Relatively Risky (24 page)

“Then it's a date?” He moved in as he asked the question, a very tiny gap between her mouth and his that made thinking and talking a challenge.

“Totally.” The word was more sigh than anything and about all she could manage. He halved the gap to miniscule. “See, you were right.”

“I was? About what?” He paused, just shy of contact, looking a bit puzzled, but not so much it mitigated the flames any.

“You can get your own date.” She grinned, though it felt a bit shaky around the edges. She had a date with a cute cop and if she wasn't wrong, he was just about to kiss her—

Oh yeah, he was…

T
hank
you for reading
Relatively Risky.
I hope you enjoyed it. :-) The next adventure in the series is a short story called “Family Treed,”
followed by
Dead Spaces.

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“
F
amily Treed” is
1.5 in my Big Uneasy series. This short story is my amuse bouche, because it is a taste, a quick bite for my readers, a chance to check in on Nell and Alex (from Relatively Risky).

Nell's not sure why the mob wants to have dinner with her. She is sure she wants a cop at her side.

Alex wouldn't let Nell dine with the mob without him, despite much unease from his many siblings.

But when Nell's newly found relatives start making threatening noises, Nell wonders if she's putting Alex's life in danger.

Can they survive dinner with the killing cousins?

Excerpt:

Alex's dad had raised him to respect old dudes, but this was one bad, old dude.

All he felt was a strong desire to punch the guy out.

It was gonna to be a long night. And that was if things went well.

The air was so thick with something, his gut was ready to light the bat signal.

His sibs had been vocal about this dinner and about the wisdom of dating Nell. They all agreed she seemed okay, but—fill in the blank with twelve varieties of this is bad for your career. And you could end up dead or missing like Uncle Charlie. Uncle Charlie who had made the mistake of falling for Ellie Calvino. Had Afoniki played a part in removing him from the competition for Ellie's hand?

Only his dad hadn't said much about Nell. Alex had thought that was good. Now he wasn't so sure. His family had long experience with bad dudes. He got it. They were worried. Only they didn't know Nell.

Neither do you.

Okay, so he didn't know her know her, but she'd grown up in Wyoming, not a Mafia princess. And they weren't engaged or anything. He liked her. Liked spending time with her. Liked kissing her. Wasn't ready for more.

What if she wants more?

He mentally shrugged that question away.

What if you want more?

That was harder to shrug away. The way she attracted kids was a bit crazy, but seeing each other was a long way from having kids together, something he'd managed to avoid with his first wife. No question her relatives were a big tick in the negative column, but other than trying to kill her a couple of times, they'd not seemed that interested. Was this dinner a sign that change was coming? And if it was, why? Curiosity or something more? He glanced over at Nell, wondering how she felt about it. But she had her back to him, her head tilted back a bit as she listened to Calvino flap his jaws. She'd said she didn't need family bad enough to get mixed up with Family. But it must be a little tempting. Since her parents' death, all she'd had was Sarah.

Family. He knew all about family. He had a big one. They annoyed him, but he'd give his life for any of them.

Commit a crime for them?

That question was harder to answer. He'd have thought—no. But he'd learned some things since Nell exploded into his life. His family had a few secrets that Alex had realized he didn't want to examine too closely. Granted Nell didn't have the history with this bunch that he did with his family. Did she have the need? Stupid question. Of course she did. Who didn't need family?

She shifted, giving him a look at her profile. She'd managed to get up to speed on her poker face in a short time.

Maybe it came natural.

“That's some seriously bad blood,” his siblings had all managed to say or imply about Nell. The blood might be bad, but the packaging was nice. He'd thought her ordinary the first time they met. Until she smiled. Maybe that's when he stopped thinking. Or he'd matured. He found her quiet charm, the hint of mischief in her eyes, and her sense of humor a real turn on. Maybe he had matured.

There was another reason she was hard to walk away from. If he left, this bunch would eat Nell alive. The lamb among the wolves. Silent, subdued by their surroundings and the bad guys, she looked like glass about to shatter.

You've underestimated her before.

She was a lot tougher than she looked.

What else did she hide that well?

T
o buy
this short story
at your favorite bookseller
or for more information about this short story, visit my website:
www.paulinebjones.com
.

T
he Spy
Who Kissed Me

Dorothy Parker Award; First digital book nominated for Romantic Times Reviewer's Choice Award

A comedy romance suspense novel

Isabel "Stan" Stanley's mother has been hoping a man would fall in Stan's lap. But when a handsome spy dives through the sunroof of her car in a hail of bullets, Stan's sure this wasn't what momma had in mind.

Bad guys beware.

Stan's packing glue gun and she knows how to use it. Sort of.

Excerpt:

When the youthful hallelujahs faded into the frigid halls, I followed the hormonal herd to the kitchen for my earthly reward: the promised hot chocolate fix. At first the brew was too hot to drink, so I wrapped my hands around my cup and let the warmth seep into my chilled fingers. I sniffed, inhaling the fragrant steam of nature's perfect food. After a time, I blew on the surface, took a tentative sip, then closed my eyes and savored the rich bouquet, the hint of hazel nut—

“Stanley!” Jerome Jeffries, oblivious to the finer nuances of hot chocolate consumption on account of his extreme youth, pulled me to one side. “We got us a job!”

