The oldest of thirteen children, detective Alex Baker has two goals in life: solve murders and avoid anyone under the age of ten. That is, until the day the quirky children's book author foils a carjacking, becomes a target for the mob, and makes his libido sit up and reconsider the whole no-kids thing. If he doesn’t protect her, she’ll be the next body to turn up in his homicide investigation.
As bullets start to fly, Nell can’t resist her sexy bodyguard or ignore her past, and Alex must protect the irresistible kid-magnet from whoever has them both in the crosshairs.
“Jones’ writing style is unique: a strong dose of noir balanced with humor and witty dialogue. The plot moves at a fast pace as does the chemistry between Alex and Nell. The characters are well-developed and likeable, the relationship between Alex and his 12 siblings fun, and the New Orleans ambience conveyed so realistically the reader will feel as if they have been plopped down right in the middle of the Big Easy.” Midwest Book Review
The excerpt:
He’d passed his house, wondering if he was going to be doomed to drive around until one of the college students across the street had to go to class, but as he passed a cross street, he’d spotted half a space just around the corner. It was by a hydrant, but the parking Nazis weren’t out this early, and he could get his dad to move his truck later. He pulled in, got most of his truck off the street, if he didn’t mind blocking the sidewalk. He didn’t. The dividing line between street and sidewalk was more imagined than real anyway. He’d shut off the engine and thrust open the door, anxious to get unconscious as soon as possible. Should have known better. Should have kept an eye on his surroundings. Which was why the stinking little piece of crap got the drop on him, down shifting his night from bad to worse.
“Get out real slow with your hands where I can see ‘em, mother—” The pressure of the gun against his neck eased some, as if the perp couldn’t point and talk at the same time.
Alex rolled his eyes at the spate of unoriginal swearing. The education system was so screwed up, it was depressing. Kids couldn’t even swear good and had nothing better to do than try to jack a detective who’d spent the night knee deep in bodies.
“Keep your cool,” Alex said, more for himself than the kid, as his temper tried to slip tired’s leash. Making sure both hands were visible, he slid out and turned around. The kid was as small as he sounded and looked like he was on the downside of a high. Probably looking to trade Alex’s wheels for a trip back up. Man, the guys’d really roast him if he got jacked by a kid too young to shave.
“Shut up and give me your wallet and keys!” The kid practically foamed at the mouth as another round of filth poured out.
At his age, Alex hadn’t known half that many cuss words. And when he got caught saying the ones he knew, his head had been down in the sink eating soap. If he shoved a bar down the kid’s throat? Probably be called police brutality and get him a sit down with IAD.
“Life’s not fair,” his dad would say about now. “But it’s always interesting, bubba.”
And about to get more so, Alex realized. The swearing, while tiresome, had drowned out the unlikely figure on a bicycle bearing down on them both. She was hunched over the handles, an intent scowl on a face that was ordinary, but not in a bad way. Her feet pumped hard on the pedals, as she steered around the numerous potholes and bumps that pockmarked the street. Her eyes were narrow slits and her hair stuck out around her head like a ragged, brown halo.
Alex sure hoped she didn’t plan to ram the little crap while he had a gun pointed at him—oh yeah, she meant to. As if the kid sensed her incoming, he started to turn.
“Here, catch.” Alex tossed his keys high in the air. No surprise the kid followed the shiny object. Or that he stepped back to catch them. The front wheel of the bike caught the kid in the butt and sent him running forward, right into Alex’s waiting fist. He crumpled into an untidy heap, though a final hand twitch fired the gun. Alex’s driver’s side window exploded into flying shards of glass.
And took his insurance rates with it.
