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

by Scott, D. D.

  “I need you to carefully, as unsuspecting as possible, remove the heel of your shoe, and begin the steps R has taught you,” Roman’s voice came thru my brooch, immediately taking all thoughts of George and Camilla outta my head.

  “Oh my God! You’re alive,” I said, bending my head a bit to make sure Roman could hear me through the facets covering the brooch’s design.

  “Don’t make it so obvious that you’re talking into that thing,” R spoke-up, softly but rather bristly too.

  “Sorry. I’m not used to speaking into my accessories.”

  R rolled his eyes and began to fan himself with his show program and order card.

  “Just do as I say,” Roman instructed.

  I nonchalantly kicked-off my shoes, well sort of nonchalantly, ‘til I accidentally nailed Gram’s ankle with the pointed tip of the shoe’s toe.

  “Now?!” Grams asked, her bright eyes and the silly grin covering her face way too anxious for a kill zone adventure.

  “Not you. Me,” I whispered, leaning down and un-clicking the stiletto heel just like R had me practice doing in the backseat of the Hummer.

  “Right.” Grams said, damn near salivating, her face still lit-up as if she were standing in front of a Christmas tree waiting on a super-large gift.

  The Brooch buzzed to life again.

  “After the fifth model passes you, I need you to grab the heel and just keep it at your side. Between the sixth and seventh model working the catwalk, pick-up your program and fan yourself. Then, when R leans into you, covering you both with his order card, I want you to use your heel and blow the dart,” Roman said, his voice still at a low tone and pitch, rivaling the best Wild West gunslinger.

  “At who?”

  “I’ll tell you when it’s time.”

  R winked at me, and I nodded back, letting him know I sort of knew what I was supposed to be doing. Then, I had nothing to do but sit and stew, waiting for models one, two, three and four to get the hell outta my way.

  My body pulsed with nervous twitches that literally made me appear I was sure to have some kind of rare leprosy. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t sit still. And Grams wasn’t helping at all.

  “What’s going on? Should I prepare my shoe?” If she asked me once, she asked me five times between models one and three.

  By the time we got to model four, who happened to be wearing the dress I needed for Camilla, I was ready to do a practice poisonous blow-dart run on Grams.

  With the fifth model now sashaying past me, I picked up my heel and began fanning myself early, needing something to cool-off my overheated nerves.

  At the moment model six passed and model seven was in my peripheral vision, R leaned-in and covered most of our faces with his order card.

  I put the heel of my vintage shoe to my trembling lips, hoping I could steady my hands long enough to get in a good shot. Or did I say blow? Whichever.

  ‘Course it would help if I knew who I was blowing. Oh, now that just sounds bad. Nasty bad.

  “When I say blow,” Roman spoke nice and easy through my brooch speaker system, “do so with gusto and aim at that hot pink, hooded woman straight across from you.”

  “But…”

  “Blow.”

  “But…,” I tried to say again, but before I could get anything else out R had cracked me a good one on my back, forcing me to blow my heel and watch in horror as not one, but two, hot pink…magenta, Roman, it’s magenta I thought…jump-suited women slumped in their seats.

  “How the hell did I get two?!” I shrieked to R who still had his order card covering us.

  “That would be my doin’s,” Grams said, joining her head with ours behind the card as the lights in the show went out. “You just about blew our entire operation, Zoey.”

  “But how did you know what I was supposed to be doing?”

  “My Dear, when you got hearing aids the size of mine, you hear all kinds of things you’re not supposed to,” Grams said. “Really, R, you should take a look at these things and make use of ‘em in your operations.”

  For the briefest of moments, I could have sworn I heard R, the ultimate gentleman, say the F-bomb, before then telling us to move now out of our seats and follow him.

  I grabbed Grams arms and pulled her behind me, thank God remembering to quicker-than-quick grab the other half of my shoe before bolting.

  I only looked back once, after the lights came back on, and noticed no one seemed to be concerned because the two magenta dames were missing.

