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

by Scott, D. D.

  I’ve now traveled throughout the States and Europe, accompanied by my own Secret Bond — as in James Bond-esque Roman Bellesconi, Prince-of-Many-Names. And now his Granny Veruschka, too.

  The strangest thing happened, however, back in Nashville, Tennessee (A.K.A. Music City, U.S.A) on my way to get my all-things-green Naked Juice…

  My fellow hunters, Roman and his could-be-lethal Granny, decided I was the one to be hunted.

  At least that’s the impression I was getting in a not-so-subtle sort of way.

  But maybe that’s just my wild imagination.

  I suppose there could be a fairly decent reason good ‘ole Granny had pointed a Glock at my Gucci blouse in the parking lot of the Jiffy Mart in Music City.

  Not that I’d know what that reason was…because Roman and his crazy ass Granny had so far refused to tell me shit!

  I’m tellin’ ya…life in a castle ain’t all it’s cracked-up to be…not when you don’t have a God damn clue how or why you’re here.

  Okay…so maybe I had the tiniest of ideas “why” I’m here.

  ‘Course that was before Granny drugged me and got me all comfy in the family kingdom’s private jet for a flight across the pond…then into Milan…and straight to Castle-Command Central.

  Hence, the fetal position.

  And, oh shit, here comes Granny.

  Chapter Two

  Damn!

  Wow!

  Granny’s lips are just freakin’ huge!

  Let me put it to ya this way…

  In my day job, I’m a Hollywood Stylist to The Stars.

  The secret to my success, and subsequently, the reason behind the NASCAR-speed-esque growth of my clientele base, has been my ability to accessorize my clients to perfection.

  The way I see it, accessories are more important than the clothes beneath them.

  I can take any human form, and by accentuating its assets and providing a brilliant contrast to its weaknesses, make anyone look terrific and Red Carpet-worthy.

  But Granny Veruschka and those botox-overloaded lips?!

  I’m not even sure I could find an accessory to take your eyes off those big-ass receptacles of ass juice.

  You do know that’s what botox is made of…right?

  Botox is a liquid substance that, rumor has it, comes from your booty.

  Now these rumors are straight from my clients’ Hollywood cosmetic procedure circles. And just so you know, Tinsel Town rumors are usually fairly accurate where facelifts, body tucks and sucks or nips are concerned.

  So, basically, you’re getting a little bit of your ass injected into your face.

  Hell, in the Urban Dictionary the slang for Botox is “booty juice.” I’m not kiddin’…look it up!

  Speaking of Ass Faces, I now had a super large one starin’ me down.

  “What can I do for ya, Granny?” I asked Ass Face.

  And yes, I know that’s mean. And yes, I used to rather enjoy this woman. But Granny Veruschka and her big, bad Glock were now on my shit-list.

  “First, you can quit being so God damned snotty,” she said, moving her monster lips wayyy too much for my liking.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Granny V. Why would I be a bit bitchy? Oh…that’s right, you held me at gunpoint, drugged me, shoved my ass on a plane and are now holding me hostage in your castle.”

  Hell, I was even too irked to remain in my beloved fetal position and instead, hoisted myself off the castle’s lush green lawn and gave Granny a that’s-right, I’m-starin’-you-down-Bitch power show.

  “All minor details you’ll soon be over, My Princess,” Granny said, motioning me to sit next to her on a fancy-schmancy marble bench.

  I’ll admit, sitting on this amazing bench, we had one spectacular, sweeping view of the magnificent bridge and sculpture gardens rising up outta this water-themed paradise.

  But the beauty of this landscape wasn’t nearly enough compensation for my hijacking.

  “I’m not…, your princess, or, anyone’s…princess,” I said.

  I was so damn mad that my statement came out in little sputters as if I stuttered.

  “You will be soon,” Granny stated with a smug set to her Venus Fly-Trap lips and what looked to be a part-evil, part-mischief-filled sparkle to her darker-than-espresso eyes.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “To save their reign these days, every royal family needs a royal love story,” Granny said with a wee bit too much bravado.

