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  Praise for Diane Kelly’s previous novels

  DEATH, TAXES, AND GREEN TEA ICE CREAM

  “[A] sure-shot success!”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Death, Taxes and Green Tea Ice Cream is pure Diane Kelly—witty, remarkable, and ever so entertaining.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  DEATH, TAXES, AND HOT PINK LEG WARMERS

  “[B]e prepared for periodic unpredictable, uncontrollable laughing fits. Wonderful scenarios abound when it comes to Tara going undercover in this novel about tax evasion, drugs and (of course) guns. Good depth of characters and well-developed chapters are essential when casting a humorous series, and Ms. Kelly excels in both departments.”

  —Night Owl Reviews

  “Tara’s sharp mind, sharp wit, and sharp skills are brought to life under the topnotch writing of Diane Kelly.”

  —Romance Reviews Today (Perfect 10)

  DEATH, TAXES, AND PEACH SANGRIA

  “Great action, screwball comedy similar to the misfortunes of Stephanie Plum, and relationship dynamics entertain the reader from start to finish.”

  —Night Owl Reviews

  “In another laugh-filled book of the Death, Taxes and … series, Diane Kelly gives Tara the funniest and the deadliest cases of her career with the IRS.”

  —Single Titles

  “Plenty of action and romantic drama round out this laugh-out-loud novel. Fans of Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum series or Pollero’s Finley Tanner series will enjoy the fast-paced antics and fruity cocktails of Tara Holloway.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “IRS special agent Tara Holloway is back in another action-packed, laugh-filled adventure that is sure to keep you entertained from beginning to end.”

  —Fallen Angel Reviews

  DEATH, TAXES, AND EXTRA-HOLD HAIRSPRAY

  “As usual, the pace is quick without being frenetic, and the breezy narrative style is perfection—fun and sexy without being over the top.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “This is a rollicking adventure that will have you rooting for the IRS for once—and you won’t want to put it down until you find out how Tara will overcome all the obstacles in her way. Keep turning those pages—you’ll love every second as you try to find out!”

  —Reader to Reader Reviews

  “If you’ve never read one of Diane Kelly’s Tara Holloway novels, I strongly recommend that you rectify the situation immediately. The series has gotten better with every single installment, and I’d be shocked if you didn’t see these characters gracing your television screen before too long (USA and HBO, I’m looking in your direction). Get on board now so you can say you knew Tara Holloway when.”

  —The Season for Romance

  “Diane Kelly knows how to rock the romance, and roll the story right into a delightful mix of high drama with great characters.”

  —The Reading Reviewer

  DEATH, TAXES, AND A SKINNY NO-WHIP LATTE

  “Readers will find Kelly’s protagonist a kindred spirit to Stephanie Plum: feisty and tenacious, with a self-deprecating sense of humor. Tara is flung into some unnerving situations, including encounters with hired thugs, would-be muggers, and head lice. The laughs lighten up the scary bits, and the nonstop action and snappy dialogue keep the standard plot moving along at a good pace.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Readers should be prepared for a laugh fest. The writer is first class and there is a lot of humor contained in this series. It is a definite keeper.”

  —Night Owl Romance

  “A quirky, fun tale that pulls you in with its witty heroine and outlandish situations … You’ll laugh at Tara’s predicaments, and cheer her on as she nearly single-handedly tackles the case.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “It is hard not to notice a sexy CPA with a proclivity for weapons. Kelly’s sophomore series title … has huge romance crossover appeal.”

  —Library Journal

  “An exciting, fun new mystery series with quirky characters and a twist … Who would have ever guessed IRS investigators could be so cool!”

  —Guilty Pleasures Book Reviews

  “Kelly’s novel is off to a fast start and never slows down. There is suspense but also laugh out loud moments. If you enjoy Stephanie Plum in the Evanovich novels you will love Tara Holloway!”

  —Reader to Reader Reviews

  To Schultz. You chewed my shoes, shed on my bed, and picked fights with dogs ten times your size, but I loved you anyway. Thanks for eighteen good years as my BFF—best furry friend.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It takes a village—or a pack—to bring a book to readers, and I am grateful to the many people who made this new series possible.

  To my amazing editor, Holly Ingraham. Your suggestions and insights are always spot on. Thanks for making me a better storyteller!

  Thanks to Cassandra Galante and everyone else at St. Martin’s who worked to get this book to readers. You’re a fantastic team!

  Thanks to Danielle Fiorella and Jennifer Taylor for creating such a cute book cover!

  Thanks to my agent, Helen Breitwieser, for your hard work in advancing my career. I appreciate all you do!

  To my inner circle of talented writer friends—Ceyla Bowers, Cheryl Hathaway, Hadley Holt, Angela Hicks, and Kennedy Shaw. Thanks for your encouragement, feedback, and friendship!

