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

by Scott, D. D.

  The sounds of all the nurses and her doctor became nothing more than echoes as she felt her heart wrap tighter with the father of her first child.

  Thinking if this was all there was to having a baby — in that Mother Nature delusional way of letting a mom suddenly forget the pain and issues of the last nine months, once they hear their newborn’s first cry - Alexandra figured she sooo had it made.

  But she hadn’t even had the tears wiped from her eyes and cheeks ‘til a second round of God awful contractions quickly reminded her there was still one more kid to go.

  “It’s a boy,” Damian leaned into her and said, before coaching her, “C’mon, Baby, just one more to go.”

  “Promise?” she grunted, the second baby’s style of being heard about ready to be his or her mother’s undoing.

  “I don’t know, Baby. This is amazing,” Damian said, a big grin softening his now robust face.

  If she hadn’t been in so much damn pain, she may have found his comment amusing, but that was sooo not the case.

  Baby B was being a real bear.

  Alexandra did her best to listen to Damian’s super-smooth coaching.

  Man, she thought, the experts said Baby B was supposed to be a snap delivery compared to Baby A. Well, their son — although even thinking that kind of cheered her up a bit — was a breeze compared to this little dude or dude-ette.

  Damn.

  Sure she must be hallucinating, she swore she heard Dr. G say he’d have to put his arm up her uterus and birth canal to get the baby into the position they needed.

  But as soon as she looked at Damian, whose head moved back in that oh-what-the-hell, oh-God-that-sounds-painful way, she knew she’d heard correctly.

  ‘Course by now, she didn’t really care, she just wanted the thing out of her and out NOW.

  The pain was more intense than anything she’d ever experienced in her life. But it just kept coming and coming. She longed to hear that next cry, to tell her she was about done. But nothing. Just more pain. And more murmuring of voices.

  The next thing she knew, Dr. G was saying something about a cord issue and what she thought she heard was that he was now preparing her for an emergency C-section.

  “Oh, God. No,” she pleaded with Damian. “The Operation game. Not the Operation…”

  And in what seemed like a very large and very wonderful dream later, she heard a second baby cry - no Operation game buzz-you-missed-try-again. She felt nothing but overwhelming joy.

  She started to cry. A big ‘ole cry.

  And seeing Damian holding both their babies — two boys — judging by the little blue caps on their full heads of dark hair - she kept right on weeping.

  There they were. All three of her boys.

  Damian.

  Baby A also known as Wyatt Scott Baker.

  And Baby B, his little brother by thirty-two minutes, Tate Allan Baker.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  With Damian at the helm of their forever mystifying double-stroller, Alexandra led the way into their Tennessee dream house.

  At long last they were home.

  Really, truly home.

  And thanks to their beyond wonderful friends — their real family now — they had a home all unpacked and waiting for them.

  Walking through their front door for the first time, which Damian had so smartly designed to allow for all their double-wide cargo, they, along with their two baby blue bundles, Wyatt and Tate, were greeted by everyone they loved and adored.

  Roxy was first in line, making sure the twins had her Raeve BabyWear original t-shirts proudly displayed.

  Alexandra laughed every time she looked at the twins in their baby tees — one shirt saying “Copy” and the second “Paste”.

  Leave it to Roxy to make a one-of-a-kind statement.

  And close behind her was Jules’ sweet, sweet face.

  “They’re just beautiful, Alex,” she said, bending down to place soft kisses on the tops of each of their wacky hats, another Roxy Rae special. “You and Damian must be so proud.”

  Alexandra looked at Damian, thinking she’d never seen him just completely beaming like he was today.

  Knowing - even now, with their reality TV crew, quietly doing their thing, capturing all this on their cameras - that she and Damian weren’t reality stars and tabloid and evening news magazine fodder, they were real people, real first-time parents, a real couple so much in love with each other and their new life.

  They’d do their jobs every day, whether that meant in front of the cameras or in her ad world or in Damian’s carpenter shop and office. They’d make time for their friends and each other. They’d get through their disagreements and annoyances.