Alex mentally deployed a few swear words. Didn’t have time to say them as the bike and its rider skidded sideways. No way she’d regain control. Alex jumped forward, tried to catch her. Instead, he got tangled in the bike. Gravity weighed in but not on his side. Damn, he didn’t remember the pavement being that hard. The front wheel spun against the side of his face through two rotations before he untangled a hand and stopped it. He turned his head and found himself nearly nose to nose with the rider. It was a nice nose. Short but straight and set neatly between her eyes. They were nice, too. He’d spent the night fielding angry looks. Didn’t mind the nice change of gaze. They were a warm brown and…he tipped his head, trying to find the right description, and settled for nice. They were nice. She smelled better than all of his perps. That wasn’t surprise. He noticed her lips were pursed, which sent his thoughts down a kissing side path. If he hadn’t been so tired, he wouldn’t have thought about kissing her, of course—
As if on cue, she licked her lips, kick-starting something deep in his gut. Maybe he’d spent too long on the bench after his divorce. He blinked, a bit hazily, and realized she was engaged in a counter scrutiny. Her curious, oddly innocent gaze intersected his and she blinked, lashes thick as a hair brush sliding down, then up again. Despite the intrusion of the bike they were as intimately entangled as lovers. Shouldn’t have thought that. His breathing stuttered.
“Are you all right?” Voice matched the eyes.
“I’m fine.” His voice was on the husky side, but she wouldn’t know that. His gaze drifted to her mouth again. Wasn’t a kiss a time honored thank you for a rescue? Did sharing her crash count as a rescue? His conscience kicked. “Are you okay?”
Her eyes widened. The mouth curved up. “Yes, thank you. Though…”
Apparently oblivious to his snarled thoughts, she untangled her legs from her bike and from him, wincing a bit in the process, and scrambled up.
He lifted the bike to the side. His nerve endings started sending an inventory of which parts hurt and how much. Gravity, as if sensing his desire to escape, tightened its grip. When he turned forty earlier this year, he’d decided it was time to quit slamming his body against the ground, hard objects and other people. It was getting embarrassing how long it took him to get up. Didn’t remember it hurting that much when he was younger. That’s why he’d applied for a transfer to Homicide. Life had a way of bringing you full circle—not to mention reemphasizing its most painful lessons. Lessons like, you can run but you can’t hide. And quit banging yourself against the ground, idiot brain.
He ignored the hand she held out to him and fought gravity until he got both legs under him. He crouched and flipped the kid, cuffed him, then checked his pulse. He’d live to carjack again. Might even live long enough to be old enough to drive what he stole. He secured the perp’s weapon and then went to right the bike. He gave it a roll forward—seemed to be all right. Not too bent out of shape. Something ironic in that thought, but he was too tired to figure it out. He deployed the stand, wondered what she was doing out so early, turned to ask, and found her staring at the handcuffs. Then she looked at him, her eyes a bit wide.
Some color scored his cheeks. “I’m a cop.”
“Oh. Right.” Her grin was a bit sheepish as she held up his keys.
Alex’s lips twitched, too tired to manage a grin. “Nice catch.”
“I’ve always had good eye-hand coordination. I kick butt at Mario Kart.”
Maybe that’s where she got the idea to ram the little piece of crap. He opened his mouth to tell her she should confine her ramming to games but stopped. Sounded too much like something his old man would say. She grinned, as if she knew, then turned to check her bike herself.
He was a guy, so he studied the rear view. A bit of skin showed where her top and calf-length pants didn’t quite meet. Her pants fit fine over a nicely formed caboose—she kicked her bike stand and swung a leg over. The scuf
fed cowboy boots were a surprise, but not as much as the realization she was going to just ride away.
“You can’t leave,” he protested. “You’re a witness. I’ll need a statement—”
“I have to go to work.” She dug in a pocket, extracted a battered card and held it out.
Alex accepted it, but that didn’t stop him from trying again as she lifted a foot to a pedal with clear intent to push off. “I can call your employer and explain—”
Her smile silenced him. The grin had been engaging, but the smile—had he thought her ordinary? He blinked. Tried to remember what he’d meant to say, but before he could she said, “You can’t call the muse. It calls you.”
Relatively Risky: The Big Uneasy 1
For more information, visit my website: paulinebjones.com
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A Big Uneasy Family Tree is available here.
From “Family Treed”
It was a dark and stormy night.
A shot hadn’t rung out.
