Tara Holloway 03 - Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray (21 page)

Dad eyed the shotgun in Nick’s hands. “So you’re the one who outbid me.”

“Sorry, sir,” Nick said. “But I’ve got something very precious to protect.” He glanced my way.

I tried not to swoon.

“We were heading out to lunch,” my mother told Nick. “Would you like to join us?”

Nick glanced my way again, but ignored the shake of my head. “That’s mighty nice of you, Mrs. Holloway. I’ll take you up on that offer.”

We headed out to the parking lot, Mom and I walking ahead of the men, who were discussing the weapons they’d just picked up.

Mom looked back at Nick. “He sure is one good-looking cowboy,” she whispered. “I can tell he’s sweet on you, too. He lit up like an offshore rig when he saw you.”

I shrugged. Whether Nick was sweet on me or not was irrelevant. So why did the thought give me such a thrill?

“I’m in a committed relationship with Brett, remember?” A troubled relationship at the moment, but committed nonetheless. “Just a few days ago you were suggesting I scout churches for our wedding.”

“Perhaps I was a bit hasty,” Mom said, taking another glimpse back at Nick and fanning herself again. “It never hurts to play the field before you settle down for good.”

True. But that strategy could backfire, too. If I slowed things down with Brett to give Nick a try, I could end up losing both of them.

A few minutes later, my parents, Nick, and I were seated at a booth in a nearby café. Mom and Dad sat on one side, Nick and I on the other. Nick’s arm was draped across the top of the booth behind me, a casual yet familiar gesture that caught my dad’s eye. He shot me a questioning look. I pretended not to notice. Heck, I had a lot of questions myself. One of which was, how much longer could I resist this sexy cowboy’s charms? Just having him sitting beside me had my girlie parts on alert.

Nick and Dad talked easily. Not surprising, I suppose. They’d had similar upbringings. Both were farm boys, both were former high school linebackers, both were diehard Cowboys fans. Just three weeks until the preseason games. Not to mention the cheerleaders in their skimpy halter tops, hot pants, and white go-go boots.

Mom asked Nick about his family. Nick noted that he lived with his mother but was looking for a place of his own.

“’Course I haven’t been in too much of a hurry,” Nick said. “It’s nice having someone to clean up after me and do the cooking. My mother makes the best chicken-fried steak in Texas.”

Dad set his tumbler of tea back down on the table. “That’s pure blasphemy, son,” he said jovially. “Tara’s mother makes the best chicken-fried steak in the Lone Star State.”

“It’s true,” I said.

Nick’s gaze locked on my face. “Well, then. You’ll have to come over for dinner, judge for yourself.”

Backed myself into that corner, didn’t I?

“Mom’s been wanting to meet you,” Nick added. “To thank you in person for what you did for me.”

Dad sat up rigid in his seat. “And what was that, exactly?” He looked from Nick to me, waiting for an explanation.

I’d told my parents that I’d driven to Mexico to retrieve an agent who’d been stranded down there. But I hadn’t exactly told them I’d smuggled the guy back across the border in the toolbox of a pickup truck. They knew I did some crazy things, but risking jail time to transport a wanted fugitive went beyond my usual level of crazy.

I tried to send Nick a telepathic message with my eyes.

Fortunately, the guy could read me like a book. “She gave me a ride when I needed one,” he said simply.

Dad’s expression was skeptical, but he didn’t push the matter further.

Nick, however, didn’t stop pushing me. “You don’t have plans for Sunday night, right? I’ll tell her we’ll come for dinner then.”

Before I could protest, my mother chimed in. “That would be lovely.”

I shot my mother a look across the table. She responded by batting her eyes at me and fanning herself again with the paddle.

*   *   *

After lunch, Nick offered to give me a ride to the office so my parents could head on home to Nacogdoches without having to backtrack through Dallas traffic.

I gave each of my parents a hug and kiss on the cheek. Dad gave Nick’s hand a shake, as did Mom. She tossed me one final raised brow as she and Dad climbed into their truck.

Nick opened the passenger door on his pickup and held out a hand to help me inside. He made his way around the bed, climbed in the driver’s side, and stuck the keys in the ignition, but he didn’t start the engine. Instead, he glanced over at me. “Think I passed muster?”

