Tara Holloway 01 - Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure (3 page)

She looked me up and down, taking in my conservative business attire and diminutive stature, clearly dubious. “You a police officer?”

“IRS. Special agent.” When she still looked confused, I added, “Tax cop.”

“Oh.” She handed me a pen. “Sounds dangerous.”

I shrugged. “Your job seems scarier to me. You could be exposed to the Ebola virus or flesh-eating bacteria.”

“We don’t see too much of those around here. The worst thing I’ve seen was a guy who came in here with a light bulb stuck up his—”

“Stop!” I held up a palm. “I’m getting a visual.”

Kelsey shuddered. “You’re right. It’s too horrifying to talk about.” She gestured toward a row of chairs. “Take a seat. Dr. Maju will be with you shortly.”

I sat in the closest chair and filled out the forms. I checked the boxes to indicate no, I’d never suffered from asthma, heart palpitations, hemorrhoids, or an STD, and no, I wasn’t pregnant. Can’t get pregnant when you’re not getting any.

Sigh.

When I’d completed the forms, I returned to the counter. Dr. Ajay Maju walked up behind Kelsey and placed a file on her desk. Dr. Maju was Indian, on the short side, with shaggy-stylish shiny black hair and thick brows. His white lab coat hung open to reveal fashionably torn blue jeans and a green Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt. Dr. Maju appeared to be only a year or two out of medical school, not much older than me. But hopefully he’d be competent enough to handle my minor medical problem. He was attractive in an oddly boyish, slightly exotic kind of way.

“You were slashed with a box cutter?” Despite his all-American attire, his staccato words were tinged with a Hindi accent. The guy was a poster child for culture clash.

“Yep.” I stuck out my arm.

Dr. Maju held my wrist and took a quick peek, then waved for me to follow him.

“Here’s Ms. Holloway’s file.” Kelsey handed the doctor a thin manila folder as he left the reception area.

Once we were in the examination room, I hopped onto the table, the stiff white paper crinkling under me. The doctor set my file on the counter. He grabbed a stethoscope and a blood pressure monitor from a drawer and checked my pulse and blood pressure. When he was done, he pulled a tiny black flashlight out of the pocket of his lab coat and shined it in my right eye.

I tried not to blink. “What’s that for?”

“Mostly just to irritate my patients.” He shined the light in my other eye and called for a nurse.

The doc cleaned my wound with antiseptic, the acrid smell burning my nostrils. Once the blood was gone, he inspected the cut more closely. “You’re going to need a few stitches.”

Shoot. “Will I need a tetanus shot, too?”

Dr. Maju consulted my computer file. “No. You are good for another three years.”

Thank heaven for small favors.

I turned my head away and contemplated the illustrated breast exam poster on the side wall, my eyes focused on the cartoon nipple while Dr. Maju injected a local anesthetic, sewed me up, then affixed a square bandage over the wound. When he finished, he turned my inner arm upward, thumped on a vein with his index finger, and drew some blood. He handed his nurse the vial. “Full workup.” He pressed a cotton ball to the inside of my arm for a couple seconds, fixing it in place with a piece of gauze tape. “In six months we’ll need to run the blood tests again.”

“Why?”

“To determine if you have contracted a horrible disease that will cause you a long and agonizing death.”

I rolled my sleeve back down. “You might want to work on your bedside manner.”

Dr. Maju shrugged. “This is not the Mayo Clinic. You get what you pay for.”

*   *   *

On my way home, I stopped by the nail salon. Rather than simply repair the damage Battaglia had caused, I opted for a complete mani-pedi instead. After what I’d been through today, I’d earned it. Besides, the nail technician’s new bottle of sparkling candy-apple polish would go perfect with the dress I planned to wear that night.

While the tech massaged my feet—
aaaah
—I read through the business pages of the
Dallas Morning News
. As one of the government’s financial experts, I was expected to stay on top of developments in the business world, especially those in my region. Not much in the paper today. Two area wineries had joined forces in hopes of gaining market share. A local charter bus company had filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy. First Dallas Bank had been forced to revise and reissue its financial statements after banking regulators discovered its reserves had been significantly overstated. Of course, the bank’s management blamed its outside auditors for failing to discover the “inadvertent error.” Ever since the Enron debacle brought down not only the energy company but also its CPA firm, accountants had become convenient scapegoats for unscrupulous corporate officers who intentionally misstated their financials.