  They’d worry about the twins. God, they’d worry. Doing everything they knew how to do, then - let’s face it — all the things their baby nurse told them to do too, to make sure Wyatt and Tate were safe, happy, healthy and bolstered by love.

  Maybe she never would totally escape her past and the name she carried, Alexandra thought. But, she’d sure made huge strides in forever re-branding what that name meant when someone heard it.

  All she’d ever wanted was to be normal. A normal where people knew her and respected her for the woman she really was. And now, they were getting glimpses, albeit carefully orchestrated ones, at who exactly carried the name Alexandra McCall.

  Normal to Alexandra and her new family would never be the normal of ninety percent of the population. She got that. She’d gradually come to accept that. And now, for the first time, she’d also learned to thrive on the opportunities her name presented.

  She no longer hid from the inconveniences, and at times, dangerous parts of her personal truth.

  She was safe. Successful by her own standards. And at peace with those same standards and the lifestyle they afforded her and her family.

  And she was comfortable in her home - whether that home was in a Ward and June Cleaver neighborhood or a house, like their new one, sitting at the end of a long, wooded lane, fronted by a gate with private security.

  Being able to raise her kids in an acceptable degree of privacy — in other words, getting them in and out of those way-complicated-to-her car seats and making it at least out the gate before the paparazzo ensued. That was almost a luxury.

  Those were the states of being belonging to Alexandra’s new normal.

  Before getting pregnant with her beautiful boys, she’d been sooo damn afraid to tell her truth. To face the cameras, convince those lenses and screens that she was innocent, then have the guts to live her life in the public way her past demanded.

  Blame it on hormones or blame it on the love that led to their gigantic overtaking of her body, with Damian at her side - along with her house full of family of the heart - she no longer had to hide from anything.

  And damn did this feel so right.

  She could be herself. And stretch the boundaries of who that was. Hopefully at the same time her stretch marks were beginning to disappear.

  Looking around the room, seeing Roxy and Jules, Zayne and Cody, Roman and Zoey, and The Mom Squad, Alexandra caught a little unexpected tug at a place deeper than her heart, a spot smack dab in the center of her soul.

  She’d expected to find the courage to begin to live her truth, but she’d never expected that truth to be filled with so much happiness and love.

  Beating her fears, or at least learning to live with them, not against them, had brought her a joy in life she’d never experienced. Perhaps, she never even knew that kind of life existed, well, not for a person with her family name and legacy.

  She wiped tears from the corners of her eyes, which got Jules to fighting back her own and Roxy to start her foul mouth tirade about them being some kind of messed up babies.

  “Watch your mouth there, Ace,” Jules told Roxy, giving her the look that usually resulted in additional four-letter words.

  “Well, ain’t this gonna be a real treat,” Roxy said, yanking a tissue out of a box Jules
was holding and handing it to Alexandra. “Do any of them books say how long before Wyatt and Tate should be able to actually understand what I’m saying?”

  “Don’t even think about it,” Damian said, giving her his own, rather hot, don’t-mess-with-Dad warning.

  “Shit. I mean crap,” Roxy said, to Damian still shaking his head.

  “Poop? Doo-Doo?” She asked with a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look.

  “Oh, now this just…,” she began than thank goodness her voice was gobbled up in the drywall between the kitchen and foyer.

  Just like Roxy’s mouth, Alexandra hoped her perfect little fish bowl wasn’t just waiting to be shattered. But with Damian by her side, she could take life — her life — and all the crazy circumstances that brought one day at a time.

  She now knew who she was and who she wanted to be. She knew and had accepted what people wanted from her. And had paved the way to give it to them. But give it on her own terms.

  She’d come a long way from the Audrey Holtz who’d moved to Music City. She was now the real Alexandra McCall, and that had never felt so good.

  Her father and his associates were on their way out, ready to pay the price for their way too cozy of a cash-making scheme, but Alexandra was forging a new McCall legacy. And along with all three of her fabulous Baker boys and their crazy casserole mix of a family, they were ready to take on life’s mysteries.

