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

by Scott, D. D.

  Bingo. Zayne leaned back in his seat, needing the extra space to take in what his mother had told him. Wow. He had to respect Roxy for her ballsy move. Hell, she had bigger nads than he did. At least she went for the life she wanted and not what she was expected to do. Unlike him. Where was he on his life plan? Knee-deep in his dad’s tomatoes without a clue what the fuck he was doing. Yeah. Roxy just scored major points for doing things her way.

  “So there’s Roxy’s past, Son. Now why would you care about her finances? I think it’s your turn to answer some questions,” his mom said then tapped her manicured nails against the lacquered table top.

  Damn, he hated the nail tap thing. The clickety-clack of her impatience drove him nuts.

  But she was right — hard as it was for him to reconcile that with running as far away as possible from her butting-in bravado.

  He took a deep breath then spilled his beans about his and Roxy’s fender-bender.

  “Well I sure hope you don’t plan to have her pay for the damage to that clunker of a truck you and your dad love — loved — so much,” his mom said with an indignant don’t-you-dare tempered only by the realization she must refer to Zayne’s dad in the past tense.

  “Of course I’m making her pay for it! She cracked the hell out of it. What do you mean by letting her off the hook? You certainly didn’t raise me to shirk responsibility. I always had to pay for my mistakes.”

  “You’re right. But that’s different,” she said, pressing then re-pressing her napkin.

  “How so?” This oughta be good, Zayne thought.

  “You were raised with all kinds of love and support. Roxy never had that. That girl doesn’t even know the meaning of family. She deserves a break.”

  “Wait a minute. You, Mom, raised me with unconditional love. Yes, you did. I’ll give you that. Hands down. But not Dad, and you know it. The beasts Roxy grew up under sound just like Dad.”

  Seeing his mom wince soaking in the reality of his words, Zayne’s lungs constricted trying to catch the large knot descending his throat. He didn’t want to hurt his mom, but he was tired of her hiding the truth about his father’s failures. Why couldn’t she just accept he was a miserable dad? Zayne sure as hell had to deal with that truth years ago.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to hurt you. But you know how I feel about Dad’s parenting skills or lack thereof,” Zayne said, willing to put his hurt aside to bring a smile back to his mom’s face. The last thing he wanted to do was cause her more pain and heartache. She’d been through enough — in marriage to the man and by his death.

  “Apology accepted. And that…you should know by now, Zayne,” she said, the hurt still taking the once ornery and playful sparkle out of her eyes. But just as soon a small smile returned to her lips. “I just think you could take it easy on the poor girl. Roxy’s new in town and really struggling to find her way on her own.”

  She sighed. “How bad is the damage to your vehicles?”

  “Don’t have the estimates yet but it’s not looking too good. I dropped her off at Raeve and will check with the guys at the garage later today about the damage.”

  “Maybe I could just have the repairs made and talk to her for you,” his mom offered, her let-Mom-fix-this-for-you wheels spinning as fast as she could evidently get them too.

  “Oh no you don’t. See? That’s exactly why I didn’t want to tell you any of this. You need to just stay out of it. Roxy and I can handle things without your help. We’re adults. We don’t need our parent’s making things all better for us anymore.”

  When will she stop protecting him, Zayne thought. The idea of her getting involved in this had him all riled up, worse than the accident itself or his uncertainty of how best to handle Roxy.

  And why was he doing battle with his mom for both himself and for Roxy too? Shit. Who was he kidding? The nerves in his neck stiffened his resolve. He knew why. And thanks to his mom’s CIA-worthy meddling Roxy was no longer such a mystery.

  Zayne knew what it felt like to want more than anything to escape your past. Roxy had the strength he hadn’t yet found to break the mold her parent’s set. For that gutsy move, he’d protect her at all costs and for the costs of the damage she’d done with her ridiculous, but hot-as-hell shoes.

  “So what are you going to do about the repair estimates?” His mom asked, her eyebrows raised in that I expect-you-to-do-right-be-her way.

  Yeah. Good Question. What was he going to do? Roxy wasn’t about to accept help if it appeared at all charitable. She’d made that perfectly clear.

