Death, Taxes, and Peach Sangria (32 page)

I crossed my fingers, hoping for a gun rather than a bomb. I hoped, too, that if I
was blown to smithereens Nick would wait a respectable amount of time after my demise—say
a decade or two—before returning to the dating scene.

As the car drew up beside mine, I looked over to see a thirtyish Arab man at the wheel.
He raised a semiautomatic, but I’d raised my gun faster.

Neener-neener.

The man emitted a cry of surprise and reflexively threw up his hands to shield himself
while simultaneously pulling the trigger. A stupid move.

Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop!

He ended up shooting out his own windshield and sending a few bullets through the
top of his car. As the shattered glass rained back in on him, he involuntarily jerked
the wheel, swerving head-on into the blunt end of a concrete barrier protecting the
construction zone. His hood crumpled with a metallic
crunch
and the air bag deployed with a powdery
poom!

“Shit! Was that gunfire?” the cop hollered through my phone speaker.

Sure as shootin’.
“Yep.”

The cop activated his siren, the
woo-woo
coming both through my phone and from his spot in traffic somewhere behind me.

Taking advantage of what would be a short window of opportunity, I whipped into the
lane ahead of the SUV, shoved the gearshift into park, and ran to the driver’s window.
The guy flailed in the seat, fighting the air bag and screaming in Arabic. I yanked
my cuffs from the pocket of my blazer, grabbed his left arm, and snapped the cuff
onto it, jerking his arm up and out of the window, clicking the other end of the cuffs
to the vehicle’s luggage rack. Unless this asshole could drag the entire car with
him, he wouldn’t be going anywhere.

The air bag deflated and sagged down now, revealing my stalker. A quick glance inside
told me he’d dropped the gun onto the floorboard at his feet during the chaos. Cursing,
he yanked on his shackled arm and, when he realized he’d have no chance of escape,
turned a death glare on me.

I gave him a big smile as I aimed my gun at him. “Howdy!” I hollered over the approaching
siren.

He threw an ineffective swing at me with his right hand, managing only to get his
body turned cockeyed in the seat.

“Sit still,” I ordered.

He didn’t obey. Instead, he righted himself and jerked his head around, desperately
seeking his semiautomatic.

“If you reach for your gun,” I warned him, taking a step closer, “I’ll shoot you.”

He ignored me again, apparently spotting his gun and reaching down to the floorboard
with his free hand.

At this point, I had a couple of options. One, I could do as promised and shoot the
guy, fill out yet another firearm discharge report, and face yet another internal
inquiry. Or two, I could figure out another way to keep the guy from reaching his
gun.

I went for option two. I’m nothing if not resourceful.

With his left arm cuffed to the luggage rack, the man’s armpit was exposed. I reached
out and tickled him. He shrieked, twisted in his seat, and slapped my fingers away.
The instant he reached down for his weapon again, I tickled him a second time. He
shrieked and slapped again. Say what you will about this rudimentary method, but tickle
torture was an effective technique and far less controversial than waterboarding.
Maybe they should add the tickle torture technique to the special agent manual.

The cruiser pulled to a screeching stop behind the wrecked vehicle, lights twirling.
The officer cut the siren and leaped from the car, his gun drawn.

As he approached I cut my eyes his way for a quick second. “I’m good here. We just
need to get the gun out of his reach. It’s on the floor by his feet.”

“I’m on it.”

While I continued to offer the driver an occasional corrective tickle, the cop exchanged
the gun in his hand for his baton. He opened the passenger door and leaned inside,
exhibiting his nightstick at my would-be killer. “No funny business or this baton
goes up your ass. Comprende, kimosabe?”

The officer reached across the space to retrieve the gun. Despite the threats of a
baton enema, the man kicked at the cop and stomped down on his hand as he grabbed
the gun. The officer treated my stalker to a well-deserved elbow strike to the gut,
followed by a nightstick to the face. The seasoned curly fries in my stomach churned
when I heard the unmistakable
thwop
of metal meeting flesh.

Our captive grimaced in pain, a diagonal red welt forming on his cheek. “Death to
you!” he cried. “Death to you all!”

How rude. Clearly he had never attended class at Miss Cecily’s Charm School.

