Tara Holloway 03 - Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray by Diane Kelly

seeing him in person. No shoulder rub, no snuggling on the couch, no nooky.
    Waah.
    I told Brett about my visit to the Ark, but chose not to mention that Nick had attended the service with me. Why ask for trouble, right? Brett would be none too happy if he knew I’d be working closely with Nick, but there was nothing I could do about it. Sure, Nick was hotter than a jalapeño pepper, but I was beginning to see beyond his yummy exterior to the man underneath. And while I respected Nick’s take-charge style, I didn’t so much appreciate it when the thing he was taking charge of was my case. Then again, he did have more experience than I did. Maybe I should set aside my simmering resentment and appreciate his help. He could be a good mentor.
    “I shot a 78 today,” Brett said, a grin spreading across his face.
    “That’s wonderful.” I assumed it must be a good score since he seemed happy about it, but honestly I had no idea. I’d never played enough golf to learn much about the game. “I shot ninety-nine percent at the firing range.” It would’ve been perfect had Nick not bent over that one time. His ass had been quite a distraction.
    “Looks like it was a good day for both of us.”
    Oh, yeah.
    We chatted for a few more minutes, then wound up the conversation since it was growing late.
    “I’ll call you tomorrow night,” he promised from my laptop’s computer screen.
    “Nighty night.” I raised my sleep shirt and flashed my bare breasts at the Webcam.
    He groaned and sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. “That was really unfair.”
    “Just wanted to remind you what you’re missing.”
    *   *   *
    I stopped by the doc-in-a-box Monday morning. My stitches had pulled loose, and the area had become pink and puffy and oozy. Ick.
    Ajay frowned when he looked at my thigh. “You had wild monkey sex, didn’t you? Against my direct orders?”
    “No,” I lied.
    He gave me a stern look under his dark brows while he injected a local anesthetic. He removed the original stitches, cleaned the area with antiseptic, and stitched me back up. He handed me a prescription for an antibiotic and told me to come back in two weeks to have the stitches removed. “No lollipop today. You’ve been a bad girl.”
    Darn. But at least I wouldn’t have to worry about the new stitches coming loose. With Brett off in Atlanta, I wouldn’t be getting any sex, wild monkey or otherwise.
    When I arrived at work, I passed Josh’s office. He stood in front of his bookshelf, carefully positioning what appeared to be a hardback copy of The New English Dictionary between volumes of the Internal Revenue Code . I slowed and glanced into the trash can by his door. Sure enough, there was an empty box in the bin, one for a nanny cam designed to look like a book. He was bound and determined to discover who’d been stealing his Twinkies. Looked like my days of pilfering snacks from his desk were over.
    I continued on to my office, took a seat, and pulled the church bulletin out of my purse. The note about the women’s retreat was tempting. I sure could go for a day of whirlpools, aromatherapy, and a mani/pedi. But the trip cost $750 per person. Out of my price range. I wondered if I could sell Eddie on the idea, convince him the retreat would somehow help me with the case and that the IRS should fund it. Probably not. The guy wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t a pushover, either, except where his wife and twin daughters were concerned.
    I flipped to the back of the bulletin and placed a call to the mortgage broker who’d posted her ad there. After holding for a minute or two, her secretary put me through. I introduced myself and she asked me some questions about my existing mortgage loan and credit history.
    “Current rates for someone with your good credit would be a percent and a half less than what you’re paying now.” She quickly ran some figures. “Refinancing would reduce your monthly payment by roughly a hundred