“What do you mean?”

“With your parents. Did they like me?”

He’d passed with flying colors. Heck, I think my mother had a crush on the guy. Still, whether my parents liked him or not didn’t matter, did it? “What’s it matter?”

“It would be nice to know they’ve got no objections to me,” he said, “seein’ as how I’m bound and determined to make you my woman.”

An instant blush warmed my face. “They liked you just fine.” I turned away, away from his sexy grin, away from those soulful, whiskey-colored eyes. “I really wish you’d stop talking like this. It makes me uncomfortable.”

“Why?”

I turned back. “You’re trying to get me to cheat on my boyfriend. What does that say about you, Nick?”

He was the one who blushed now, but it was with red-hot anger. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” he said adamantly. “I’m not trying to get you to cheat on Brett. I’m just trying to make you realize there might be someone better suited for you.”

“You, you mean?”

“Maybe,” Nick said. “Maybe not. Hell, you won’t know unless you give it a shot, will you? But Tara, whether things work out with us or not, I still think Brett’s the wrong guy for you.”

“Can we stop talking about this?” I shouted, angry now, too. “My personal life is none of your damn business!”

Nick looked taken aback. “All righty, then. Does this mean I shouldn’t ask what the hell’s wrong with your eye?”

“No!”

We drove back to the office in silence.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

My Human Security Blanket

Ross faxed me a copy of the restraining order later that afternoon. Another copy was on its way to the Buchmeyers’ place, along with instructions for copies to be distributed to every member of the Lone Star Nation. None of them was to come within three hundred feet of me. Little consolation given that many rifles had a range much longer than three hundred feet. But maybe it would scare off any crazy True Texans intent on invading my home.

Brett and I talked via Skype Thursday night, but the conversation felt awkward and strained. Not surprising. My feelings were all over the place. Why had Brett agreed to let Trish pick up his mail and water his plants? Didn’t he realize that was inappropriate? Or was I being too old-fashioned, assuming a man and woman couldn’t be just friends?

Who was right and who was wrong?

I had no idea.

Things with Brett used to seem so simple. Now our relationship felt as confusing and complicated as the tax code.

“Any chance you could take a day or two off from work and fly out to Atlanta?” Brett asked. “There’s a beautiful rose garden in Fernbank Forest. You’d love it.”

As much as I’d love to see Brett in person and try to get things between us back on track, the timing wouldn’t work. “I wish I could,” I said, “but I can’t. Work’s too busy right now.”

His brow furrowed and he stared at me from the screen for a few seconds, concern in his eyes. “Okay,” he said finally. “I miss you. A lot.” He reached a hand out to touch his screen, as if attempting to connect physically with me through cyberspace.

I returned the gesture, but all I felt was the cold, hard surface. “I miss you, too.”

When we ended the call, I sat for a moment with my eyes closed, willing things between me and Brett to return to normal.

Nick phoned at ten to let me know he was in the driveway. “Didn’t want to scare you by knocking on the door unannounced.”

I went to the door and let him and Nutty in with only an angry glance. Make that an angry
one-eyed
glance. I’d affixed a warm, moist teabag over the other with gauze tape. Still, as mad as I still was at Nick for questioning my relationship with Brett, I had to admit it was nice to have a bodyguard in case the kooks from the Ark or the Lone Star Nation tried to pull anything tonight. I had no doubt Nick could dispatch any intruder in short order. His presence made me feel more relaxed, too. He was like a human security blanket.

“What’s that on your eye?” Nick asked.

“A teabag,” I said. “My mother says it’ll get rid of the sty.”

“Lord, I hope so. That thing’s hideous.”

I knew his jibe was a joke, his way of trying to force me to engage with him. But I refused to jump to the bait.

We sat at opposite ends of the couch with Nutty lying between us. Nick unpackaged his new shotgun and looked it over as I watched the news in silence. An armed robbery at a convenience store in south Dallas had left the clerk with a bullet in the leg but, fortunately, he was expected to make a full recovery. The Dow-Jones Industrial Average was down nine points. Another bomb exploded in the Middle East.

