by Diane Kelly
“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.
The paper featured what appeared to be a rural property dotted with several dome-shaped buildings and one large square facility. “What’s this?”
A broad smile spread across Brett’s face. “The design for Ellington Nurseries.”
“Ellington Nurseries?” I looked up at him.
“We’ve had trouble finding reliable nursery suppliers, so I’ve decided to start a landscaping supply business, grow some of the plants and trees myself.”
Having control over the landscaping stock would not only reduce the uncertainty and hassles, but it would also allow him to keep a bigger share of the profits on his projects.
“Wow. I’m impressed.” I looked back down at the blueprint.
He poi
nted to the dome-shaped structures. “These are greenhouses.” His finger continued on to the square building. “And this will be the wholesale facility. It’s not ready yet. I planned to take you out there once it was all complete, to surprise you.”
Aha! The nursery explained the entries on Brett’s tax return, the business deductions he’d claimed. The last piece of the puzzle fell into place.
“The gas well I told you about is at the back of the property. It’s beautiful out there. Twenty acres with lots of trees and a creek running through it.”
“Deep enough to skinny-dip in?”
A smile tugged at his lips. “As soon as your cast comes off, we’ll find out.”
* * *
I stopped by the hospital Saturday morning. Sandra met me in the lobby and led me to Eddie’s room. My partner lay in bed, the bright white bandage on the side of his head stark against his dark skin. He was hooked up to an IV and a heart monitor emitting soft, rhythmic beeps. His eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling slowly.
“He still hasn’t come to,” Sandra said. “But the doctors have assured me it won’t be much longer.” She took a seat beside the bed. “Eddie?” She rubbed Eddie’s arm and caressed his cheek with the back of her hand. “Eddie, can you hear me?”
Eddie moved a little in the bed, emitting soft groans and grunts as he fought to regain consciousness.
I stepped to the head of the bed. “Quit being a wuss, dude,” I whispered in Eddie’s ear. “A bullet to the head is no big deal. It builds character.”
Eddie’s eyes remained closed, but his mouth spread in a slow, dopey grin. “I know I’m not dead,” he murmured softly in a hoarse, gravelly voice, “because that certainly isn’t an angel talking.” He opened his eyes, blinking against the harsh overhead lights.
“Eddie! Thank God!” Sandra threw herself on his chest and dissolved into sobs again, this time crying happy tears.
Eddie slid his hand across the sheet, resting it on his wife’s back, the clear plastic IV tube draped over her heaving shoulders. He turned his head to me, taking a deep breath before speaking. “Did we get Gryder?”
“Hell, yeah,” I said. Thanks to Brett, of course. I gave Eddie the details. “Emptied my entire clip. I can only imagine the paperwork we’re going to have to fill out.”
Eddie cringed but gave a soft chuckle. “Don’t remind me.”
Warm tears welled up again in my eyes. I bit my lip. “Eddie, I’m really sorry. This is all my fault.”
“Bullshit,” Eddie snapped, both his expression and voice firm now. “This isn’t your fault, Tara.”
“Yes it is. I didn’t look under the mattress in the bedroom. I should’ve found Gryder’s gun.”
Eddie shook his head, grimacing as the motion apparently hurt his wound. “Who knows where he hid that thing. I’m the one who told you white-collar types go down easy. I let my guard down. I should’ve known better, been more careful.” He paused a moment, his eyes softening now. “You’re the best partner I’ve ever had, Tara. You’re smart, tough, and one hell of a shot. I wouldn’t want to work with anyone else.”
I wiped my tears with my sleeve. “Really?”
“Really.”
The nurse glanced into the open door of the room and noticed Eddie was awake. She came in. “How are you feeling, Mr. Bardin?”
“Never better,” Eddie said.
The nurse offered Eddie some ice chips.
“No, thanks. Got any Heineken?”
* * *
Brett and I decided to spend a couple of days with my family. I had so much to tell them, but big news is best delivered in person. Brett swung by for me Saturday afternoon in his freshly washed SUV, the bloody evidence of Eddie’s tragedy rinsed from the cargo bay.
We enjoyed each other’s company, the three-hour drive to my parents’ house seeming to take no time at all. Brett had never been to my hometown of Nacogdoches. As we drove through town I pointed out some of the sights, including the Old Stone Fort built by the town’s founder in the late 1700s and the L. T. Barret Memorial, erected to honor the man who had drilled the first oil well in Texas back in September of 1866, when the earth still sported an intact ozone layer.
I instructed Brett which turns to take and soon we were on the outskirts of town, pulling down the noisy gravel road that led to my parents’ house. Brett parked his truck in the shade of a pine, cut the engine, and took in the stately Victorian farmhouse. “Wow. It’s beautiful.”
“Don’t look too closely,” I admonished him as I swung open the truck’s door and climbed out. “The whole thing’s held together with duct tape.”