The report could indicate the management of First Dallas Bank played fast and loose with the law. Then again, it could mean nothing. Accounting wasn’t nearly as simple and straightforward as it might seem. Heck, there were half a dozen acceptable methods for computing depreciation and valuing inventory. Honest mistakes could easily go unnoticed. At this point, however, any problems fell under the purview of the Office of the Comptroller of the Currency. Reserves didn’t affect taxable income. In other words, not the Treasury Department’s problem.

I moved on to the comics.

A half hour and fifty dollars later, I emerged from the salon with twenty freshly French-tipped nails and a fresh attitude. Tara Holloway wasn’t about to let the jackasses—or the Jack Battaglias—of the world get her down.

CHAPTER THREE

Hottie in the Hothouse

Long ago, my mother’s grandparents had owned land in east Texas near the site of Spindletop, the most famous oil strike in Texas history. My great-grandparents made a fortune when they sold their land to oil speculators, and they’d developed a taste for things opulent and luxurious. I’d inherited their taste but none of the money, all of which was lost during the subsequent 1929 stock market crash. Go figure.

My female ancestors learned to fake it, living a Dom Pérignon champagne lifestyle on a Lone Star beer budget. Mom taught me everything she knew about living large on a shoestring. I’d adopted her strategies. My town house sat just north of downtown, in a trendy neighborhood of young professionals known as Uptown. I’d snatched the place for a song during the recent real estate crash, purchasing it in a short sale from a couple who’d decided the suburbs would be a better place to raise the child they were expecting.

The living and dining rooms of my brown brick home were adorned with tastefully carved cherrywood and tapestry furniture, a top-of-the-line Ethan Allen ensemble I’d scored at a huge secondhand discount via an estate sale. Not that I’d ever reveal that dirty little secret to anyone.

After tossing my purse and briefcase on the couch, I checked on Henry the Eighth and Anne Boleyn. Henry was an enormous, furry cat, part Maine coon, with a haughty attitude, assuming air, and brown hair just a shade darker than my own. He lay atop the massive armoire that housed my television and stereo, his furry paws curled over the front edge, passing judgment on the world from his high post. I gave him a quick pat on the head, which he tolerated but clearly did not appreciate. Snob.

“Anna Banana,” I called. “Where’s my girl?” Anne was a thin, creamy-white, nervous cat. But at least she wouldn’t have to worry about providing a male heir for Henry. Both had been fixed just after I’d adopted them from the shelter. Anne crawled out from her hiding place under the couch and ran over to me. I scooped her up and cradled her in my arms, where she purred affectionately.

“Want to help me get ready?” I asked Anne as I carried her up the stairs to my bedroom.

She responded with a meow.

Unlike my elegant first floor, the private upstairs rooms of my town house contained an eclectic but comfortable mix of garage-sale bargains and hand-me-down pieces from my parents and older brothers.

I walked into my bedroom and set the cat down on my rumpled bed. She curled up on the faded patchwork quilt and napped as I stripped out of my work clothes, showered, shaved, and shampooed. Once I’d dried and styled my hair and reapplied my makeup, I slipped into my beautiful gown. The dress was red, strapless, and sequined, with a slit running up to my lower thigh, two inches shy of slutty.

I admired myself in the mirror. I looked feminine. Glamorous. Sexy.

Nailed it.

*   *   *

I climbed into my car, switching my radio from the country station to a classical setting and mentally switching from Tara Holloway, butt-kicking tax cop, to Tara Holloway, sophisticated city girl. Fifteen minutes later, I pulled to the curb in front of a building downtown that housed a dozen trendy loft apartments. Typing with my red-tipped thumbs, I texted my best friend, Alicia Shenkman, letting her know I’d arrived.

In a few moments, Alicia stepped outside, looking supremely chic, as usual. Her platinum-blond bob ended in asymmetrical points on either side of her face, one edge stopping midway down her left cheek, the other tapering to an end along her right jawline—like one of those cubist Picasso paintings except less twisted. Though the look bordered on severe, it went well with her pointy facial features and her even sharper mind and wit. She wore a fitted black satin evening gown with three thick straps that ran up from the bust and over one shoulder, her only jewelry a tiny pair of onyx earrings.

Her doorman opened the passenger door of my car. Alicia thanked him and slid into the seat.

“You look fabulous,” I told her.

“Thanks,” she said, looking me over. “So do you. Love the nails.”

I splayed my glittery fingers across the steering wheel. “They’re not too much?”