  So far he’d only secured one dance with her in exchange for a new pair of boots. How could he make her ‘accessible’ to him for longer than that?

  “You do know she’s one helluva a bootscooter, right?” His mom said, her butt-in wheels evidently still rotating strong.

  “That’s what she told me,” Zayne said, his brain starting to feed off his mom’s energy. “Got that one covered.”

  But what else would she be willing to trade for boots? For the right motivation, how long could Zayne keep her on his dance floor?

  “Do the right thing, Son,” his mom said, getting up from the table. “Pay it forward not back.”

  He agreed with her there. How far forward was the challenge. “I’ll see you for dinner, Mom. I’ve got to get over to the garage and pick up the estimates.”

  “Oh, Boy,” she said then shook her head and left him to his plans.

  • • •

  Roxy stormed toward the dance floor, her stilettos clacking with a vengeance.

  Confident all eyes in the Neon Cowboy followed her stampede, she closed the distance between herself and her target. Each step pinched her toes, entrenching each digit deeper into the pointed tips of her sling-backs. Each stride confirming her gut-twisting desire to make Zayne McDonald pay for her pain.

  Grease from dropped Buffalo wings and fried pickles smeared the bottom of her handcrafted Italian leather shoes. But she couldn’t bear to stop and look, as if ignoring the tragedy would salvage her soul or soles.

  Once on the dance floor, she elbowed her way through the rowdy crowd. With line dancing lessons ready to begin, she had not one minute to waste.

  Seeing Zayne at the head of the class, she teetered on the edge of disaster as one of her miniscule heels caught on a misaligned floor-joint. Her heart stumbled along with her feet. But she wasn’t about to retreat. Her adrenaline kicking her pulse up a notch, she quickened her pace.

  She didn’t need Zayne to make a fool out of her. She’d done that on her own. It was her fault the heel of her Manolo had caught under the accelerator of her Mercedes. But she certainly hadn’t meant to demolish the bed of his pickup truck and almost bruise the baskets of his daddy’s hybrid tomatoes.

  With a mere fifty feet to go before she was within striking distance, she balled up her fists, clenching them tight, attempting to maintain a relative degree of control. Zayne hadn’t a clue what a fully-throttled Roxy Rae looked like. Give her ten seconds, and he would.

  But before she got to him, he turned to face her, donning a mischievous grin that didn’t quit. Damn him. The room froze in mid grapevine.

  The twelve thousand dollar repair estimate he’d left in her mailbox this afternoon — the same day as their damn accident — propelled her out of the freeze frame. Crossing the floor’s waxed wood grain, she could only hear the piercing sobs of her feet.

  There was no way in Hades she could have done that much damage. Hell, the blue book value on that hunk of junk couldn’t be much more than that. And if it was so important to him to get the darn thing fixed, why hadn’t he freaked out about that when they had their little fender-bender? No. Oh no. He had to be all hero-like calm, cool and sexy-to-boot with his damn piece of straw and sexy, Southern aw-shucks drawl.

  While Zayne stared her down with an intense spark Roxy swore would ignite, she made her final approach. If she held his gaze, she’d melt, lost in the dark swirls of his better-than-chocolate martini
eyes. Mind over matter, she thought and marched on, forcing her anger to obstruct her vision.

  Oh, yeah, she had conviction. Her intent had been to smack the shit out of him. But as soon as she was within reach, his goddamn cologne killed her nerve. One waft of his spicy hot scent and she was toast.

  Her own heat about burned her alive, partly due to Zayne’s good looks, the rest due to the people on the dance floor watching her. She wrestled her brain to think of something ingenious to say. It sure as hell wouldn’t be very nice to slap him without a decent explanation.

  She should have agreed to turn the claims into her insurance, but she couldn’t risk a rate increase. And he was the one who suggested they settle it on their own. Or had she said that? Whatever, whoever, those details were irrelevant now. Settle on their own, her ass. She was good for a couple hundred bucks, not several thousand.

  “Here’s what I think of your estimate,” she said, giving up on witty discourse, pulling back her hand, ready to fire.

