Death, Taxes, and Hot-Pink Leg Warmers Read online

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  To Angela Cavener, a fantastic author and wonderful friend, with an impeccable sense of fashion. Thanks for always being there for me. I’m lucky to have you in my life.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Christy Silvas for suggesting I find a way to include a stripper pole in my next story. Amazing how a little wine at Girl’s Night Out really loosens the creative juices, huh? And thanks to my hairdresser, Nicki Stone Loyd, who’s not only talented with scissors but who also gave me the inside scoop on spiral perms and helped me develop the character Bernice as my highlights processed. Sitting in your chair each month is both a privilege and a hoot!

  Thanks to my writing buddies, Angela Cavener and Cheryl Hathaway, for your valuable feedback on my rough drafts. When I hear you laugh, I know I’ve done something right.

  Thanks to the creative and clever Liz Bemis-Hittinger and Sienna Condy of Bemis Promotions for all your hard work on my Web site and newsletters. What would I do without you?

  Thanks to my smart and savvy agent, Helen Breitwieser, for your guidance in managing my career.

  Thanks to Eileen Rothschild, Aleksandra Mencel, and everyone else on the St. Martin’s team who worked to get this book to readers. I appreciate everything you do!

  Thanks to my absolutely awesome editor, Holly Blanck, who always suggests the perfect finishing touches to make my work shine. You complete me. It’s overused, but it’s true.

  And, finally, oodles of thanks to my readers. Because of you, I have my dream job. Enjoy your time with Tara and the gang!

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Death, Taxes and Green Tea Ice Cream

  Also by Diane Kelly

  About the Author

  Copyright

  chapter one

  Bouncing Back

  Nothing like taking a baseball bat to the head to ruin a girl’s faith in herself.

  Yep, I’d recently let my guard down, assumed a mild-mannered granny posed no threat to me. Unfortunately, when I informed the woman she’d violated federal law by unwittingly helping terrorists funnel money overseas, she’d panicked. Even more unfortunately, an official major league baseball bat signed by none other than Texas Ranger Josh Hamilton had been in close reach behind the counter of her pawnshop. She’d grabbed the bat, swung for the seats, and—Crack! Lights out for me.

  My confidence had been shattered along with my skull, but I was trying hard to be positive. At least my injuries hadn’t been bad enough to require a steel plate in my head. Then again, with metal covering my brain, aliens from outer space wouldn’t be able to read my thoughts or exercise mind control. A steel plate could also come in handy if I ever needed to head-butt someone.

  I was lucky she’d only struck me once and that I’d survived the ordeal. Looked like all those times people had called me hardheaded hadn’t been solely a comment on my stubborn personality.

  How’s that for looking on the bright side?

  On another very positive note, after weeks of yearning on my part, Nick Pratt and I were finally free to explore our mutual attraction and take our relationship for a test-drive.

  WOO-FREAKIN’-HOO!

  Nick was my coworker at the IRS, a senior special agent, and my partner in the big investigation on which we were preparing to embark. As far as I was concerned, he was also the reason why the sun rose in the morning and the stars twinkled at night, not to mention the reason why I continued to shave my legs even though it was now early November and my pasty calves wouldn’t see the light of day until spring hit Dallas four months from now.

  With any luck, my freshly shaved legs would soon find themselves wrapped around Nick’s firm backside. His kisses were hotter than a Texas summer, so I could only imagine how steamy sex with Nick would be. I couldn’t wait to find out!

  While I’d been in the hospital recovering from my head injuries, Nick had approached my then-boyfriend Brett and asked him to step aside, at least temporarily, so Nick and I could determine whether we’d be a better match. Brett had agreed, admitting to me that he’d been attracted to a female chef at a country club in Atlanta where he’d been working on a landscaping project. Looked like the saucy chef had not only stirred up some delicious dishes, but she’d stirred up some feelings in Brett, as well.

  Though Brett and I hadn’t yet been certain whether the other was the one, we had a pretty good thing going and didn’t want to recklessly throw what we had away. We’d left the door open for a reconciliation if our new relationships didn’t work out. If either of us wanted to get back together, that person would go at noon on the Saturday after Thanksgiving to the Arboretum in Dallas, the place where we’d first met. If we both showed up, we’d reconcile, no questions asked. If neither of us showed, we’d move on. If only one of us turned up, well, I suppose that person would feel like an idiot, huh?

  We’d agreed to a couple other stipulations, too. First, there would be no communication between the two of us during the trial breakup period. If we were going to take a chance with other people, it needed to be a real chance without the complications that would inevitably result from maintaining contact. Second, neither of us could engage in full-fledged nooky with the new love interest. Reconciliation would be impossible if either of us crossed that critical line.