  And it wasn’t til then that I could really picture what I’d just done.

  I swore I’d blow-darted Camilla.

  And yeah. Anyone in my biz will tell ya that showing up at a Red Carpet event in the same dress as someone else is deadly.

  But, none of us knew, prior to now, just how deadly.

  Chapter Twenty

  Back at the castle, still waiting on Roman to once more bust through the brooch, I’d made myself a nice stiff martini and once more took refuge in the fetal position.

  Funny, I’d planned on doing a Zoey Report today on how Fashion Week always put a Spring in my step this time of year.

  Little did I know, when I’d dreamed up that catchy little blurb this morning, that there’d be a ton more happening in my steps than hot, new Spring fashions.

  I wasn’t sure how to add my poisonous, blow dart-equipped stilettos into today’s must-have footwear.

  Pining for my brooch to light-up and signal I had an incoming message from my Secret Bond, I busied myself, by finally, just not thinking at all.

  My whirlwind second career as a P.I. had really picked-up with what was now, five days ago, my discovery of Cozy Cash Dead Guy One, when all I’d wanted was a Naked Juice.

  As if that weren’t enough newbie excitement, then I’d found my dear friend Zicower, doubling as Dead Guy Two, in his swimming pool.

  Then…I’d jet-set to Europe, where I was now an unwitting Secret Bond Girl, the sorta responsible party for our Dead Guys Three and Four, and now for sure the responsible party for our first Dead Gals, compliments of my new blow-darting skills.

  Quite frankly, I was exhausted.

  Adrenaline and epinephrine were only meant to surge so much in so many hours. I’d reached my limit and was now plummeting back down some kinda huge ass rabbit hole, wishing I were Alice in Wonderland.

  But before I could begin to enjoy my new non-thinking domain, my brooch broke its silence with a crackle and static reverie that put me immediately back into think and act-fast mode.

  “Are you okay, Zoey?” Roman’s voice broke through the diamond barriers.

  Funny, I thought, since I was now thinking again, his voice sounded so much closer than it normally did when filtering through the millions of dollars of gems between us.

  I leaned into the brooch to be sure he could hear me, that no, I was not okay, and he should know that by now.

  But before I could say the words, my body shook, like it always did when I knew he was somewhere close and almost next to me.

  When we share a room, our chemistry somehow sizzles. Sizzles in a way that always either makes me silent and in awe or stark raging mad and raising a ruckus. And here lately, at times, it can be both simultaneously.

  I turned toward the door to our room. And there he stood. My Thug Guard. My Secret Bond. Looking as if he had a ton on his mind.

  This time, though, he was damn well gonna share it.

  It was high time he threw me some big ass carrots. And no. Not that kinda carrot either. I was too much in my stark raging mad state for that source of protein.

  “Are you okay?” He repeated the question then crossed the room and joined me on the antique settee I’d adopted as my temporary home.

  “I think you know most of the answer to that. Hell no, in case you’re not sure. And how much ‘hell no’ depends on what and how much you finally level with me. That’s it, Roman Bellesconi, or whoever the hell you really are. And speaking of which, why do
n’t we start with that and forget the fact that I just off-ed my client. Who the hell are you?!”

  “Fair question, I suppose.”

  “Fair question?!” I asked, about choking as I hissed out the words. “You’re damn skippy it is.”

  Roman laughed, his tenser-than-tense jaw relaxing ever so slightly, which was cute, but still pissed me off being as he was still laughing, like everyone had been this entire journey so far, at my expense.

  “Damn skippy? Never heard of that one.”

  “Well, there happen to be a lot of things so far that I’ve never heard of, but funny, I don’t think you give a damn about that.”

  “You’re wrong, Witherspoon,” he said, taking my hands then dropping one ever so briefly to tilt my head so I had no choice but to look deep into his deliciously dark and danger-hiding eyes. “I do care. Very much. In fact, that’s why I’ve been keeping a few things from you.”

  “News alert. My fake boyfriend has now admitted he has secrets. Keep talking, Bond Boy. I’m all ears.”