  They may not be cash-rich by Wall Street standards, but they were rich where it mattered most…in their hearts and in their home.

  THE END

  Thug Guard

  Book One of the Cozy Cash Mystery Series

  Chapter One

  I walked into the Jiffy Mart at the corner of Pike’s Place and Sweenie Avenue. All I wanted was a bottle of my wheat grass-included, all-things-green Naked Juice. What I got was a dead man—yeah, as in who knows how he got that way but he sooo was—a dead man in the passenger seat of the Range Rover parked next to me.

  This guy wasn’t just merely dead, he was most sincerely dead. And no, I’m not the Munchkin Land Coroner. I’m Zoey Witherspoon, just another wanna-be Stephanie Plum about to call for back-up.

  My back-up, Roman Bellesconi—my very own Walker, Texas Ranger—was not gonna like this at all.

  Thinking the dead guy situation probably deserved my more immediate attention, I coached my sugar-deprived body to hold tight for its much-needed burst of Naked Juice.

  Calling Roman’s cell, I waited for his rugged-rough, this-had-better-be-good voicemail greeting, wishing just once he’d think I was important enough to answer the damn phone.

  “Yep. You know the drill. Leave a message,” his voice mail not-so-warmly invited me to do.

  “Roman. It’s me. Pick-up if you’re there,” I said, taking a yoga-deep breath, knowing just as I was about to cuss a blue streak, then make a second attempt at maintaining my never quite calm demeanor, he’d answer.

  “What’s up, Zoey? Or do I even want to know?”

  Roman’s way sexy, ultra deep voice—a cross between Stallone and Pacino’s Italian, drool-worthy accents—cut-off his voicemail prompt.

  The clank of his barbell echoed through his Blue Tooth after what was sure to have been one helluvan impressive bench press.

  I mean really. Who answers the phone while bench pressing 325 pounds?

  Roman does. And I’ve seen him do it. He actually has enough extra muscle gravitating to his shoulders that he can move those wads of steel against his Blue Tooth’s answer switch. Yeah. Incredible, right?

  Honestly…who could even talk period while lifting that much weight?

  I rolled my eyes, which I tend to do a lot when thinking about Roman’s antics.

  Although, I may have been secretly contemplating what else he could do with those kinda muscles. But a woman doesn’t have to share all her secrets…so I’m savoring the detail of that one for a bit…and just tossing it out there for a conversation-building “what if”.

  And speaking of conversing, hell, I do well to walk and talk at the same time.

  Some days, in the kinds of shoes my real job demands, that feat, in and of itself is damn near impossible. Today’s gorgeous, buff-colored Louboutin platform pumps…yeah, well, you get the toe-breaking, heels-wobbling picture.

  But not my Roman in his Italian, hand-crafted loafers. He’s the super-shoed and super-fit, hot Sicilian version of a kick ass Christopher Chance of Human Target fame, although with the height and killer body of international cover model Jimmy Thomas.

  But my Roman isn’t exactly like my Jimmy, who I’d recently used in a couple of my New York Fashion Week Runway Shows, and who, by the way, has the personality of a big and brawny teddy bear. Oh no. Sooo not Roman-esque.

  Roman Bellesconi has something dark, very dark, deep inside his super beefed-up torso. Totally, the Sicilian Christopher Chance through-and-through…just add more beef.

  I hadn’t figured out what that dark something was or how it got there or why it was hanging around. But I’m hell-bent on getting to the bottom of all that beef, just give me a couple more cases to work with him, and I’ll have some answers.

  “You still there, Witherspoon?” Roman asked.

  His voice indicated my ability to zone in and out of conversations amused rather than irritated him. At least for the moment.

  “Oh sure. Yeah. Sorry. I haven’t had my Naked Juice yet, so I’m not quite up to speed,” I said, knowing I could no longer avoid sharing this soon to be breaking news.

