Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure

by Diane Kelly

  “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 pe
rfect, 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.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  That Morning-After Glow

  The next morning I woke in Brett’s arms, sweetly sore and with a satisfied smile. Brett proved to be an incredible lover, giving me just what I needed precisely when I needed it, taking me to that tantalizing edge of oblivion, then carrying me over it, time and time again.

  I climbed out of bed and sneaked into Brett’s bathroom, examining my face in the mirror. My cheeks shone with a morning-after glow. If I could bottle this radiance, I’d make a killing in the cosmetics market.

  But now the qualms kicked in. Had making love with Brett been a colossal mistake? Had I made love with a criminal, slept with the enemy? Had the pleasure Brett gave me been a guilty pleasure? Was I no better than Gustavo and Hector, stupidly giving in to my carnal needs?

  No. I refused to believe any of that. At worst, Brett had been an unwitting delivery boy for Shelton and Gryder. Nothing more. Surely a criminal wouldn’t have been such a generous, giving lover. And give he had. He’d given me not one, not two, but three orgasms. A new record and a testament to the depth of my feelings for Brett. Any distrust or doubts I’d ever had were nothing more than the result of an overactive imagination, an overdeveloped sense of skepticism by an overzealous, rookie federal agent. And Gustavo and Hector were no more than horny men looking for a quick lay. What I had with Brett was so much more than that.

  While Brett got ready for work, I whipped up some scrambled eggs and toast. It was the least I could do after the dinner he’d made the night before. One of these days I should learn how to cook.

  Brett drove me home after breakfast. I took a quick shower and dressed in my running shoes, lightweight pink sweatpants, and a short-sleeved white hoodie, a comfy, easy-to-move-in outfit. I needed to be ready in case Joe showed today. Packing up my long-neglected tax records and forms, I headed out to meet Christina.

  * * *

  When Christina pulled up in front of the IRS office, I hopped into the pink Cadillac. Today she wore a teal baby-doll top that was tight at the bust and loose at the waist, perfect both for distracting Joe and concealing a hip holster. She’d pulled her long hair up into a ponytail where it couldn’t get in her way during the bust. Her scarf was tied around the ponytail.

  The dog stood on the backseat, wagging his tail. I gave him a good-morning pat on the head.

  I fastened my seat belt. Click. The car didn’t move. I glanced over at Christina to find her focus locked on my face.

  Her eyes narrowed and she tilted her head, a questioning look on her face. “You look different today.”

  I shrugged. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  A sly grin spread across her face. “You got some last night.”

  Was it that obvious? “Did not.”

  “Did, too. You’ve got that satisfied, morning-after sparkle.”

  No wonder she was such a good agent. She had incredible intuition.

  “You’re right!” I cried, unable to contain my joy. “Brett and I did it. Three times.”

  She rolled her eyes, but continued to smile. “Well, I don’t have to ask how it was.”

  Definitely obvious.

  She slid the car into gear. “I just hope you saved some energy for Joe’s bust.”

  “No need to worry. The way I’m feeling today, I could take down ten men with both hands tied behind my back.”

  She eased away from the curb. “Were your hands tied behind your back last night?”

  I crossed my arms over my chest, feigning outrage. “That’s none of your business.”

  She chuckled. “You’re right. Besides, nobody ever does the kinky stuff the first time.”

  * * *

  The tax deadline was fast approaching, but I only got as far as line thirteen on my tax return before I was forced to stop, distracted by my partner. Christina paced the floor of the crack shack in her sneakers, watching the clock and chewing on the white tips of her nails.

  “Stop that,” I said. “You’re destroying the manicure I gave you.”

  “Can’t help it,” she said, shoving her hands into the front pockets of her jeans to try to control her nail-biting. “I’ve got the prebust jitters again.”

  I did, too, feeling tingly all over with a raw, nervous energy.

  For lunch we nuked a frozen pasta primavera, light enough so the food wouldn’t weigh us down when we’d need to be fast on our feet yet loaded with carbs for the quick energy we might require later. Joe wasn’t likely to resist arrest, especially when he wouldn’t see it coming, but it never hurt to be prepared. Even if Joe did resist, a scrawny guy like him wouldn’t pose much of a challenge for two well-trained, armed federal agents. With everything I’d faced on the job, that mullet-topped doofus didn’t scare me a bit. Or at least that’s what I told myself.

  After lunch, Christina and I performed stretches and jogged in circles around the living room a few times to get our blood flowing and our bodies warmed up. The huge dog lay on the floor, happily gnawing the bone-shaped chew toy we’d bought at the pet store that morning.

  Like she had the day before, Christina opened every window in the house so we’d be sure to hear the ice-cream truck music as soon as Joe entered the neighborhood.

  A faint stench drifted through the windows. Ew. Garbage day. I’d noticed bags at the curbs on our way in.

  Christina sat on the dusty windowsill and stared out the grimy window. “Joe better show today. The guys back at the office gave me all kinds of crap this morning. Guess I shouldn’t have
bragged that we’d be bagging Joe yesterday.”

  “I told you not to count your chickens—”

  Christina put up a hand to silence me and cocked her head toward the open window. Sure enough, the faint warbling bars of ice-cream music came through.

  We slid our loaded guns into our holsters. Christina scrambled to spread the pieces of her field test kit on the kitchen counter where she’d be able to access them quickly after we bought the drugs. We stepped out on the front porch and sat down on the steps, trying to rein in our adrenaline, act nonchalant. It wasn’t easy.

  The minutes crept by like a bad date as we waited for our pimple-faced prey. The ice-cream music grew gradually louder and, finally, Joe’s orange truck turned onto our street a few blocks down. It eased slowly toward us, stopping twice for women with small children. Eventually Joe rolled to a stop in front of our house.

  We made our way to the truck. Christina leaned in close, resting her arms on the window ledge, and looked up at Joe. “Where were you yesterday?”

  Joe’s gaze darted to the blouse drawn taut across Christina’s chest. “Fucking health department,” he said to her breasts. “Damn inspector chased me down yesterday morning and issued me a citation for an expired permit.”

  Another government employee taking crap from an asshole for doing his job. Been there, done that.

  Joe emitted an irritated huff and finally looked up at Christina’s face. “I spent all day in line downtown getting the permit renewed.”

  If he didn’t like standing in line all day, he certainly wouldn’t like what we had in store for him—five to ten in the state pen.

  Christina drummed her fingers on the window ledge. “Got something special for me today?”

  Joe bent down, putting his face close to hers. “Got some cash for me?”