  Zayne covered his headset microphone with one hand.

  “Don’t make me kiss your over-dressed bad ass,” he dared her with a hoarse whisper, letting go of the microphone in time to catch her raised arm by the wrist.

  She countered his block with her free arm, raised her bejeweled hand, opened her palm, and steadied her aim for the swift slap he deserved.

  But she was too late.

  Zayne captured her chin in the palm of his hand, positioning her mouth only inches from his. Pulling her tight against his oh-so-sweet-toned body, he moved the microphone away from his lips and covered her mouth with his, kissing her until her head spun and her heels wobbled.

  Not exactly the smack she had in mind.

  “Are you done playing cowgirl?” he asked then displayed a ridiculously sexy smile. “Why don’t you go home? We’ll finish this later.”

  Still pinning her up against him, he brushed away the loose bangs that had tumbled onto her forehead. Steadying her as if she were a doll he was placing back on a shelf, he stepped away from her and returned the microphone to his mouth.

  “Are we ready for some bootscootin’?” He spoke into the headset, spinning her around to face the wide eyes of his students.

  Before she had time to respond, Hot Apple Pie’s “Hillbillies in the Hay” and Zayne’s booming voice taunted her through the saloon’s speaker system.

  “I see you’re right in time for my favorite song. Coincidence,” he mused, leaning into her, his warm breath tickling her burning ears. “What do you think, class? I seriously doubt Roxy does anything accidentally.”

  Not one of Zayne’s floor-full of students seemed remotely interested in bootscootin’. Instead, they focused on Roxy, bringing more heat to her already over-cooked cheeks.

  She’d made her move right at the point in the lesson where Zayne picked a partner. Perfect timing, Vaughn.

  It was all she could do to keep her rushing pulse from exploding. With cold air blasts from the ceiling fan freezing the remnants of his kiss onto her lips, she didn’t have the composure to determine how she should react. She was beyond finesse, beyond frustration and beyond finagling.

  “On eight, class,” Zayne instructed, counting down the measure, tapping his boot against the floor.

  The song’s intoxicating rhythm pulsed against the parts of her held firm against his side.

  “I’m not done with you, Zayne. That estimate is bullshit,” she hissed and on her own count, ground her heel into the toe of his boot, not the least bit concerned her effort may have been borderline overkill.

  “Keep playing dirty,” Zayne said then laughed as he laced his fingers through hers. “This is some kind of foreplay.”

  The raging-mad butterflies swarming Roxy’s stomach declared mutiny, settling into fluid flitters of delight matching the suggestive tease of Zayne’s voice.

  Fine. She’d go along with him because she never turned down a chance to dance. She did a mean grapevine and a beautiful box step, probably the result of winding her way through the masses during big sales at Bloomingdale’s.

  So what if she’d given up on slapping him? Who wouldn’t after that kiss?

  But when the lesson ended, Zayne was hers for a fine dressing down. To hell with her bootscootin’ butterflies.

  Chapter Four

  Following a tantalizing Texas Two-Step and a gigantic Achy Breaky Heart, Roxy sank into a chair at one of the oak tables bordering the Neon Cowboy’s dance floor. Fanning herself with a menu, she attempted to cool down from her impromptu dance lesson. Even with the air whirring, her heart continued pumping hard. With each unsteady breath, she coaxed her restless spirit to take five, but a disconcerting mix of pleasure and stymied frustration blocked her progress.

  Dancing with Zayne may be a dream worth its weight in the stock options she used to own, but dealing with him on truck repairs was proving disastrous.

  She fidgeted in her seat, trying to find a comfortable plank in the straight-backed chair. But comfort eluded her. With each hushed whisper she heard or imagined she heard about her limit-pushing look, simmering bubbles of doubt flooded her ego, drained her confidence and tsunami-sized her predicament. She knew what the fuss was about but had decided a long time ago to weather the initial shock.

  She popped her knuckles even though she didn’t do that anymore, wishing her angst would vanish with each crackle and pop.