Trish’s usual happy-feel-good segment came on near the end of the newscast. She offered a brief live introduction from her seat in the studio, then the image cut to footage filmed earlier today. In the recorded clip she wore a frilly pink apron over a pink top and white jeans. Small, giggling children flanked her on both sides. Apparently, she’d spent the day baking carrot cupcakes with a local kindergarten class learning about nutrition. They’d topped their healthy cupcakes with natural honey instead of frosting.

I fought the urge to heave a lamp through the television screen.

Trish knelt down, put an arm around the tiny pigtailed girl next to her, and smiled at the camera. “As you can see, the cupcakes aren’t the only sweet things around here.” She gave the viewers an exaggerated wink with an overly made-up eye.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I stood and made my way to the stairs.

Nick’s voice came from behind me, soft but sure. “You should’ve shot her while you had the chance.”

I didn’t dare turn around, knowing he’d be able to read my mind from the expression on my face.

He’d said just the right thing.

God help me, I could fall hard for the guy.

*   *   *

An hour later, I was still awake, lying in my bed, trying to count sheep but instead distracted by the confusing mess my life had become. Work sucked. I wasn’t sure where Brett and I stood. And my swollen eye itched like crazy. Damn sty. The teabag hadn’t helped a bit.

A creak sounded from the stairway. The third step making its usual protest as Nick climbed the stairs.

I heard him in the hallway outside my bedroom, then the noise stopped. I opened my good eye just a tiny slit to see him standing in my dark doorway. He said nothing, probably assuming I was asleep by now. He stood there for several seconds, watching me, before finally heaving a sigh and turning to go into the guest room.

*   *   *

A low growl woke me at three
A.M.
Nutty. It sounded as if he were downstairs.

I grabbed my Glock from my nightstand, climbed out of bed, and tiptoed into the hallway, nearly running into Nick, who’d come out of the guest room to investigate. He wore nothing but a pair of plaid boxers, but he held the shotgun in his hand.

“Go back to your room,” he whispered. “I’ll check things out.”

“No!” I whispered back. “I’m coming with you.” I wasn’t about to cower in fear from crazy rednecks or religious zealots. Of course I might not have felt so courageous if Nick wasn’t there with me.

Nick let out a frustrated huff. “At least stay behind me then, okay?”

Not a bad idea. Big as he was, Nick would make a darn good human shield if anyone opened fire.

He flattened himself against the wall and tiptoed down the stairs. Instinctively, I put a hand on his shoulder. I wasn’t sure if it was for reassurance or simply to help guide me down the stairs, but either way his warm, muscular shoulder felt nice under my fingers.

Creak.
The third step from the bottom gave a bit under his weight.

A couple more steps and we were on the ground floor. By then, Nutty was scratching at my back door, his loud growls interspersed with woofs.

We crept through the kitchen in a crouch. Nick pulled back the curtain at the window over the sink and looked outside. The back porch light was on, but the far corners of my small yard were in shadow. It took a few seconds for our eyes to adjust. When they did, I could just make out a face above the metal utility box in the corner, eyes shining.

“Oh, my God!” I gasped. “There’s someone back there!”

Was it someone from the Lone Star Nation?

Nick dashed to the back door, threw it open, and aimed the shotgun at the would-be intruder. “Put your hands up!”

Nutty scrambled out the door, stopped to sniff the air, then ran to the box, leaping up on it and barking to raise the dead.

I went to the back door. My next-door neighbor flipped on her floodlights and we could clearly see the prowler’s face now. He had beady eyes, a pointy nose, and long whiskers.

A possum.

Sheez.

“Holy hell,” Nick spat, lowering his gun. “It’s just a varmint.”

The possum blinked his eyes. For a flea-bitten rodent, the thing was actually kind of cute.

My neighbor came to the fence and stuck her head over it. “What’s going on?” Her eyes went from me to Nick. They stayed on Nick.

“We thought someone was prowling around back here,” I told her. “Turns out it was just a possum.”

The poor creature was terrified, frozen in position on top of the metal box. Luckily it was too high up for Nutty to quite reach him.

“Sorry to wake you,” I apologized to my neighbor.

“No problem.” She took one last, longing glance at Nick before heading back into her town house.

Nick grabbed Nutty by the collar and dragged him back inside. I followed them.