Bootscootin' and Cozy Cash Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-6)

by Scott, D. D.

“So that’s the thanks I get for getting you a tow and an estimate?” Zayne waved for the waitress to come to the table. “You want anything to eat or would you rather bite my head off?”

  “Is the latter option on special?”

  Roxy pulled a menu out of the holder in the middle of the table. She slammed it down in front of Zayne — like he needed to see what his own restaurant offered to eat — then grabbed it before it slid onto the floor. Putting her palms on the tabletop, she pushed herself to her feet, determined not to subject herself to more of his bullshit.

  Zayne placed his weather-worn hands on hers, stopping her cold. Shots of heated desire rushed up her arms then straight to her stomach.

  She pulled herself out of his grasp and massaged her knuckles, trying to stop the naughty tingles surging beneath her skin.

  “Sit down, Roxy.” His voice remained soft but with enough edge not be taken lightly. “I have an idea I think you’ll like.”

  “I doubt you could say or do anything I’d like.”

  Roxy sat, but not to amuse him. She was hungry. Keeping on the pressure for her gutsy girl act, she planted the toe of one shoe against his closest shinbone. She wasn’t about to let him think her guard was down just ‘cause her stomach was growling.

  “I didn’t hear you complaining when I kissed you,” he said then ordered each of them a Corona and fried pickles.

  “You were saved by the music.” So was she, Roxy thought. That kiss nearly knocked out her resolve to fight for her financial survival.

  Zayne reached under the table, repositioning her foot away from his leg. “Just in case you get any ideas.”

  Oh, she had ideas. The moment his hand touched hers then her foot, she had several delicious brainstorms. Too bad she didn’t have time to entertain those thoughts. And damn him for stirring them. How she could have a chemical attraction to a man that totally irritated the hell out of her was beyond comprehension. Perhaps she should schedule some quality time with her hormones.

  Taking her first swig from the bottleneck of her Corona, she shivered. The juice from the lime she’d shoved down the bottle still lingered on the rim, sending her tongue into a tart tizzy. She swallowed another gulp, trying to recompose her thoughts.

  “I still don’t get how city girls like you worship those God awful Cosmopolitans and can’t stomach a Corona,” Zayne said, watching her, before taking a long pull from his own bottle.

  “You’ve got more to worry about than my drinking habits, Tomato Man.” Roxy tapped her manicured fingers on the tabletop, wishing her plan to stay mad at him was as tough as her nail hardener.

  Zayne set down his beer bottle with a non-relenting clank, evidently abandoning the spirit of surrender. “I thought you’d be glad to get the estimate. Now we can work on settling our issue. Don’t you think?”

  “You just don’t get it, do you?” She slammed her own bottle against the table’s well-marred surface, fearful she’d cracked one or the other. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “Could of fooled me, princess,” he said, letting his eyes wander the length of her body before resting on the five carat ring her parents gave her last Christmas.

  Before taking time to think through the sting of his innuendo, she covered the obscenely large stone with her opposite hand. Just as quickly, with an even deeper instinctive urge, she uncovered the ring, letting the facets sparkle in their multi-carat glory.

  “I guess I can’t hide from my past. But I’m through with the high society money crowd. You know that. That’s why I came to Nashville. To make my own way,” Roxy said, flustered to have to relive this conversation. She’d told Zayne when she hit his truck that she was operating on loose change. “In your speak, cowboy, I’m trying to dance to my own tune.”

  Zayne leaned back in his chair, far enough that she got a great view of what might lay beneath his oh-so-tight-in-all-the-right-places Wranglers.

  “Look around, Roxy. Do you see anyone else as dolled up as you?” He turned his head about the room, eyeing the classic western crowd then turned his attention back toward her.

  “As a matter of fact, Wise Ass, I have studied this market,” she said, ripping off the corner of her napkin. “The pages of Country Weekly are filled with Nashville celebrities wearing the kinds of things I design. And I’m going to show the rest of the women in Music City they can get that look too but for a whole bunch less cash.”

  “What about your shoes? See any others like ‘em?” He asked then motioned for her to survey his patrons.