I guess this is where I admit I play keyboard and sing in a band. Beneath my insignificant chest, lurks a powerful pair of lungs, the better to fuel a fair voice. Another one of God's little jokes, I've always thought, putting all the power where it couldn't be seen.

Jerome, cuter than Val Kilmer, a mere twenty years old, and the guiding light of the band, recruited me not long after I moved home. It wasn't hard. I let myself be dazzled by visions of jiving to “Wild Thing” or “I Love Rock'n Roll.” I'd save Woolly Bully for the encore…

I know better now.

Jerome wanted to be a crooner like Harry Connick, Jr. or Frank Sinatra, so we played bubble music. I thought we should call ourselves “Sad,” but Jerome liked “Star Dust” better. So did my mother, who pointed out that I was too old for such nonsense. I told her that actually I was too young.

It was for this reason, I greeted Jerome's announcement of a new gig with some wariness.

“Please tell me it's not another anniversary?” Didn't people know the divorce rate was up?

“This is totally not an anniversary.” His mouth curved into a grin that could have taught Tom Cruise a thing or two. My heart may have pit-a-patted a bit at the sight of it.

“It's a rally in support of the troops of Desert Storm at Grant Park. You won't believe this, but we've been asked to play back-up for the one and only Lee Greenwood.”

I waited a moment, but he didn't grin again.

“Lee Greenwood. Wow.” I paused. “Who's Lee Greenwood?”

Jerome laughed like I'd just been witty. Laughing kinked the area around his eyes, his mouth and my mid-section. I sipped my chocolate, the scientific equivalent of pouring gasoline on a fire and then tugged at the collar of my sweater. Perhaps the thermals were a mistake. Tommy, our bass guitarist and a dead ringer for Michael J. Fox, mistook this for a summons and joined us. Okay, so it wasn't just the dream of playing in a band that made me agree to play bubble music on my weekends. I'm a Baptist, not a saint.

After more exclamations of mutual delight, we agreed to get together before the rally to rehearse. I downed the last of my chocolate, because it's a Commandment—or should be—not to waste chocolate, and watched them leave. The combined heat of their cute and my hot chocolate surged through my body like the rising tide. I think my eyebrows were steaming. I was on my way to being my own weather system as the heat spread out, seeking those parts of my body encased in thermal and wool. I needed to remove some layers, but stripping in a church was the fast track to hell. I was all about the slow track.

I headed for the door, but got cut off at the pass by Reverend Hilliard. I was dripping in sweat and he looked like he couldn't sweat and never would. His blinding smile featured two rows of gleaming, reverential teeth. He looked like he'd been born with the clerical collar around his neck. I fought back a sudden urge to confess something. It wasn't a lack of material, you understand, but fear of bursting into flames. Didn't seem like a good plan to incinerate a man of God.

“I can't thank you enough for helping us out, Miss Stanley. I pray it didn't inconvenience you too much?”

He probably had prayed. So glad he was keeping God updated on my movements.

“It wasn't a problem. I'm glad to help out the kids.” I didn't think he was actually interested me, because I'd seen me in the mirror, but it didn't hurt to be honest. Just in case God was listening in. He smiled again, upping my guilt level by a factor of something times something else. I taught English, not math, before I quit to write roaches. I added, before he could pile on more guilt, “I really have to be going. I have Rosemary's car and she likes it home by ten.”

He looked at me like I'd kicked a puppy but he forgave me because that's just the kind of preacher guy he was. I fled because that's the kind of girl I was.

Outside the cold air sizzled against my hot cheeks. Just prior to spontaneous combustion, I stripped off the jacket, hat and gloves, and tossed them into the back seat. I'd have taken off the thermals, too, but I didn't want to get arrested in the church parking lot. I slid behind the wheel and started the motor. The heater blew cold. Before it could change its mind, I switched it to cold vent and opened the sunroof, welcoming the combined rush of frigid air across my steaming face and neck. As I kicked it into gear, cold began a slow seep into the thermal covered areas.

Earlier, snow had mixed with rain. Clouds still obscured the stars, but the air was now dry and devoid of flakes. In the fitful light of the street lamps, the road gleamed slick and empty. I drove with caution—because it wasn't my car—enjoying the feel of fresh air, sweet solitude—a rare commodity in our over-stocked household—and a great car. Pleasantly tired and full of chocolate, I drove on auto-pilot, my thoughts drifting to my current romance novel with its impending love scene that I still didn't know how to write.

“Get a better imagination or a lover, Stan,” my agent had advised, the one time I'd let her read a draft.

“Maybe I should get a new agent,” I muttered. About then I saw the stop sign and hit the brakes. Across the intersection, an unfamiliar street retreated into murk, lit only by the faint glow of the street lamps.

“Great.” I'd taken a wrong turn again. I crossed the intersection, straining to read the signs. The one I managed to pick out was sort of familiar, but I couldn't place myself relative to home—

To my right, several firecrackers went off, one right after the other.

Then a man burst through the bay window of a house.