Read Tara Holloway 01 - Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure for Free Online Page B

and Alicia and I headed out.
    She glanced back. “He’s checking out your ass now.”
    “And?”
    “He’s smiling.”

 
    CHAPTER FOUR
    The Men of My Dreams
    When I returned home, I slipped out of my jewelry, dress, and heels, and walked into my bathroom. The white tile floor was covered with cat litter, Henry having kicked most of it out of the box as usual. After sweeping up Henry’s mess with a whisk broom, washing my face, and brushing my teeth, I donned my standard not-the-least-bit-sexy sleepwear—old gray gym shorts with an unraveling hem and an oversized burnt-orange T-shirt with the head of a longhorn steer, my college mascot, emblazoned across the front.
    My days at UT had been hard work, but they’d also been a blast. I’d shocked my fellow accounting majors by joining the campus chapter of the NRA. While the other students relieved their stress with shots of tequila at local bars, I’d head over to an indoor firing range near campus to take some shots of a different variety. Nothing like squeezing off a few rounds to take the edge off prefinals jitters. I still hit the firing range on a regular basis, partly to keep my aim accurate, partly to relieve the stress of my job.
    I climbed into bed, snuggling under the soft quilt with Anne curled up under the covers beside me. As I settled in, the cut on my arm began to throb again and my mind replayed the day’s events over and over like ESPN after a ninety-yard touchdown.
    I could’ve been killed today. As in dead. As in my ghost forever roaming among the bargain racks at Neiman’s with unfinished business, still searching for that perfect pair of red stilettos.
    Grabbing a novel from my night table, I read for a few minutes in a vain attempt to take my mind off Jack Battaglia and his box cutter. Eventually I turned out the light and stared up at my ceiling fan through the dim moonlight coming through the window, hoping to bore myself to sleep. I finally drifted off, only to spend a fitful night in dark, frantic dreams, fumbling to free my gun from its holster while fighting off dozens of huge, hairy men wearing green jumpsuits and wielding box cutters.
    *   *   *
    Sunday afternoon, when Mom and Dad would have returned home from church, eaten lunch, and finished cleaning up the dishes, I called home. Annie climbed onto my lap as I sat down on the couch with the phone. I scratched her under the chin and she thanked me with a soft purr.
    After the usual preliminaries, Mom said, “You met someone, didn’t you?” Mom was a regular Madame Cleo.
    “How can you tell?”
    “You sound happy, honey.”
    “Don’t I usually sound happy?”
    “Okay. Happier, then.”
    I told her all about Brett. Well, I told her everything I knew about Brett, which really wasn’t much. He was a landscape architect. Grew up in Dallas. Had gorgeous green eyes that could cause a girl’s panties to burst into flame. Of course that’s not precisely how I put it. Nice eyes, I said.
    “How’s work?”
    I snorted. “You’ll get a kick out of this.” I told my mother about Battaglia, the box cutter, my perfect shot.
    Mom was quiet a moment. When she finally spoke again, equal parts worry and sarcasm tainted her words. “What part of that story was I supposed to get a kick out of?”
    Annie rolled over onto her back so I could scratch her chest now. “Come on, Mom. No need to get yourself worked up. The attack was a fluke thing.”
    “Lord, I hope so.”
    “Put Dad on the phone.” He’d understand.
    As expected, Dad was far more impressed than Mom, probably because he was the one who’d taught me how to handle a gun and figured my unerring aim was the direct result of his skilled instruction. “You shot the box cutter out of his hand? You shitting me?”
    “I shit you not.”
    “Atta girl.”
    I beamed. An “atta girl” was the highest compliment a father could bestow on a daughter.
    As we ended the call, Mom made me promise to keep my doors locked at night and