  To Liz Bemis-Hittinger and Sienna Condy of Bemis Promotions. Thanks for your work on my Web site and newsletters. You ladies rock!

  To the many wonderful writers I’ve met through Romance Writers of America, as well as the national office staff. RWA is an awesome organization. I am glad to be part of such a supportive and powerful group. Go, RWA!

  Special thanks to Detective Rick Castro of the Fort Worth Police Department for giving me insights into the fascinating life of a detective. To Officers J. Alejandro and Brandon Kramer of the Mansfield Police Department, as well as their K-9 partners. Thanks for all of the great information about K-9 operations and for putting your lives on the line to keep the rest of us safe. Thanks also to Officer Phillips and the other officers and volunteers who put on the Mansfield Citizens Police Academy. I learned so much while attending the program and am proud to be a graduate.

  And, last but not least, thanks to my readers. Because of you I have my dream job. Enjoy your time with Megan and Brigit!

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Quotes

  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
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br />   Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Also by Diane Kelly

  About the Author

  Copyright

  ONE

  JOB INSECURITY

  Fort Worth Police Officer Megan Luz

  My rusty-haired partner lay convulsing on the hot asphalt, his jaw clenching and his body involuntarily curling into a jittery fetal position as two probes delivered fifteen hundred volts of electricity to his groin. The crotch of his police-issue trousers darkened as he lost control of his bladder.

  I’d never felt close to my partner in the six months we’d worked together, but at that particular moment I sensed a strong bond. The connection likely stemmed from the fact that we were indeed connected then—by the two wires leading from the Taser in my hand to my partner’s twitching testicles.

  * * *

  I didn’t set out to become a hero. I decided on a career in law enforcement for three other reasons:

  1. Having been a twirler in my high school’s marching band, I knew how to handle a baton.

  2. Other than barking short orders or rattling off Miranda rights, working as a police officer wouldn’t require me to talk much.

  3. I had an excess of pent-up anger. Might as well put it to good use, right?

  Of course I didn’t plan to be a street cop forever. Just long enough to work my way up to detective. A lofty goal, but I knew I could do it—even if nobody else did.

  I’d enjoyed my studies in criminal justice at Sam Houston State University in Hunstville, Texas, especially the courses in criminal psychology. No, I’m not some sick, twisted creep who gets off on hearing about criminals who steal, rape, and murder. I just thought that if we could figure out why criminals do bad things maybe we could stop them, you know?

  To supplement my student loans, I’d worked part-time at the gift shop in the nearby state prison museum, selling tourists such quality souvenirs as ceramic ashtrays made by the prisoners and decks of cards containing prison trivia. The unit had once been home to Clyde Barrow of Bonnie and Clyde fame and was also the site of an eleven-day siege in 1974 spearheaded by heroin kingpin Fred Gomez Carrasco, jailed for killing a police officer. Our top-selling item was a child’s time-out chair fashioned after Old Sparky, the last remaining electric chair used in Texas. Talk about cruel and unusual punishment.

  To the corner, little Billy.

  No, Mommy, no! Anything but the chair!

  I’d looked forward to becoming a cop, keeping the streets safe for citizens, maintaining law and order, promoting civility and justice. Such noble ideals, right?

  What I hadn’t counted on was that I’d be working with a force full of macho shitheads. With my uncanny luck, I’d been assigned to partner with the most macho, most shit-headed cop of all, Derek the “Big Dick” Mackey. As implied in the aforementioned reference to twitching testicles, our partnership had not ended well.

  That’s why I was sitting here outside the chief’s office on a cheap plastic chair, chewing my thumbnail down to a painful nub, waiting to find out whether I still had a job. Evidently, Tasering your partner in the cojones is considered not only an overreaction but also a blatant violation of department policy, one that carried the potential penalty of dismissal from the force, not to mention a criminal assault charge.

  So much for those noble ideals, huh?

  I ran a finger over my upper lip, blotting the nervous sweat that had formed there. Would I be booted off the force after only six months on duty?

  With the city’s budget crisis, there’d been threats of cutbacks and layoffs across the board. No department would be spared. If the chief had to fire anyone, he’d surely start with the rookie with the Irish temper. If the chief canned me, what would I do? My aspirations of becoming a detective would go down the toilet. Once again I’d be Megan Luz, aka “The Loser.” As you’ve probably guessed, my pent-up anger had a lot to do with that nickname.

  I pulled my telescoping baton from my belt and flicked my wrist to extend it. Snap! Though my police baton had a different feel from the twirling baton I’d used in high school, I’d quickly learned that with a few minor adjustments to accommodate the distinctive weight distribution I could perform many of the same tricks with it. I began to work the stick, performing a basic flat spin. The repetitive motion calmed me, helped me think. It was like a twirling metal stress ball. Swish-swish-swish.