  “Nope. Didn’t think so. But now you’ve got a choice. You’ve got the boots you earned dancing with me. Those high-priced suckers you’re wearing now gotta be killing your feet. Although they’re sexy, I’ll give you that,” he said then winked at her. “I could get used to them if you’d keep them to yourself.”

  “If you wouldn’t piss me off, you wouldn’t have to worry about where I stick my feet,” she retorted, practically inhaling another gulp of Corona. She wiped a runaway dribble, catching it before it slid down her chin, not sure whether she was more mortified by his dismissal of her unique style or horrified that she’d missed her mouth, like an ill-mannered hillbilly. “I just have to find a way to bring Nashville to Raeve.”

  “I don’t think it’s a matter of getting folks to find Raeve. Your boutique sits in the rear corner of the tractor supply store for cripe’s sake.”

  “That was a low blow, Zayne McDonald.” She wadded up her napkin and tossed it into the center of her plate. Despite the fact she had several pickles left, she’d lost her appetite. “I’m only renting that space until I save enough money to move to Hillsboro Village.”

  “From the low number of people I hear you’re getting into Raeve, you need my mom in there if you expect to sign a Hillsboro lease.” Zayne signaled the waitress for another round and lifted his brow, as if trying to decide how to play his next hand.

  Too bad he had the world’s worst poker face. Roxy read him like a how-not-to manual.

  “I’m not catering to the whims of anyone but myself. Raeve is my creation, and no one’s going to dictate my styles. I don’t need your mother’s input.”

  “You should be thrilled to have Mom as part-time help. She’s been a damn good customer. And if she’s working there, her friends will stop by. I’d also hardly call her a dictator,” Zayne added, then laughed. “Not by your standards.”

  “My standards are exactly what’s at stake,” Roxy snapped back. “I’m not modifying my designs to match the money flow.”

  If she gave in now and brought his mother into Raeve, even as temporary help, she might succumb to the kind of woman she’d thought she’d left behind. The kind of women designers couldn’t afford to ignore if they planned to last past one collection. The kind of women who caused her toes to curl worse than they already were, shoved into her favorite pointed-toe stilettos.

  “Have it your way, princess. But I’m fixin’ to tell you a couple things.” Zayne leaned-in close, speaking in a hushed voice. “One, you can’t be controlled by someone unless you allow yourself to be. And two, if you want to make it in this town, you need Mom’s help.”

  Roxy bit the inside of her lip, chewing on what he’d said, knowing he was right, but too stubborn to admit as much without a struggle. “So what’s in this for you?”

  “It’s simple,” he said, even though his squirminess betrayed him.

  “This arrangement will benefit both of us,” he continued, poking at a piece of batter dislodged from a pickle slice. “You’ll pick up some business. And I’ll keep my mother out of mine.”

  He reached for her hands and squeezed them between his own, taking her out of the realm of coherent thought. “I need your help, Roxy. Mom adores you — and lucky for us, she doesn’t know you well enough to challenge her misguided notions.”

  “Keep it up, cowboy,” Roxy said, bouncing her foot ever-so-lightly off his kneecap while pulling her hands out of his grasp.

  She removed her napk
in from her plate and dunked a pickle wedge into the spicy Thousand Island dipping sauce, wishing she could attribute her tight grin to an acidic response to his comment. In truth, she couldn’t stand fried pickles. But dammit, she had to adjust to Nashville lifestyles, and developing a taste for fried pickles was a reasonable start. What she wouldn’t give for sushi.

  Zayne took a big bite of pickle, then double-dipped the bitten-off end into the sauce cup. “Mom also worships what you and she call Raeve’s element of style. Or something like that. Anyway, if I’m going to get this hybrid ready for the Tomato Festival, I’ve got to get her out of my way. I know she thinks hanging out at the farm every day until the saloon opens is showing me support. But she’s driving me nuts.”

  Okay. Call her a sucker. Well, a sucker for a good-looking tomato-growing, bootscootin’ cowboy.

  Considering how hard the farm store guys said he worked his dad’s farm, she had no reason to question his loyalty to his tomatoes. But she sure didn’t see the same spark in Zayne’s eyes when he talked tomatoes instead of bootscootin’. Held by the anxious waves in his dark, desperate eyes, though, her resistance was drowning.