*   *   *

An hour later, I was sprawled out on my sofa, the man who had planned to end my life
was on his way to jail, and the man who made my life worth living was on the phone,
congratulating me on a job well done.

“You’re quite a woman, Tara Holloway,” Nick said. “Are you sure you don’t have a big
pair of balls hidden somewhere?”

“Quite sure,” I replied. “Just a pair of steel-plated ovaries.”

Nick was quiet a moment. When he spoke, his voice had become serious. “Need some comfort?”

I’d have loved nothing more than for Nick to come over and hold me all night like
he did the last time I’d faced down a violent attacker. Hell, I could barely hang
on to the phone with my hand shaking so uncontrollably. But no, I shouldn’t take him
up on his offer. Not until I gave Brett fair warning. If Nick took me in his arms,
I’d have a damn difficult time resisting him. “I’ll settle for a big glass of sangria
instead.”

“All right,” Nick said, frustration in his voice. “But if you change your mind, the
offer stands. Just call me back. It doesn’t matter what time it is.”

“Thanks, Nick. You don’t know how much that means to me.”

“You’re right,” he said. “I don’t.”

I let his dig slide. Under the circumstances, I couldn’t much blame him for feeling
frustrated and unsure. Hell, I felt the same way.

I phoned Eddie next and gave him the rundown.

“A semiautomatic?” my partner said. “I would’ve shit myself.”

“Ew,” I said. “But, yes, I managed to remain unsoiled throughout the encounter.” Thank
heaven for my outstanding sphincter control.

“You sound exhausted,” Eddie said. “Want me to get in touch with Wang and Zardooz
for you?”

The adrenaline crash had indeed kicked in, leaving me totally wiped out, physically
and mentally. “That would be great.”

We ended the call and I headed for the pitcher of sangria in the refrigerator.

chapter thirty-three

Petty Theft and Heartbreak

Friday morning, I took a shower and rummaged around in my nearly empty underwear drawer
for a pair of clean panties. The only remaining pairs were my Monday and Thursday
panties. I opted for the Monday pair, slipped them on, and finished dressing.

As Alicia took her shower shortly thereafter, I snuck into my guest room and looked
around for her jewelry. I found it in a small case on top of the dresser.

She often wore a gold birthstone ring her grandmother had bought for her birthday
years before. I rummaged around in the case until I found it and slid it into a small
cardboard box that had earlier contained a pair of costume jewelry earrings I’d picked
up at the mall. I went downstairs, slid the box into the inside pocket of my purse,
and zipped the pocket safely closed.

My petty theft now completed, I wandered into the kitchen to make coffee. I found
a brand-new canister in the pantry, between a fresh loaf of bread and a large can
of organic tomato soup. Alicia had been grocery shopping again, God bless her. Now
if I could just convince her to do my laundry before she moved back in with Daniel …

Alicia wandered down a few minutes later while I was feeding my cats. “Good. You found
the coffee I bought.”

“I did. Thanks.”

Alicia was far more organized and domestic than I was. While I made do, she made beds
and lists.

I set a bowl of tuna pâté on the floor in front of Henry. He shot me a look of disgust
and angrily swished his bushy brown tail back and forth to let me know he wasn’t impressed
by either the speed of my service or the quality of food I served.

“Oh, yeah?” I told the cat. “Bite me.”

He did, damn him. Luckily it was only a warning bite, a quick nip to let me know who
was boss.

Him.

Alicia shook her head as she poured a mug of coffee. “I don’t know why you put up
with that brat. You should send him to obedience school.”

“They don’t have obedience school for cats.”

“Really?” She took a sip of coffee. “They should.”

I retrieved a loaf of bread from the pantry. “Want some toast?”

She declined. I loaded two slices into the toaster and pushed the button down.

“Have you happened to see my ring?” Alicia asked, checking the pockets on her bathrobe.
“The one with my birthstone in it? I can’t find it anywhere.”

Uh-oh.
Afraid my eyes might give me away, I peeked into the toaster so she couldn’t see
my face. “Nope, haven’t seen it. It’s probably back at your apartment.”

“No, I’m pretty sure I brought it here.”

I shrugged. “Maybe you left it in your desk at work.”

“I suppose that’s possible,” she said, though she looked skeptical. “I hope I didn’t
lose it. That was my favorite ring.”