Yet.
She was having dinner with the mob.
Nell Whitby didn’t want to have dinner with Aleksi Afoniki and his creepy nephew, Dimitri. She didn’t want to have anything to do with any of them. Miss Manners had been no help with an invite minus an RSVP. So here she was. About to drive into the den of the Russian Wolf and his, um, evil cub.
The invite had been directed to her and her best friend, Sarah, but Nell hadn’t told her. Hadn’t planned to tell Alex either. You didn’t spit into the wind or expose your friends to the mob, even if one of the friends was a big tough cop.
Nell stole a peek at the big tough cop. Alex Baker had been showing up, off and mostly on, since her world spun off its axis into weird mob-relatives-ness. Even though the on times had gotten more frequent, there was a part of Nell that expected him to bolt at some point. He was a cop, the son of a cop, the sibling of legal types up the whazoo. She was related to two mob families and had been insistently invited to dinner with a third mob family. If that weren’t enough of a kiss of death for the relationship, Alex, the oldest of thirteen, had a serious kid phobia going. And she attracted kids like honey attracted ants. It was a hookup made in hell.
He’d probably break her heart. She kept telling herself to tell him no when he called. So far she’d not listened to herself. She hadn’t had a lot of cute guy in her life up to now, and he was the poster guy for cute. Dark hair. Tall, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. His eyes were an amazing blue and he had a stubborn, needs-a-shave jaw. Had tough guy down pat, but not bad boy. He wasn’t bad. He was good. He couldn’t leap tall buildings, stop bullets, or outrun locomotives. But he’d saved her life once or twice, made her heart skip with a look, and kissed her like he didn’t want to stop. How did a girl say no to that?
He looked at her and grinned, and yup, her heart skipped. Despite the skipping, she noticed that he didn’t look worried enough for a guy about to drive into the Wolf’s den.
“You’re not wearing a wire, are you?” Did she hope he was? The idea his many law-minded siblings might be listening in was a bit comforting, but not if it got them killed. Bullets did move faster than cars. It was the kind of physics even a former librarian could do.
He grinned. “Afoniki’d expect that.”
Not exactly a no. “But you’re carrying?” Did not seem like a good idea to go in without one of them armed and dangerous. She might be a bit wistful that she wasn’t the one. It’s not that she wanted to shoot someone again—she mentally winced over that memory—but it felt wrong to be the unarmed lamb among the Russian wolves. His grin widened. Armed, dangerous and cute enough to kiss. She half sighed.
“You nervous?” Alex slowed his truck and gave her a concerned look.
Lightning flashed against thick dark clouds, fitfully illuminating the brooding outlines of the mob mansion. It was such a cliché. How had they managed it? Did they have something on Mother Nature, too? She studied the appropriately sinister gates, their widening gap a bit too canine. The heavy rain made them almost foam. A cliché on steroids.
“I’m scared almost out of my mind,” she said lightly, as if joking, even though it was the truth. When his look of concern deepened, she summoned up a smile, though it had some wry to it. “If the old man is half as creepy as the nephew…”
She’d met Dimitri Afoniki about the same time the past bitch-slapped her. Hadn’t liked him before she found out he was a wise guy.
“We can leave,” Alex offered.
“And drive straight to Wit-Sec?” Just how offended would the wise geezer be if she stood him up? Did she want to find out?
Alex considered the question, then shrugged. “Maybe the food will be good?”
As if they’d sensed her desire to flee while she could, the gates snapped closed behind them with an ominous clang. Okay, maybe ominous was a bit dramatic. A lot of people knew where they were going, most of them related to Alex and packing weapons. If they disappeared, there’d be a lot of heat on the Afonikis. Of course, the fact that they lived in New Orleans seemed to indicate they could handle the heat.
Alex steered his truck along the drive that curved toward the house. It passed under a portico, then turned back toward the gate. Every light in every room of the house appeared to be on but it still managed to be unwelcoming. Some goons waited under the portico, and one of them stepped forward to open her door. The other goon opened Alex’s door and indicated his intention to park the truck for him. Or drive it off for stripping and shipping to Mexico. She should probably set her expectations low when breaking bread with a wise geezer.
