him back. Both tails wagged. A good sign. Brett had offered to take the dog off my hands. I knew the orphaned beast would be happier here. Not only would he have Napoleon to keep him company—and vice versa—but Brett worked a more regular schedule than I did and had more time to devote to his pets.

Once the dogs had settled down with their bowls, Brett stood, took my hand, and led me down the hall to his home office. A desk situated in the middle of the room was covered with paperwork, everything from tractor warranty information, to landscaping proposals, to invoices for bedding plants. He waved me over to a drafting table situated under the window and spread a blueprint on the surface.