  “Why, it’s really quite simple, Your Highness-To-Be. You and my grandson will be the next Will and Kate.”

  I dropped down into the fetal position, and seriously, rolled in the gorgeous grass and laughed my ass off.

  And damn, it felt good to laugh…cause up ‘til now, none of this quirky-crazy adventure had the least bit tickled my funny bone.

  “I mean it, Granny. Did your last dose of ass juice poison your mind too?!”

  That zapped the mischief-filled sparkle right outta ‘ole Granny’s eyes and filled ‘em in with a hot, dark and borderline dangerous glare.

  “Laugh all you want, Zoey,” she said, tsk-tsking me away with shoo-fly-shooing waves of her elegant fingers, as if suddenly the pond were more worthy of her icy stare.

  “But I know how much you care for Roman, and I know you’d never forgive yourself if he lost everything…, including, potentially, his life…, all because you refused to play the part of his beloved wife.”

  That halted my laughter and got me once more outta the fetal position and onto the bench with Granny, fixated on the fountains in the reflecting pond.

  But now, it was me who needed some kinda huge pump to keep all my fluids circulating.

  So that’s why I was here.

  Somehow…some way…it was on my shoulders to save my Secret Bond, Prince-of-Many-Names. Oh, and his Kingdom too!

  I wonder if Milanese Castle reflecting ponds have pool boys?

  Why?

  Because suddenly, a Bond-strength martini sounded mighty damn good.

  Chapter Three

  As if reading my mind, Granny V pulled a bottle of wine outta the picnic basket she’d brought with her. With an exaggerated and elaborate gesture, she popped the cork on a temporary solution to our problems.

  “You ever heard of Gomorrah?” She asked then took a big swig of fermented-grape courage right outta the wine bottle’s neck.

  She passed the bottle to me, and yeah, I wasn’t real sure about putting my lips where hers had been. But what the hell, I was in crisis mode.

  “It was some Italian gangster movie and book, right?” I took a stab at her question, kinda remembering the Hollywood buzz on the film a few years back.

  “Gomorrah, yes, dealt with the Neapolitan crime circuit known as the Camorra, which was based in the southern Italian region of Campania,” Granny V said while tightening her grip around the wine bottle’s neck.

  I couldn’t help but get the feeling she wished the glass would morph into some unfortunate person’s throat.

  “What does that have to do with my impending Princess status?”

  “There’s much more to the Italian crime syndicate than Gomorrah’s Camorra,” Granny V said, then turned and offered me the bottle. “And I should know. I used to be married to one of the Dons.”

  I grabbed the bottle out of her perfectly French-manicured fingers, thinking I needed it now much more than she did.

  After all, her marriage was apparently over, and she’d lived to tell me about it. But now…yeah, apparently, I was about to marry into the mob…the Italian mob, about which movies — very violent movies — have been based.

  I silently sipped the bold Chardonnay, thinking back to the day, not so long ago, when Roman and I were way over our heads in Russian mob troubles and he was starting to tell me about his family.

  We’d decided, due to all of the unfortunate deaths and craziness around us, to save the mob part of his background for another day.

  So…apparently, today was the �
�another day.”

  And from the sound of it, straight from Granny V’s huge lips, I was no longer dealing with just the Russian mob.

  Now, I was supposed to have a wedding date with the Italian Mafioso as well.

  Before I could gather my wits to ask anything remotely intelligent, Granny V continued with her family kingdom’s, thriller-flick-style history lesson.

  “Remember all those black sedans that kept appearing during your last stay here at our castle?”

  “Oh yeah. I remember. I still have nightmares about ‘em,” I said.

  And I did. Almost every damn night.

  “Those cars are the Italian Minister of the Interior’s attempts at keeping Roman, myself and our associates safe.”

  Oh my. I kept hold of the wine bottle, thinking if Granny V expected to get any more, she’d better hope she’d brought a second bottle.

  “Once I realized my husband was the Don who distributed and delivered all the Italian mob families’ cash, I knew, to protect our son Gianfranco, Roman’s father, I had to get out.”