My parents stepped out onto the porch to greet us, Mom wearing a floral-print sundress and Dad in jeans and a blue button-down, sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow.
Dad came down the steps, stopped by the truck, and held out his hand to Brett. “Nice to meet you, Brett.”
Brett gave my dad’s hand a firm yet friendly shake. “Likewise.”
“Tara!” my mother cried when she spotted the cast on my arm. She rushed down the steps. “What happened to you?”
Brett and I exchanged glances.
“It’s a long story,” I said. “One best told over lunch.” I knew my mother would have a fully stocked fridge and, frankly, I was looking forward to being taken care of a little.
Brett reached into his truck to retrieve the gifts he’d brought for my parents. “These are for you.”
Mom was impressed by the hanging basket Brett had brought for her, filled with lush blue trailing verbena. She was also impressed by the dessert wine he’d brought for us to enjoy later. She handed the plant and wine to my father, then took both of Brett’s hands in hers. “Glad to know you, Brett. Tara’s told us a lot about you.” She glanced over at me, questions in her eyes.
“There’s a lot more to tell,” I said.
My mother looked from one of us to the other. “Well, come have some lunch and catch us up.”
We sat around the kitchen table, drinking sweet tea and eating fried baloney sandwiches, a down-home delicacy that had been a regular staple of my childhood.
Brett took a bite and groaned in delight. “This is delicious.”
“Yeah,” I said, “especially when you consider what baloney is made of.”
“Tara, you hush,” my mother scolded, giving me the evil eye over the top of her tea glass. Some things never change.
When we’d eaten all we could, we pushed back our plates and updated my parents on the recent developments. My parents gaped when I relayed how Gryder had taken potshots at the two of us and put Eddie in the hospital, my mother reflexively putting a hand over her heart when I told her about being trapped in the hole, out of ammo, waiting to die, until Brett had whacked Gryder with the PVC pipe and brought me Eddie’s gun.
Dad’s forehead creased with fury. “You should’ve shot the son of a bitch, Tara.”
“Nah.” I waved my hand dismissively. “Too much paperwork. It’ll be much more fun to take shots at him on the witness stand.”
Dad turned to Brett then, giving him a pat on the back. “You’ve got some mighty big cojones, son.”
“Harlan,” Mom spat, scolding Dad now. “Watch your language.” She turned to Brett. “You were extremely brave, hon. I can’t tell you how grateful we are for that.” She gave each of us a squeeze on the shoulder while she cleared our plates. “I’m glad you two worked things out.”
Brett’s gaze met mine and we exchanged smiles.
* * *
Later that afternoon, Dad set up a paper target on a bale of hay in the backyard and taught Brett how to shoot a handgun, a hunting rifle, and a shotgun. Mom and I sat in lawn chairs to watch. Brett had surprisingly good aim for a beginner. All that time on the golf course, aiming for a tiny flag hundreds of yards away, had given him a good eye. When they finished their shooting lessons, Brett helped my father perform a tune-up on his ancient John Deere tractor. Brett seemed right at home in the barn, a smudge of
engine grease on his chin.
My brothers brought their families over for dinner. We put the extra leaf in the dining room table and feasted elbow to elbow on a fried-food fiesta, everything from catfish to okra to jalapeño hush puppies. Brett hit it off with everyone, discussing this spring’s rainfall with my father, organic gardening with my mother, and pickup trucks with my brothers. He even entertained my nieces and nephews with recounts of Napoleon’s silly antics. When dinner was done, the dessert wine he’d brought served as the perfect complement to Mom’s cherry pie.
I’d often wondered how Brett would get along with my parents and brothers. He’d been raised in such a different environment. But he fit in easily, comfortably, like he belonged here. Like one of the family.
Would he become an official member of the family someday? It was too soon to tell. But he was definitely the kind of guy I could see myself filing joint tax returns and creating dependents with.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Here We Go Again
Ross O’Donnell called my cell Monday morning to catch me up. Gryder had gone before the judge this morning—with a new attorney, of course—and had been denied bail as a potential flight risk. He faced an assortment of charges. Tax evasion. Criminal fraud. Money laundering. Racketeering. Attempted murder of federal agents. With so many varied counts against him, there was no way he’d skate this time.
Neener-neener.
As for Stan Shelton, we’d given Josh the pleasure of arresting him. The Banking Department had set its sights on him, too. Shelton faced a varied, though slightly shorter, list of charges than Gryder. He’d posted bail and been released, but he’d likely serve some time for his role in the scam. His personal accounts had been frozen until it could be determined how much he’d profited from the Forex con. One of the vice presidents had taken over Shelton’s job at the bank and immediately given Dave Edwards, our informant, his long-overdue promotion.
If the rumor mill was right, both Britney and Chelsea had promptly filed for divorce. Looked like Stan and Michael would be filing single next year.