  The chief’s door opened and three men exited. All wore navy tees emblazoned with white letters spelling “BOMB SQUAD” stretched tight across well-developed pecs. Though the bomb squad was officially part of the Fort Worth Fire Department, the members worked closely with the police. Where there’s a bomb, there’s a crime, after all. Most likely these men were here to discuss safety procedures for the upcoming Concerts in the Garden. After what happened at the Boston Marathon, extra precautions were warranted for large public events.

  The guy in front, a blond with a military-style haircut, cut his eyes my way. He watched me spin my baton for a moment, then dipped his head in acknowledgement when my gaze met his. He issued the standard southern salutation: “Hey.”

  His voice was deep with a subtle rumble, like far-off thunder warning of an oncoming storm. The guy wasn’t tall, but he was broad shouldered, muscular, and undeniably masculine. He had dark-green eyes and a dimple in his chin that drew my eyes downward, over his soft, sexy mouth, and back up again.

  A hot flush exploded through me. I tried to nod back at him, but my muscles seemed to have atrophied. My hand stopped moving and clutched my baton in a death grip. All I could do was watch as he and the other men continued into the hall and out of sight.

  Blurgh. Acting like a frigid virgin. How humiliating!

  Once the embarrassment waned, I began to wonder. Had the bomb squad guy found me attractive? Was that why he’d greeted me? Or was he simply being friendly to a fellow public servant?

  My black locks were pulled back in a tight, torturous bun, a style that enabled me to look professional on the force while allowing me to retain my feminine allure after hours. There were only so many sacrifices I was willing to make for employment, and my long, lustrous hair was not one of them. My freckles showed through my light makeup. Hard to feel like a tough cop if you’re wearing too much foundation or more than one coat of mascara. Fortunately, I had enough natural coloring to get by with little in the way of cosmetics. I was a part Irish-American, part Mexican-American mutt, with just enough Cherokee blood to give me an instinctive urge to dance in the rain but not enough to qualify me for any college scholarships. My figure was neither thin nor voluptuous, but my healthy diet and regular exercise kept me in decent shape. It was entirely possible that the guy had been checking me out. Right?

  I mentally chastised myself: Chill, Megan. I hadn’t had a date since I’d joined the force, but so what? I had more important things to deal with at the moment. I collapsed my baton, returned it to my belt, and took a deep breath to calm my nerves.

  The chief’s secretary, a middle-aged brunette wearing a poly-blend dress, sat at her desk typing a report into the computer. She had twice as much butt as chair, her thighs draping over the sides of the seat. But who could blame her? Judging from the photos on her desk, she’d squeezed out three children in rapid succession. Having grown up in a family of five kids, I knew mothers had little time to
devote to themselves when their kids were young and constantly needed Mommy to feed them, clean up their messes, and bandage their various boo-boos. She wore no jewelry, no makeup, and no nail polish. The chief deserved credit for not hiring a younger, prettier, better-accessorized woman for the job. Obviously, she’d been hired for her mad office skills. She’d handled a half-dozen phone calls in the short time I’d been waiting and her fingers moved over the keyboard at such a speedy pace it was a miracle her hands didn’t burst into flame. Whatever she was being paid, it wasn’t enough.

  The woman’s phone buzzed again and she punched her intercom button. “Yessir?” She paused a moment. “I’ll send her in.” She hung up the phone and turned to me. “The chief is ready for you.”

  “Thanks.” I stood on wobbly legs.

  Will the chief take my badge today?

  Is my career in law enforcement over?

  I turned the knob and stepped into the doorway, a dozen eyes on me. Two of the eyes belonged to Chief Garelik. The other ten were lifeless glass spheres inserted into the various animal heads mounted on the wall, including a sixteen-point buck, a mountain lion, and an enormous gaping trout. Given the abundance of wood paneling and taxidermy, the room looked more like a hunting lodge than a government office. Two long windows looked out on to downtown Fort Worth, the clock tower of the Tarrant County Courthouse visible a block away. Situated between the windows was a bookcase boasting framed snapshots of the chief in camouflage coveralls crouched next to a fresh, bloody kill. In another, the chief held a dead duck by the neck while the Big Dick stood next to him, his red burr cut flaming in the sunshine, his arm draped over the chief’s shoulders.

  No doubt about it. The chief was a man’s man.

  I’d met Chief Garelik only once before, at the induction ceremony for the officers in my training class. After administering the police officer’s oath, he’d made his way down the line, shaking hands, pinning badges on uniforms, giving each new officer a stiff salute. Today he sat in an oversized leather chair behind an enormous oak desk, a collection of hunting rifles mounted in a rack behind him. The chief was broad and bulky, with a complexion best described as Spam-like, red and ruddy, with visible lines of broken capillaries on his cheeks and around his nose. High blood pressure would be my guess. Serving as police chief in a city of three-quarters of a million people wasn’t exactly a low-stress job.