  Granny V’s huge lips began to tremble, and tears began to collect at the corners of her eyelifts.

  And yes, I mean eyelifts and not lids. She’d had those babies cosmetically altered too.

  “But you don’t just walk away from the mob. They always find you.”

  “I know. I’ve seen The Godfather movies. All of ‘em. And somehow, I also lived through my last gangster thrill-ride with your grandson.”

  At that, Granny laughed. It didn’t come out so much as a laugh. It sounded more like a howl.

  “The Godfather is Hollywood, My Princess. And your last adventure with Roman? Well…let’s just call that a practice run. This,” she said, pointing to a long row of black sedans now lining-up along the far distant edge of the castle’s property line, .”..is our life. Come. Quickly, Dear. We must get inside the castle.”

  But before we could even gather-up our picnic basket and what was left of our wine, Ross and Raulf appeared on horseback, just as in my most recent Thug Guard days, and quicker than I could ask ‘what-the-hell,’ we were galloping toward the castle.

  I was really beginning to despise those black sedans.

  And Thug Guard suddenly seemed equivalent to pre-school.

  Chapter Four

  Reaching the castle gates, there stood my Secret Bond…or should I say, my prince-slash-fiancé?

  Prince Roman Bellesconi Umberto-Vittorio Emanuele Vanvitelli of the Royal House of Savoy was really starting to, once more, piss me off.

  But damn, the more pissed-off I get, the hotter he looks.

  Especially with that super-stubborn lock of begging-to-be-tousled, thick black hair hanging over his eyes.

  Like some gallant Lord-in-Waiting, or whatever the hell the official title was, my Secret Bond closed the castle’s gigantic iron gates right behind our horses as we rode through. He then sprinted into Quartermaster Raulf’s carriage house of a lab.

  Quartermaster Raulf, who we all called R, had saved our rear-ends on several occasions. And it looked like it was up to him and his gadgets, contraptions and weaponry to do it yet again.

  As R helped me off the horse, I looked to my prince for some answers.

  And yes, he certainly had ‘em.

  But I could see him begging me with his eyes to save my sassy, but more-than-reasonable questions for later. And damn! His eyes were convincing. Every gorgeous, narrowed-with-genuine-concern bit of Italian mystique was quite compelling.

  So, yeah. I decided to shut-up for now and attempt to figure out what the hell was going on later.

  Obviously, our current emergency must be dealt with first.

  “Quickly now, into the cellar…that’s it…nice and easy. Watch your step,” R coached me and Granny V as he and Roman followed behind us down seemingly endless flights of stone-cut stairs.

  Without any sort of warning, our pitch black darkness was illuminated by stunning, antique lantern-style sconces hanging on the ancient walls on both sides of the stairs. The same lanterns that had led me, my BFFs, and The Mom Squad too, to safety during our last black sedan, crisis-averting escape from the castle.

  My ears echoed with the sounds of some sort of high-tech seal and latch that must have secured us beneath R’s lab. A heavy, hollow closing of an institutional-strength security door that is seldom opened and or closed.

  We were in a cellar all right. This was made evident by an infinite number of wine racks filled with expensive bottles stretching out for what seemed to be miles around us.

  Given my track record with my most-handsome-of-princes, I knew looks could be more than deceiving.

  Case in point, with a jiggle of the glistening foil wrapping of some magical bottle of Pinot Grigio, the House of Savoy’s cellar glided away on invisible, high-tech tracks to reveal an underground garage with every kind of Big Boy’s Toy you could ever want or need.

  “Put these on. Now. Please be speedy,” R instructed, handing Roman, Granny V and I each a pair of dirt-stained overalls, work boots, a wig and a wide-brimmed, straw hat.

  Close-inspection of the dirt-stains proved to me they’d indeed been drawn onto both the boots and overalls with fabric paint.

  Amazing. These people think of everything. Which also scared me more.

  How long had they all been running to be this good at the game?

  And who, this time, were we really running from?

  While we changed, no one said a word. We just did as R said.