  “Say something, would ya?” he begged her. “Your silence isn’t comforting.”

  “All right. I’ll accept your offer. Bu-” She couldn’t finish her ‘but’ for his cowboy hoot and holler. “I have a couple conditions,” she said, rubbing her ears to relieve the shrill shriek boomeranging off her eardrums.

  “Shit.” Zayne shoved another wedge of lime down the throat of the new Corona the waitress had delivered with his second basket of pickles. “I’m not gonna like this.”

  “Well, that’s more than fair,” Roxy said, tucking her hair behind her ears, twisting her pride as well as her split-ends, summonsing the courage to state her conditions. “I can’t afford to pay for your truck or your mother’s wages, so you’re truck’s just going to have to wait. I’ll get you the money as soon as I can. And despite wage and hour laws, your mom’s going to have to take her pay in merchandise.”

  Appearing somewhat relieved, Zayne repositioned himself in his chair. A smile formed across his lips, cocky and way too self-assured to mean good things were forthcoming.

  “So here’s my counteroffer. I’ll drive Mom to your boutique Monday — say around ten o’clock. Trust me, she’ll be thrilled to take her pay in your creations. And about my truck,” he said, his smile so confident, there was no way in hell he’d make it through the saloon’s entrance, despite the double-doors. “You’ll start as my Neon Cowboy dance partner next weekend, which means we’ll be practicing each Wednesday night at the farm.”

  He raised his eyebrows and nodded his head as if saying ‘damn I’m brilliant.’ “If you do that the rest of the year, consider the truck paid, and since you’re without a vehicle, you can use the truck ‘til you can afford to gets yours fixed.”

  Roxy struggled to swallow the last drop of her beer while her brain searched for an answer to his proposal. Her debt would be paid, and she wouldn’t have to get her car repaired right away or rent one, whatever was cheaper. She’d also have an excuse to bootscoot, and be Zayne’s partner, meaning he’d noticed she knew her way around his dance floor. Hmmm. Odd. She couldn’t come up with better alternatives.

  “So why not teach me here at the saloon?” She asked, pleased to see him squirm although distraught to note her body was also unable to remain at ease.

  Spending that much time alone with him at his farm, although titillating, would be treacherous. The last thing she needed to do was bring a cowboy home for Christmas in Manhattan. She’d be completely disowned. Although, that thought had merit.

  “Remember, I want our patrons to keep coming back because they’ve seen how well I teach. You need to be polished to perfection by the time you hit this dance floor,” Zayne said then pulled the original estimate out of his shirt pocket while his kiss me-or-kick me smirk returned.

  Damn she loved the confident spark in his eyes and how it bolstered that I’m-all-yours-Baby grin.

  “You know damn well I’m perfection out there. But okay, Cowboy, if you want shown up on your own dance floor…well then…you got yourself a deal.” She stood up from the table and tilted her hat back into place. “But keep stuffed under that hat of yours that I may make your mother miserable. Designers are notorious for being difficult.”

  “I’m counting on you to make each other miserable,” Zayne threw his head back, laughed and winked then ripped the estimate in half and tossed it into the air with way too much pompous ass drama.

  “Asshole.”

  Roxy left him laughing and stormed across the dance floor, dodging the dancers gathered for the band’s final set. She maneuvered through the crowd like a midtown-Manhattan bike messenger zigzagging in and out of traffic during rush hour.

  Two thirds of the way across, her stiletto found a second wood-grain imperfection. She toppled off her heel, falling to the floor with a bang.

  Once again, all eyes in the saloon were upon her. All mouths were wide open, conversations and laughter halted midstream. She felt like she’d awoken from another bad dream, hazy, unsure of what was reality versus what was la-la-ville.

  Before she fully comprehended the nature of her latest disaster, Zayne was kneeling at her side, protectively shielding her exposed upper torso. Cold air trickled across her tummy and nipples, which were apparently on display since her jacket had popped open when she hit the floor.

  Note to self: reinforce closures.