Alicia slid me a knowing look. “If they weren’t too much, Tara, they wouldn’t be
you
.”

She knew me well. As well she should. We’d been best friends for over eight years. We’d met at the University of Texas, in our Accounting 101 class. We’d been assigned by the professor to work with four other students on a group project. Two minutes into our first team meeting, it was clear Alicia and I would be both the brains and the workhorses of the operation. The other students rode our ambitious coattails to an easy A.

Alicia and I moved in together the next semester, renting a teeny two-bedroom apartment within walking distance of the university. After completing our studies, we both graduated with honors and had our pick of job offers. Martin and McGee, one of the larger regional CPA firms, had offered us both a lucrative compensation package for positions in their Dallas office. We accepted and moved to a much larger, much nicer apartment in the yuppie Dallas enclave known as the Village.

A couple years later, our manager at Martin and McGee assigned the two of us to work on a consulting project for one of the big downtown law firms. Soon thereafter, I walked into the law firm’s copy room and discovered Alicia detained in the arms of a junior associate. She assured me there was no need for a writ of habeas corpus. Daniel Blowitz had stolen Alicia’s heart and, soon thereafter, stole my roommate. She moved into his pricey downtown loft, while I bought my priced-for-quick-sale town house and adopted the cats from the animal shelter for company. As much as I missed living with Alicia, it had been time for us to move on to the next phase of our lives. Besides, the tax deductions on the town house saved me a chunk of change every year come April fifteenth.

Alicia gestured to the bandage on my wrist, her brow furrowed in concern. “What happened there?”

“On-the-job injury.” I told her all about Jack Battaglia and the box cutter, how I’d shot the blade out of his hand.

“Thank God you know how to handle a gun.” She stared at me a moment longer, her expression perplexed. “You’re either really brave or totally crazy.”

“There’s a fine line between the two, isn’t there?”

“Yes,” she said. “And you’re straddling it.”

“Speaking of straddling things, what’s Daniel doing tonight?” I asked.

Alicia sighed. “Working late. He’s got a trial that starts next week.”

Daniel’s absence explained why I hadn’t had to twist Alicia’s arm to convince her to come with me alone tonight. She and Daniel were joined at the hip, figuratively when not literally. Alicia routinely arranged double dates and had set me up with a series of Daniel’s friends and coworkers. Unfortunately, though they’d all been nice enough guys, none had sparked my interest.

I eased away from the curb, made the block, and headed east, to the Dallas Arboretum. Once we’d arrived, a valet helped Alicia and me out of my car. I handed the young man my keys, cringing seconds later when the sound of gears grinding erupted behind me.

The outdoor gardens, which were bright and vibrant in spring and summer, were dead and dull tonight, the flower beds empty, the crape myrtle trees bare of leaves. An enormous temporary greenhouse had been erected on an open lawn area near the bronze spouting toad statues. Ahead of us, men in classic tuxedos and women in cocktail dresses and gowns streamed into the glass structure. I was the only woman not wearing a traditional black dress. I tended to be a bit of a rebel. It was part of my charm.

Alicia and I took our places in line. The evening air was cooling down but still bearable. A murmur of chitchat blended with the sounds of car engines and doors slamming as more guests arrived.

As we neared the door of the greenhouse, I handed Alicia the ticket I’d bought for her. She glanced down, noting the price. “Whoa. You dropped a hundred bucks each on these tickets?”

I nodded. Good thing part of the cost would be tax deductible. I could ill afford the tickets, but I couldn’t wait to see the new exhibit and, besides, it was for a good cause—expansion of the children’s garden.

Gardening with my mother had been one of the highlights of my childhood. There was something almost spiritual about digging in the dirt together, turning an empty flower bed into a beautiful, colorful display. While my dad and brothers bonded on hunting trips, freezing their asses off huddled together in a deer blind at the crack of dawn, Mom and I had bonded on warm afternoons over petunias, pansies, and composted cow manure. I couldn’t drive past a feedlot without the stench reminding me of home.

Alicia and I inched forward and eventually reached the front of the line. A banner stretched over the entryway, welcoming us to “A Sneak Preview of Spring—Sponsored by Wakefield Designs.”

The couple in front of me handed their tickets to the attendant and stepped aside.

And that’s when I saw him.