  Several times while we were dressing, my eyes met Roman’s. I took-in, with each glance, his I’m-so-sorry pleas of unspoken desperation.

  Once he’d shoved his Italian leather loafers inside his work boots, he helped me finish tying my boots. He then tucked the last few strands of my fly-away, frizzed-out curls beneath my pageboy-style wig.

  “Good look for you, Plum Puddin’”, he said, although I could tell by the tightness in his voice, even he couldn’t find the humor in his attempt to lighten the moment.

  “You still trust me, right?” He asked, begging me again, with his ultra-sincere and determined eyes, to keep believing in him.

  “Yes, I trust you.”

  I may have answered in the affirmative, but I still wasn’t sure I believed what I’d said. However, I was pretty sure he was my best shot at surviving mob mania.

  “Someday, I hope to truly believe you do,” he said then pressed a sweet kiss to my forehead.

  With that, he whisked me toward our latest getaway car, which was not a car at all. It was the cutest little truck I’d ever seen. The thing looked as if it were manufactured for Barbie and Ken’s European Vacation.

  “It only has three wheels! How cute is this?!”

  I continued to marvel at our not-very-Bond-at-all escape vehicle, while Roman unceremoniously shoved me into what should be the driver’s side, but which apparently wasn’t, as the steering wheel was on the right side of the jalopy.

  Granny V and R were also in the same kinda miniature pick-up in front of us.

  “Let’s move,” R’s voice piped-in from somewhere in the truck’s cab directly above my right ear.

  “Move where?”

  “You’ll see, Princess. Just hang-on.”

  Way off in a distant corner of the underground garage, I saw a door begin to rise. And with its ascension, sunlight bathed the end of the tunnel we were now driving through with a brilliant, almost spotlight-effect light.

  “We need to talk about this Princess business,” I offered-up, figuring now was as good a time as any, since I had my eyes shielded with my hands from the high noon, almost Tuscan, but closer to Milan sun, and accordingly, couldn’t see Roman’s reaction to what had to be sheer terror in my eyes.

  “I’ve been your pretend boyfriend for awhile now. Why not take it up a notch?” Roman asked, his cocky hot grin effectively turning my nerves into hot, shooting fireballs.

  And yes, I’d peeked through my fingers to get his reaction to my inquiry, decidin
g I’d much rather get a feel for where he stood concerning his Granny V’s Royal Love Story Plan.

  Thankfully for me, that cocky grin, smart-ass set of his strong jaw, along with his expressive eyes always gave him away.

  So he was in on her little charade.

  Once I’d made good use of all the internal rounds my nerve endings had fired, my stomach tightened into large knots of dangerously intertwined, white hot lust mixed with raw anxiety.

  I’m not sure what kinda wild fairytale I was now part of, but here’s the thing…

  William and Kate toured their kingdom in a centuries-old, horse-drawn coach, not in three-wheeled, Barbie and Ken, mini-truck mobiles.

  And when The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, as the future King and Queen of England were now to be called, had a plane waiting on ‘em, it was to jet-off to some private secluded island for a honeymoon, not to dodge the line of black sedans I could once again see bordering the far corner of my prince’s castle grounds.

  “We’ll talk soon, I promise, My Princess. In the mean time, please forgive me for this,” my Secret Bond said before gently sticking a syringe into my arm.

  “Not again. This is not the kind of William and Kate love story I signed-up for. In fact, I haven’t agreed to anything…”

  That’s the last thing I remember saying before darkness once more became my temporary sanctuary.

  Chapter Five

  Waking-up on an ultra-comfy chaise lounge, on a balcony with the most amazing view I’d ever seen, I thought to myself, I could definitely get used to and agree to this.

  And mind you, my life, as a Hollywood Stylist, had afforded me some pretty terrific views of some unbelievably posh places.

  But this…

  Even Hollywood couldn’t get ya anything this good.

  This was worthy of any royal couple and their love story…however twisted ours was gearing up to be.

  Everywhere I looked there were crisp, white-washed walls in contrast to the most brilliant of azure seas I could envision in my wildest dreams.