I fought a smile, knowing she’d soon have a new favorite.

When the toaster ejected my breakfast, I slathered the bread with apricot jelly and
took a seat at the table across from Alicia.

“So, tonight, huh?” she said.

I nodded. I knew exactly what she was referring to. My talk with Brett.

“I’m guessing you want me to make myself scarce?”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“No problem. A couple of the girls at work suggested we try a new martini bar in the
West End tonight. I’ll take them up on it. I’ve heard the place makes a fabulous lemon
drop.”

A lemon drop martini sounded almost as good as the peach sangria.

*   *   *

An hour later, Daniel met me in front of the IRS building.

“What happened to your lip?” he asked.

Though I’d removed the butterfly bandage, the darn thing was still swollen and sore.
“A TSA agent tackled me in the airport. I did a total face-plant.” Of course the TSA
agent was nothing compared to the crazed terrorist who’d come after me last night.

“You’re insane,” Daniel said. “I don’t know why you stay in that job. It’s too dangerous.”

Staying at Martin and McGee would have been riskier. If I had to explain the concept
of depreciation recapture to one more client, I would’ve jumped out the window.

I pulled the ring from my purse and handed it to him. “Alicia already noticed it’s
missing. I hate to make her worry.”

“I’ll stop by the jeweler’s today,” he said. “I can have it back to you by tonight.”
He stuck the box in the inside pocket of his coat jacket and removed a glossy page
he’d torn from a Tiffany’s jewelry catalog. He unfolded the paper and held it out
to me. “This is the one I’ve been looking at.”

The ring was platinum, featuring a brilliant-cut diamond with baguettes encircling
the remainder of the band. The price tag was fourteen grand.

“Whoa!” I said. “That’s more than I paid for my car.” I’d gotten a sweet deal on my
BMW at a government auction.

“Think she’ll like it?” Daniel asked.

“Like it? Are you nuts? That ring is gorgeous! She’ll
love
it.”

He grinned.

Nick came up the walk then.

“Gotta go,” I told Daniel.

I fell into step next to Nick and flashed him a smile. “Tonight’s the night.”

The hot look Nick gave me nearly melted my Monday panties. Really, I needed to get
on that laundry.

“What happened to your lip?” he asked.

Both of us had been out of the office a lot lately and he hadn’t seen me since before
the airport incident. I told him what happened. Unlike Brett, Nick took my on-the-job
injuries a little more in stride.

His eyes flickered to my lip again and his own lip quirked up in a small smile. “It’s
kind of sexy all red and swollen like that.”

I felt a rush of heat to my girlie regions.

We made our way through the security checkpoint and into the elevator. A woman rode
up two floors with us, then stepped off, leaving us alone.

Nick glanced over at me. “You look nervous.”

No wonder. My mind was thinking of Nick, of his lips kissing mine, of what it would
be like once he and I could finally be together.

He cocked his head. “You feeling guilty about breaking up with Brett?”

I shook my head. “Not really. Telling him we need to take a break and explore other
options is the right thing to do.”

“What?” Nick’s eyes flashed. “What did you say?”

Uh-oh.
The fire in Nick’s eyes told me he was royally pissed, but I wasn’t sure why. “I
said that taking a break is the right thing for me and Brett to do.”

“’Taking a break’?” He grunted. “So not breaking up outright, then.”

“Well, not yet,” I said, giving Nick a knowing smile. “But I expect that’s coming.”

Nick turned away, staring at the back of the elevator door, his jaw flexing as he
ground his teeth. “You told me you were breaking up with him, Tara. Now I find out
that you’re keeping your options open with him. What the hell?”

I stepped in front of Nick, forcing him to look at me. “There’s no real difference,
Nick. If you and I work out—”

“
If
we work out you’ll break things off for good with Brett?”

“Right.”

Nick closed his eyes and shook his head. He opened them back up and pinned me with
his gaze. “Dammit, Tara, this is not what we agreed to.”

I racked my brain, trying to recall the exact wording of our previous conversations.
Heck, I had no idea how I’d phrased things back at Bulls-Eye, when Jimmy John had
his guns trained on us. I’d been more than a little flustered. “Why are you so upset,
Nick? I’m telling you that I’m giving us a try, that I hope things work out with us.”