  Without ever letting go of my hands or breaking eye contact, he continued, “I’m not quite sure where to start with this. And know for a fact that you’re still safer if I could keep you in the dark. But my conscience has oddly enough gotten the better of me, and I’m going to tell you some things that will change your life forever.”

  “You could say that after what I’ve been through the last five days, we’ve pretty much got that corner filled…so shoot,” I said, then shook my head. “Bad choice of words. How ‘bout enlighten me?”

  Even at my stupid play on words, which I do when I’m (a) pissed or (b) scared shitless, the seriousness didn’t leave Roman’s entire countenance.

  I swear that objects, if now thrown, would just ping off him, his body strong and rigid, unyielding like the best knight’s armor.

  “My real name is Roman Bellesconi. That parts true. Well…partially true,” he said, shaking his head, probably trying to get one of his unruly locks of hair unstuck from his eyelid but not wanting to break apart our hands to do so.

  So yeah. Give me break. Or sue me. I gave him a couple points for that.

  “You can’t even tell me the truth about your real name? The whole truth anyway?”

  “I’m getting there. Okay? This isn’t easy for me, Witherspoon. In fact, you’re the only person now, other than R, who will know all this.”

  “You’re trusting me…like you do R?”

  That got my undivided attention and quick. Not that he didn’t already have it. Maybe it wasn’t attention then at all. Maybe, he’d now earned my respect too.

  I think, until this moment, I liked him, sometimes, but I appreciated him, all the time.

  I mean how many times had the guy and his Quartermaster now saved my ass?

  But now…with his putting me on the same level of trust as R, well…that meant instant respect.

  ‘Cause if there’s one thing I did have pegged about Roman, it was that not many people got that kinda access to his life nor his secrets.

  Not many was an understatement. There would now be just two. R. And me. Little ‘ole me.

  He cleared his throat then tossed his head back again. That blasted stubborn piece of hair still stuck tight to his brow bone.

  Without saying a word, I slipped one hand out of his firm grasp, and removed the lock from his line of site.

  “Thanks,” he said while I put my hand back inside his, warm and protected from the truth he was beginning to reveal.

  “My real name is Roman Bellesconi Umberto-Vittorio Emanuele Vanvitelli,” he said then took time to breathe, which could be considered normal after that mouthful of names, “…of the Royal House of Savoy.”

  That caused me to take a couple deep breaths of my own.

  “Of the Royal House of what?! You’re a prince?! An Italian Prince?! And what this is your castle?!”

  He lowered his head and breathed again deeply, his reticence at once drawing me to him.

  It was suddenly very clear that his being a prince and being the lord of this kind of life was a huge, huge burden.

  “Yes…this is my castle. It’s been in my family since the mid to late 18th century.”

  He gave me that fact then once more looked up at me, his eyes begging me to accept him for who he really was.

  It was my turn to shake my head.

  It certainly wasn’t that I didn’t believe him. His body language and eyes could never betray that kind of reality for which he spoke.

  The heaviness of his heart and soul were now showing on his every being, on what up ‘til now, had seemed to be pillars of superhuman strength and ability.

  “So…my pretend boyfriend is a Prince,” I said, unable to keep a small giggle from coating my words in amusement.

  The corners of Roman’s mouth lifted ever so slightly, telling me he was at least relieved I hadn’t yet bolted or smacked him a good one.

  “I told ya you weren’t no U.S. Marshal. But wait a minute? Are you that too?”

  “My government, here in Italy, as well as my family, lost a lot of money to McCall and his Ponzi-scheming Players. And we’re going to get it back,” he stated, that Dark Knight determination, I’d now seen many times but for the first time now understood, back on his face.

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” I said, deciding if I had to keep dragging all this outta him I would, for both our sanity.

  “There’s really no yes or no to my U.S. Marshal status. On the surface, I suppose, yes, you could say that I’m a member of their team. But, I’m also running my part of the Cozy Cash Operation the way I and my family and government see fit, using our special skills, services and equipment.”