  She didn’t care if the entire bar judged her wardrobe. Dammit. Let’ em keep sizing her up and pointing her out to their sidekicks. She worked hard to be a trend-setting designer. The key being trend-setting. She created the looks. The rest of these people would soon see the benefit in following her muse.

  To hell with whether or not her style was a Music City fashion faux paux. She wasn’t going to change her design elements to mingle in Nashville’s spur-heeled saloons instead of Manhattan’s Moomba-esque martini lounges. She planned to merge both worlds and would get ‘er done in her new blue collar comedy home.

  She placed her hat onto the chair next to hers as if the chair was a mannequin, turning and fluffing it to showcase her design. She fancied her latest wide-brimmed creation a hybrid cross of Chanel and Stetson…a rather bizarre, but interesting marriage of Fifth Avenue and Music Row. Running her hands across the copper beads encircling the hat’s crocodile-banded stock, she concentrated on the feel of the smooth edges of the large glass baubles. With each pass of her fingertips, she tried to block her memory of Zayne’s svelte, well-defined shoulders.

  She tugged on the faux fur of her jacket then readjusted the hook-and-eye closures, centering the fasteners at the lowest point between her breasts. Despite the fact she had nothing on underneath, at least it appeared she was a tad bit demure.

  Nashville would catch on to her designs…at least she hoped so…and before she ran out of start-up cash. Thinking about her finances, especially the red numbers her adding machine spewed, ripped holes in the pit of her stomach, giving the bumbling butterflies their freedom. She wasn’t in denial. Oh no. She knew she was a piggy bank without a plug.

  Maybe she shouldn’t have emptied her savings into the closet-sized boutique she called Raeve. She sat straighter in her chair. Yes, she should have. Absolutely. You bet your sweet ass she should have and did. She wasn’t giving herself the option of failure. Failure wasn’t part of the Vaughn vernacular.

  She scanned the packed house on the saloon’s main level and the crowded booths bordering the balcony. Yep. These people could most definitely use her designs. She still had a market. Thanks to her dare-to-be-different looks, her Accessible Accessories line already had a captive audience.

  Steadying her gaze on her French-manicured feet, her sour mood lifted. She admired the delicate straps holding them to the stiletto heels of her favorite pair of Blahniks. The crocodile mid-heel halters complimented the band on her hat. Too bad she’d ended up on the dance floor and desperately in need of a podiatrist.

  Blahniks simply weren’t made for bootscootin’. And if fo
r no other reason, Zayne needed one of the designer’s high-dollar heels wedged in his ass for his part in committing her feet to a rest home at the tender age of thirty-four.

  Before she could delight in the prospect of spearing him with her stilettos, the tomato-growing cowboy was once again in her face.

  “If you ever interrupt my class again…” He tossed his hat on the table then leaned down to her eye level, wrapping his arm around the top of her chair. “Listen, why don’t we just call a truce? Let’s just forget you ever put a dent the size of the Brooklyn Bridge in the back of my work truck and almost ruined my tomatoes.”

  “Oh, no, Beefsteak,” she said, calling him by the only tomato name she knew. “Do you see me waving a white scarf?”

  Instead of challenging her to a verbal duel, Zayne offered up a heavy sigh. Pushing his hands through his earth-kissed, layered locks, he caught a drop of sweat before it escaped onto his brow.

  “I’ll interrupt you anytime I feel like it, being as you stuck me with a repair estimate from hell,” Roxy said, continuing her admonishment, holding back a tad since he seemed a bit too tired to tango.

  Maybe dancing together had him over-heated and out of cooling mechanisms too. She certainly empathized. Being close to him again, her body temperature continued to soar. Each time he invaded her personal space, her norms registered new baselines. So much for getting back to normal biorhythms.

  Zayne’s jaw tightened as he removed her hat from the empty chair across the table then placed it on her head. He turned the chair-back against the table edge and straddled the seat. Saying nothing, his smoldering gaze soaked up the silence.

  Now I’m getting somewhere. Aren’t I? Roxy leaned back in her chair, taking time to choose her words. “You ever spring a proposal like that on me again, and you’ll have the heel of my shoe stuck in more places than the tip of your boot.”