CHAPTER ONE

This Is What Happens When Rednecks Have Too Much Time on Their Hands


"Damn." I dropped the phone back into its cradle on my desk. I needed help on a case, but it seemed no one was available this afternoon. I'd called every special agent in the Dallas IRS Criminal Investigations office.
Make that every special agent but one.
That one sat directly across the hall, his cowboy boots propped on his desk, his right hand rhythmically squeezing a blue stress ball as he eyed me. I sat at my desk, pretending not to notice.
Why didn't I want Nick Pratt working on this case with me? Because the guy had whiskey-colored eyes that drank a girl in, an ass you could bounce a quarter off of, and more sex appeal than George Clooney, Brad Pitt, and Johnny Depp combined.
I realize these factors might all sound like reasons to want to work with him. Problem was, I was in a committed relationship with a wonderful guy and, despite that fact, wasn't entirely sure I could resist temptation.
Better not put myself to the test, right?
My usual partner, Eddie Bardin, had received an unexpected temporary promotion to acting director three weeks ago when doctors found a spot on the right lung of our boss, Lu Lobozinski. Lu had taken time off for her chemotherapy treatments and recovery, appointing Eddie to take her place until she was able to return.
Eddie's temporary promotion left me to handle a buttload of cases all on my own. And not just any old buttload, but cases that had been purposely put on the back burner for years because each case was guaranteed to be a major pain in the ass.
One of the biggest of these cases involved an eighty-three-year-old chicken rancher who'd served seven consecutive terms as president of a radical secessionist group. Another involved a popular, charismatic preacher who financed a lavish lifestyle via his congregants' tax-deductible donations to his megachurch. It was almost enough to send me back to my boring old job at the CPA firm.
But not quite.
The phone on my desk rang. The caller ID readout displayed the name N PRATT.
Dang. No way I could ignore the guy now. It would be too obvious.
I looked across the hall as I picked up the phone. Nick looked back at me, one thick brown brow raised. How the guy could look so damn sexy in a plain white dress shirt and basic tan slacks was beyond me. Maybe it was the oversized gold horseshoe-shaped belt buckle that did it, drawing attention to his nether regions like a flashing neon sign that said WANNA GET LUCKY?
"Big Bob's Bait Bucket," I said in my best Southern twang. "We got whatcha need if whatcha need is worms."
You got me. I'm a bit of a smart-ass. But I had spent two summers in high school working for Big Bob. Minimum wage plus all the free nightcrawlers I wanted. Which was none.
Nick shot me a pointed look across the hall. "Why haven't you asked me to help you?"
Because you make my girlie parts quiver in a very unprofessional manner. But I couldn't very well tell him that, now could I? Better think quick, Tara.
"You looked ... um..." Gorgeous? Sexy as hell? Absolutely boinkable? I went with, "Busy."
He grinned, flashing his chipped tooth, an imperfection that somehow only added to his primal appeal. "I fake it pretty good, don't I? That's how I got fast-tracked to senior special agent."
Nick's career as a special agent with the IRS had indeed been meteoric, at least until three years ago when he'd been forced to flee the country or die at the hands of Marcos Mendoza, a violent, money-laundering tax cheat.
Luckily for Nick, Lu had later assigned me and Eddie to renew the case against...