  “So next then, I’d like to know how the Russian mob is connected to all of this…as far as you and your family are concerned,” I said, deciding right then if Roman was involved in any way with these oligarch thugs I was sooo bolting and smacking the shit outta him.

  After all, I did not take lightly having to sleep with a mobster, let alone a C-Pap machine-toting mobster, while being kept in the dark as to the fact that I was a gangster’s girl and didn’t even know it.

  Roman sighed, and I could tell he was trying to figure out the best way to give me the skinny of his Russian connection.

  “Just spit it out. I’m a big girl. I can take it. And now that I’ve knocked off some of their kin and my client, I’d probably better know all the details.”

  He moved his head in that, well-I-don’t-think-you’re-gonna-like-this-but-you-asked way. And he was right. I didn’t like most of this, but would have much rather have known the truth from day one. Maybe then I would have decided to just stick with my Naked Juice and forget about Ludwig’s issue in the Range Rover parked next to me at Jiffy Mart.

  “I’m sure you’re familiar with supermodel Veruschka von Kalkov?”

  “Yesss…I am a Stylist. At least I was ‘til earlier today when I knocked off one of my best clients.”

  “We’ll get to that in a minute too…but let me first ease your mind a bit. You did not off your client.”

  “But…”

  “You off-ed Lucinda Kohn.”

  “What the…”

  “Just like I planned.”

  “You had me hit another Russian mobster?! This time their boss, well, their unrecognized but acting boss?!”

  “Well…you so effectively took out her brothers, I didn’t think it would be quite as challenging as it turned out to be to get rid of her too.”

  “Oh my God. I need a drink.”

  And with that, Roman got up and made me a drink from the bar that he somehow cued to appear from the top of one of the pieces of furniture across from the settee.

  And I? Well…I returned to the fetal position, this time hugging my body and rocking back and forth as practice for when he committed me to the nearest mental health facility.

  After a few super-sized sips of my martini, I sat up so Roman could take his seat once more beside me and
continue his horrible truth-a-thon.

  “So you were saying about Veruschka?”

  “Ah yes…but real quick too…you killed Lucinda, not Camilla de Vil. Grams shot her.”

  I choked, and I hadn’t even downed the rest of my martini ‘til after he told me that. So I must have been now not only traumatized by the truth but also choking on it too.

  Maybe I’d get lucky and not see the inside of the nearest asylum and just die in this mighty fine castle, alongside my pretend boyfriend, Prince Too Many Names to Remember.

  “Grams killed Camilla?!”

  “No, Grams just shot Camilla.”

  “I coulda told y’all ahead of time that even a poisonous dart couldn’t do in that bitch.”

  “Poisonous darts, for the record, would have whacked off Camilla too. But all the other darts were only tranquilizer-tipped. Only yours was deadly.”

  “Great.” I raised my martini glass to Roman, slowly shaking it back-and-forth so he’d get off his royal ass and make me another.

  Gotta give him points there too. ‘Cause he had a keen knack for realizing when I was distraught and very thirsty.

  Following each of us sipping our next round in a few seconds of glorious silence, because yes, I was starting to think silence might be more palatable than this truth expedition, I began to loathe whoever insisted he spill all the beans. Then remembering that I was that stupid wench, I allowed Roman to continue enlightening me.

  “Veruschka is my grandmother, and a descendant of a royal oligarchy of Russia.”

  “So you’re an Italian Prince with a Russian mob Grandma?”

  “I did not say my grandmother was the Russian mob. She’s actually not…at all. Let’s just say she has connections to them.”

  “What kind of connections?”

  “Are you sure you want to know all this right now?”

  I thought about that for a minute in my martini haze. And you know what?! He had a point. I’d really had quite enough truth for one sitting.

  “Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after that,” I said, deciding I really couldn’t handle much else today.

  “So what do we do now?”

  “It’s onto Paris Fashion Week in what about two weeks? My grandmother is modeling there this year…”