  Plus, if I gave Roman the slightest chance to catch his breath, post bench press, he was sure to pop-off with some smart ass comment about my need for Naked Juice speed.

  “So I’m here at the Jiffy Mart. You know, the whole swamp juice thing. And there’s this Range Rover parked next to me,” I said, looking through my latest couture sunnies straight into the eyes of the dead man.

  “I’m not real interested in this story yet, Witherspoon. You got anything else?” Roman asked as he hit the button on his blender, making his own swamp juice.

  “Oh, you’re gonna be interested. There’s a dead man in this Range Rover,” I baited him, noticing that his blender was no longer blending.

  “You’ve got my undivided attention now, Plum Puddin’.”

  Hearing the smart ass but kinda hot way he pronounced the pet name he’d recently christened me with, I could feel heat flush my cheeks.

  “Unfortunately for you, perhaps, I’ll have your attention for awhile longer, Italian Stallion. As in…our first official case longer,” I said, so hoping he’d let me tag along for this investigation.

  “I’ll be the judge of when and if you work another case for us,” Roman said.

  Lucky for me, I could still hear amusement in his tone so I figured I’d better keep striking while the time seemed sort of right to maintain my spot on the U.S. Marshal’s and SEC’s payroll.

  “I think the dead man in the Range Rover,” I said, looking over the crisp lavender edges of my Louis Vuitton sunglasses one more time, just to make sure I’d made the proper identification of our vic, “is none other than Ludwig Kohn.”

  I heard Roman take a deep, very calculated and measured breath, never uttering a word. The precise thing he did when that dark side of his was about to take control.

  “Ludwig Kohn, as in Sonja Medici’s henchman.”

  “I know who Ludwig is, Witherspoon,” Roman said, his Dark Knight-ness now clearly taking over his voice.

  “So I take it he survived his little run-in with Alexandra, me and her minivan?” I asked, still pissed Roman and his Marshal Monkeys refused to tell me what exactly had become of Ludwig after he’d been run over by Alexandra and me in the Hobby Lobby parking lot.

  “He didn’t survive for long did he?” Roman asked, an icy edge to his question.

  “No, I suppose not. But I do assume you now get that I will be on this case with you? Our first official job as a dynamic duo.”

  Even saying that made me feel giddier than goi
ng to any of the London, Milan or Paris Fashion Week’s coming soon.

  “You know the assume adage, don’t you, Witherspoon?”

  Yeah, I did. But I wasn’t letting him off the hook that easy, even if he was back in his cranky pants, dark-guy mode.

  “What I know is that you can’t make any bigger ass outta me than I can make outta myself, if that’s what you’re referring to,” I said, tickled with my own witty response.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said, punching the high-speed option on his blender.

  What a chicken shit, I thought. He didn’t have the balls to listen to my comeback on that one, so he’d chosen his blender instead.

  But I swore I heard him say something to the effect that he’d be right there so for me to just sit tight.

  Like what was I gonna do? Just leave poor Ludwig stiff in his seat?

  I may have pretty much fallen into my last gig with Roman. But I’d earned the right to work this one. I’d found my first dead man. So until Ludwig was stuffed into a body bag, I wasn’t goin’ anywhere.

  I was officially on this case. Well, sort of officially.

  But I’d built my fashion empire by creating buzz, buzz based on me sort-of, already being in demand by potential, high-powered clients. I’d always acted “as if” I’d already made it. And that approach had more than served me well.

  So why change tactics now?

  People want what they think others already have. So you’ve got to make sure they know what they’re more-than-likely missing.

  Although, I was freaking out a bit that Ludwig here was now missing a life force, and I was definitely holding out hope I’d soon be free from my first dead body. Because why? Keeping with my philosophy, I wanted what others already had…my God damn Naked Juice.

  My sugar was already plummeting dangerously low. And seeing Ludwig out-for-the-count sure hadn’t raised my blood sugar levels. My adrenaline yeah, which meant I now needed even more sugar I didn’t have.