The guy taking tickets wore a standard black tux, but rather than the typical black bow tie and cummerbund, his sported gray-and-black stripes. A subtle nonconformity, but one that told me he, too, stretched the rules. He had the same sandy hair and masculine bone structure as Aaron Eckhart, but sans the chin dimple. Though he was broad shouldered, he wasn’t tall, only five foot nine or so. But that still gave him seven inches on me. It also meant that, with benefit of heels, I could look him in the eye rather than up his nose. A perfect fit. And speaking of eyes, his were the same shade of green as Texas sagebrush.
Nice.

Our gazes locked and an instant attraction was almost visible between us, drawing us to each other like a bee to a flower. I found myself wondering about the size of his stinger.

Giving him a smile, I held out my ticket. He smiled back, revealing straight, white teeth only an adolescence spent in braces could produce.

When he looked down to take my ticket, his eyes ran up from my exposed ankle to where the slit stopped above my knee. Not lecherous, merely the natural response of a man with a healthy libido. And how could he not look when I’d purposely struck a bent-knee pose that would give him a peep of my lower thigh? Still, the heat in his gaze nearly melted my panties.

He gestured to the bandage on my forearm. “Give blood today?” His voice was deep, with a sexy timbre and just a hint of a Southern accent.

“Not intentionally.”

“Sounds like there’s a story there.”

“There is,” I said. “And it’s not pretty.”

His focus shifted to the line of people waiting behind me, then returned to my face. He cocked his head. “Maybe you’ll share it with me later?”

Hell, yeah!
I thought. But I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “A glass of wine might loosen my lips.”
Two glasses might loosen some other body parts. Three glasses and I’m all yours, buddy.

His smile became a sly grin as he took Alicia’s ticket and handed each of us a program. “I’ll look for you at the bar.”

We stepped past him into the greenhouse.

Alicia glanced back.

“Is he checking out my ass?” I asked in a whisper.

“No. He’s taking someone else’s ticket.”

Dang.

Consulting the map in the program, Alicia and I strolled through the winding walkways of the exhibit. The air was moist thanks to the simulated brook flowing throughout the exhibit, the rush of water creating a pleasant auditory backdrop augmented by the soft buzz of standing heaters spaced along the path. We passed brightly colored plants displayed on multiple levels, with yellow daffodils at our feet and flowering vines twisting up wooden trellises towering over us. Further on, colorful orchids and bromeliads in shades of pink, purple, and red bloomed among an assortment of exotic trees and variegated foliage.

After a half hour meandering through the conservatory, I stopped in front of a colorful bulb garden containing fringed flowers in a wide variety of hues. “Aren’t these parrot tulips pretty?”

“I don’t want to hear any more about tulips,” Alicia said, “until I put some cabernet between
my two lips
.” She took my arm and all but dragged me to the bar.

The guy from earlier stood nearby. I’d enjoyed the flora, but he made for some pretty hunky fauna. A hottie in the hothouse.

He was engaged in conversation with a fit older man with thick salt-and-pepper hair, close-set dark eyes, and a long, thin nose, giving him a possumlike appearance. A young woman hung on the man’s shoulder. The girl was nipped, tucked, and augmented to within an inch of her life. With the two cantaloupes protruding from her tiny black cocktail dress, it was a miracle she didn’t topple over in her four-inch strappy black heels. I had nearly a decade lead on her, the man at least three. The girl’s hair was frosted blond, her eyes an unnatural turquoise courtesy of colored contacts, her skin the Oompa-Loompa orange of self-tanning cream.

When my sexy ticket taker noticed Alicia and me stepping into line at the bar, he excused himself and joined us. “Enjoying the exhibit?”

“It’s beautiful,” I said. “I love the parrot tulips. I never realized they came in so many colors.”

“Over a hundred varieties.” He extended his hand. “I’m Brett Ellington.”

I took his hand in mine, surprised to find his skin somewhat rough and callused. Not that I minded a little friction. But his hands felt more like a workingman’s hands than I’d expected given that he looked so at ease in his tux. “I’m Tara Holloway.” I hiked a thumb at my friend. “That’s Alicia.”

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” he said back.

We turned to the bartender and placed our orders. A cabernet for Alicia, merlot with a cherry for me. Brett also ordered the merlot. Hmm. I wondered what else we might have in common. Unsatisfied lust, perhaps?

Brett handed the bartender a twenty to cover our drinks, slipping a couple of extra bucks into the tip jar. We took our drinks and stepped aside, finding an open spot near a display of yellow hibiscus.