  Nick hadn’t liked the restrictions imposed on us, especially the no-nooky clause, but he’d acquiesced, certain once I’d had a taste of his charms he’d ruin me for all other men. He’d maintained his membership with the Big D Dating Service, though, as a subtle reminder to me that if our trial run didn’t work out he, too, was poised to jump right back into the dating pool with both feet.

  It was less than the ideal way to start a relationship, but we’d all been around the block a few times and knew pairing off at our ages was no longer a matter of simply looking for a good time. It was about finding the most suitable partner. At twenty-seven, my biological clock had begun to tick, though the tick was still slow and faint. I was in no immediate rush, but I didn’t have years to dawdle, either.

  “Here we are.
” Nick pulled the white government sedan, what we agents referred to as a G-ride, into the parking lot of the Dallas Police Department headquarters on south Lamar Street.

  Nick was built like a slightly scaled-down version of Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson and had eyes the same amber color as Johnnie Walker Black Label scotch. Like the scotch, Nick had been aged to perfection, with smooth, rich flavors and complex character. He could also be just as habit-forming. I wasn’t sure yet whether indulging in too much Nick would leave me with a headache and dry heaves the next day, but I was willing to find out.

  I cocked my head, eyeing the dark, thick mustache Nick had grown in order to change his appearance for our upcoming undercover case. The ridiculous thing tickled when Nick kissed me. Not that I minded, really. It was hard for me to notice much of anything when Nick’s mouth was on mine. The instant our lips touched my mind melted into a blissful oblivion. “That mustache makes you look like a seventies porn star.”

  Nick cupped his hands behind his head and undulated in his seat. “Bow chicka bow-wow.”

  I rolled my eyes. Truth be told, though, even when Nick was acting goofy he was sexy as hell. And I had to admit that while I preferred Nick clean shaven and less pornified, the facial hair went a long way in disguising him. I’d had my stylist dye my usual chestnut hair a raven color and give me a spiral perm. Having a new look was fun, though learning how to care for the curls had been a challenge. I’d finally realized the best thing to do was leave them alone and let them do their thing.

  Disguises could be difficult, but they were necessary. Between Nick and me, we’d put away quite a few bad guys. If there were only six degrees of separation between everyone and Kevin Bacon, it was even more likely someone we’d run into before could resurface at the strip club we planned to investigate. The last thing Nick or I needed was for some target we’d arrested in an earlier case to recognize us.

  As I gathered up my purse and briefcase, Nick reached over and tugged on the end of a curl near my ear, stretching the hair out straight, releasing it, and grinning as it sprang back into place. “Boing.”

  “Hey!” I patted my locks. “No messing with my hair.”

  What a liar. I loved it when Nick touched me and he knew it. I only wished my belief in myself could spring back as easily as my curl had. If our new case went well, though, maybe I’d regain the confidence that had been knocked out of me by that damn baseball bat.

  “The curls are cute.” He slid me a sly look. “I can think of some ways to really make them bounce.”

  My nether regions clenched at his suggestion. “Don’t tempt me.”

  He leaned toward me, putting a finger under my chin and lifting my face until it was mere inches from his. “If I can’t tempt you,” he said softly, his breath like a feather across my lips, “can I at least kiss you?” Without waiting for a response, he leaned in and put his lips to mine.

  Mmm. Even Nick’s chaste, closed-mouth kisses sent my mind and heart reeling and set my body aflame with a hot, desperate yearning. Ugh! Why had I agreed to that stupid no-nooky clause? Brett was a wonderful guy, sure, but the first time Nick had kissed me I knew there’d be no going back.

  This was going to be a damn long month.

  We climbed out of the car, a crisp fall breeze greeting us. Jack Frost wasn’t yet nipping at our noses, but his advance team was in the vicinity, caressing our cheeks with cool air, warning of the weather to come as the winter holidays approached.

  Nick and I made our way through the parking lot and entered the modern police headquarters building. Our boss, Lu “the Lobo” Lobozinski, had assigned me and Nick to work with an agent from the DEA and a cop from Dallas PD’s sex crimes unit. Together, the four of us would attempt to take down those involved in a drug distribution and prostitution ring being run out of a local topless bar. We had a meeting scheduled this morning with an informant who’d quietly blown the whistle about the shady goings-on at Guys & Dolls. The file we’d been given earlier contained the nitty, but this morning we’d get the gritty.

  Why was the IRS involved in a drug and sex-for-money sting? Because the sleazeballs who committed these types of crimes rarely reported their earnings. Tax evasion gave the government attorneys another crime to charge the bad guys with, a chance to add a few years to their sentences, and a backup plan for nailing the scumbags if the other charges fell through.

  Working on cases with Nick was fun, though admittedly I found it hard to keep my mind totally on work. At least ten percent of my brain was mentally undressing him at any given time. Good thing I was a smart cookie and could still function reasonably well at ninety percent of my mental capacity.

  We checked in with the uniformed officer manning the information desk.