  “I told you those damn shoes were a safety hazard,” Zayne said while tucking her breasts back into her jacket as if it was all part of a normal days work, although his flushed cheeks betrayed him. “I’ve always thought you should flaunt it if you got it, but Girl, you’ve forever redefined that philosophy.”

  Even in pain, the effect of Zayne’s touch on her bare skin was numbing.

  Once his eyes met the tears welled-up in hers, he stopped ribbing her. “Gosh, darlin’, are you okay?”

  Before she could answer, his warm, calloused hands were rubbing her ankles, one of which hurt like a son-of-a-bitch with every bit of pressure applied.

  “Ouch. That hurts.”

  “Well, it looks like you’d better get this one x-rayed,” Zayne said, handing her what was left of the sole of her shoe as he pulled the heel out of the floor joint. He then swept her from the floor and into his arms before she could resist. “Let’s get you to the hospital.”

  “I don’t need to go to the hospital. It’s too damn expensive.” She wiped a runaway tear from her cheek, but then winced as pain shot up through her left leg. “Okay, so maybe I’d better. I can always sell the Mercedes.”

  “You might need Mom’s help at Raeve after all,” Zayne crooned with enough honey to catch a thousand bears before tucking her head into the crook of his neck.

  “Don’t forget,” she said kicking out her right foot. “This one still works.”

  Chapter Five

  After three hours in the Baptist Hospital Emergency Room and a sprained ankle to-go, Zayne balanced Roxy in his arms while she punched in the code to her brownstone’s front entrance. Holding her, her more than ample cleavage heaving under his nose, twisted his stomach muscles into heated missiles. Hearing the latch click, and glad for the diversion, he used his shoulder to push open the door.

  “Watch my walls and the furniture,” she commanded as he stepped into her home, closing the door using the heel of his boot.

  He maneuvered her and her surgical boot through the narrow foyer, their path lit only by the beams from her porch light streaming through the windows lining the door. Another night, another couple, the moment may have been a contraceptive commercial without the dumb bath tubs.

  Thank God the ER’s ice pack had Velcro straps securing it around Roxy’s ankle. Somehow, he managed to avoid clipping anything except his libido.

  “What kind of builder installs a switch on the wall opposite the door?” Zayne muttered, still feeling his wa
y along the wall, trying to ignore her perfect backside resting against his groin.

  “He must have planned on me using the garage entrance. Which I do. Normally,” Roxy answered, sounding equally peeved at the inconvenience. “The outlet’s by this door somewhere. Just quit your bitchin’ and help me find it.”

  Remembering she was injured, disregarding the strong urge he had to snap at her, Zayne found the switch. Light flooded the foyer, illuminating a three-and-a-half feet taxidermist stuffed alligator laying in wait on an entryway table. Jumping back onto the heels of his boots, he jostled Roxy in his arms like a juggler trying to keep all objects suspended. He’d heard of making your house an extension of yourself, but this was ridiculous.

  “What in the Sam hell is that?” Though he could honestly imagine Roxy in a barely-there-bikini, slinging mud, and wrestling gators.

  “It’s my tribute…to Manolo,” she answered, her voice catching as if awestruck by the name alone. “He has one just like it in his town house in Bath.”

  “Interesting.” Zayne took in the parted jaws of the beast. Its spear-sharp teeth clenched a copper-colored pearl necklace. The olive-brown and black marks flecking its body made for anything but attractive decor. Although, he did like the way gator skin looked stretched across a boot.

  “Where to?” he asked, hoping like hell she wasn’t going to say up the stairs directly to the right of the entryway. Having her that close to his body for another flight or two could shatter his nice-guy image.

  “The master suite is two flights up,” she said, her matter-of-factness putting him on edge.

  After carrying her from his truck to the gator greeter, his biceps burned as if she’d been prodding him with hot pokers. Climbing the stairs with her nestled into his arms’ fiery muscle mass would be ego-annihilating debilitation.

  “Somehow, I’d guessed that.” He adjusted her weight in his arms and swore on his dumb luck. Of course her bedroom was on the top floor. Fortunately, she was a petite — though amply packed — powerhouse.