At least she wasn’t related to Afoniki.
She hoped. Were there still secrets waiting to ooze up out of the past? Was that why he’d summoned her to meet some of her mob cousins in this so-called neutral territory?
To find out more about this short story, visit my website.
From Do Wah Diddy Die
For more New Orleans fun, try Do Wah Diddy Die:
Mickey Ross was not a happy man.
He’d just come off a two-day stakeout and had the rumpled suit and unshaven chin to prove it. He was tired. He was cranky. And he wasn’t home in bed having that dream where the cover girl for Sports Illustrated was rubbing sun tan lotion onto his back.
He looked at where he didn’t want to be, but the waiting area of the New Orleans International Airport didn’t fade to something more pleasing. Nor did the stuffed pig dangling at the end of his arm vanish into the nightmare realm where it belonged.
Mickey glared down at it. Bad enough for a cop to be keeping company with any pig, but this pig, well, if it’s lurid pink and purple surface was any indication, it had never been a beauty. Time had rubbed away the fluff from its surface and left one sorry black eye hanging by a single thread over the patchy remains of a black grin on its square snout. Its tattered ensemble began and ended with a limp ribbon knotted around a fat neck.
In an effort to distance himself from his ratty companion, Mickey held it by the tatty end of the ribbon and twirled it with more than a hint of vindictiveness.
In between twirls, he pondered the unkind fate that had landed him in this fix. If Eddie hadn’t decided to end sixty years of bachelorhood, he wouldn’t be waiting for a damn flower girl for the damn wedding, with only a stuffed pig for an introduction. Who flew in a little girl for a geriatric wedding anyway? New Orleans was full of little girls who’d probably love tossing petals. But no, they had to import one, then pick a total stranger to collect her—with an obnoxious pig as the icebreaker. Convenient that Eddie had discovered pressing business in Mandeville tonight.
The least he could have done was warn him about the old ladies. How could his own uncle send him into battle, into that minefield of weirdness, without even a warning? A minefield that had kept going off in his face no matter what he did, a horror—except for the one small oasis of sanity known as Miss Gracie, who had saved him from the stuffed dragon, but not the pig.
He just wished he k
new where Eddie’s Unabelle—was that a name to make a guy flinch—fit in with the Seymour’s. She didn’t seem to be a relative. She was just...there, like a black hole. He sure hoped the lights were on in her upper story for Eddie or he’d learn there were worse things than a lonely retirement.
A stir at the gate quickly became arrival as passengers filtered off the plane. With the end in sight, Mickey straightened in hope.
That’s when it occurred to his weary brain that a stuffed pig might be a less than adequate introduction to the kid. What had possessed the parents to entrust their kid to the uncertain care of three batty old ladies? He studied each small, whining arrival, wondering which one was his. A security guard loomed up on one side and he had to produce his badge.
The case against Eddie just kept building.
A woman emerged from the breezeway and paused to get her bearings. Mickey straightened in an utter and complete moment-of-silence respect for the best legs he’d ever been privileged to lay eyes upon. The cop part of him was vaguely aware she was in her late twenties, maybe early thirties, almost of a height with him and the possessor of a slender build. Her hair was dark and cut short around a face made interesting by its square jaw and straight, dark brows. Mouth was nice, too. Full and lush and lined in red.
He left off admiring her legs to contemplate her mouth, but his attention was drawn lower again when the legs went into motion. Brief appearances by her thighs, between the slash of her dark skirt, had him tugging at a too-tight tie. It took him a few seconds to realize that she’d stopped right in front of him.
With extreme reluctance, he dragged his gaze back to eye level. Her head was angled, her gaze directed toward the pig with a seriousness it didn’t deserve. Just for a moment, something in the angle of her jaw had him wondering if he’d met her, but he dismissed the notion. A guy couldn’t forget those legs.
Dead Spaces: The Big Uneasy 2.0 Page 23