  The cop consulted a log and pointed upward. “Second-floor conference room. Lieutenant Menger should be there now.”

  We took the stairs up one flight and arrived at the room to find Aaron Menger, the officer from the sex crimes unit, standing at the plate-glass window, looking out at the city that was his beat. Menger had golden-blond hair worn in a short burr cut, making his head look like the soft fluff of a baby chick. The hard look in his ice-blue eyes contrasted sharply with his downy head. He appeared to be in his late thirties, making him the oldest member of our four-person team. Though he had only an average build, I knew from the information we’d been provided that the guy was a triathlete and fourth-degree black belt. Not a man to be trifled with, despite the soft, fuzzy chick head.

  “Hi, Tara. Nick.” DEA Agent Christina Marquez was seated in one of the faux-leather chairs. With her tall and curvy build, generous makeup, and shiny black tresses, Christina looked more like America’s Next Top Model than a top-notch DEA agent. But looks could be deceiving. Christina was smart and resourceful, a woman who could not only think on her feet but also bring hardened criminals to their knees. She gestured to my new curls. “Cute do.”

  “Thanks.” I enjoyed the carefree curls, though not the verbal jabs from my office mates. Given my mad weapons skills, they’d often referred to me as the Annie Oakley of the IRS. Since the perm, however, they’d expanded the moniker to Little Orphan Annie Oakley. I’d countered by singing, “The guns will come out tomorrow.” Once they’d endured my vocal assault, the teasing had ceased immediately.

  Christina and I had worked together on two previous cases and had become friends off the clock, too.

  The four of us exchanged handshakes, Aaron’s firm grip nearly crushing my metacarpals. I wasn’t sure if he was showing off or testing my mojo, but when I squeezed back as hard as I could a bemused smile flickered across his lips.

  “I told your boss to send me her toughest agents,” Menger said. “I can see she listened.”

  It was nice to know the Lobo still had some faith in me. I, on the other hand, didn’t trust myself anymore. I’d been stupid and it had nearly cost me my life.

  Who’s to say I wouldn’t screw up again?

  And whose life might be at risk next time?

  chapter two

  The Informant

  “Officer Menger?” came a female voice from the doorway.

  We turned to find a thin woman waiting in the hall. She stood around five feet seven, with a smooth, wrinkleless face that had been Botoxed into immobility, giving her a porcelain-doll look. Her body was likewise firm and pert. Anything that could be enlarged, liposuctioned, or lifted had been, probably several times over. Even her teeth looked perfect, all white and even.

  Despite these obvious cosmetic enhancements, the woman was nonetheless attractive, elegant even. Her champagne-colored hair was swept high into a classy, classic updo and her makeup, though heavy, was of subtle shades. She slipped out of her coat to reveal a sleeveless black dress accented with a gold brooch in the shape of an autumn leaf. Very tasteful.

  Given the surgical enhancements, her age was impossible to guess. I’d put her somewhere between forty and four hundred. She might even pass for younger if not for the slightly l
oose skin on her neck and under her arms. On most women the underarm flaps looked like chicken wings. On this elegant woman they seemed more like skin ruffles.

  Menger waved the woman into the conference room. “Hi, Bernice. Thanks for agreeing to meet with the team.”

  He introduced the woman to us as Bernice LaBerge. According to the information in the file, Bernice performed at the strip club. Although she wasn’t onstage at the moment, she carried herself with a grace, sensuality, and self-assurance that said she’d have a fantastic stage presence. No wonder she’d been able to continue her exotic dance career into her … what?

  Fifties?

  Sixties?

  Seventies?

  As Bernice shook Nick’s hand, her gaze roamed over his face and a smile played about her enhanced lips. “My, my. Don’t you look like Burt Reynolds from back in the day?”

  Nick returned the grin. “I’m a big fan of Smokey and the Bandit.”

  Bernice took a seat at the table. After Menger gave us some brief background information, she filled the rest of us in.

  “I was a showgirl at Caesars Palace years ago,” she said. “Long before those conglomerates moved into Las Vegas and built those tacky theme hotels.”

  If she told me she’d done vaudeville or worked personally with Shakespeare I wouldn’t have been surprised.

  Her voice took on a wistful tone as she continued. “I loved performing in Vegas. But when I tore my Achilles tendon my dance career was over, at least as far as those types of shows went. I’d grown up in Dallas so I moved back here and auditioned at Guys and Dolls. Back then the place was a dinner theater. I was a triple threat so I landed a role in nearly all of their shows.”

  My brows scrunched. “A ‘triple threat’? What’s that?”

  “Showbiz term,” she explained. “It means I can act, sing, and dance.”

  I supposed I was a triple threat, too, though in an entirely different way. I couldn’t act, sing, or dance my way out of a paper bag, but I could handle a pistol, rifle, or shotgun with equal skill.