Relatively Risky

W
hen an aspiring illustrator
attracts the attention of a New Orleans mob family, and secrets long hidden are unearthed from the past, a handsome homicide detective may be her only chance of surviving the Big Easy.

T
he oldest of thirteen
, Alex Baker does two things: he solves murders and avoids children. Until the day Nell Whitby foils a carjacking, knocks Alex off his feet and turns his life upside down.

When the shots start flying and every rock he turns over reveals another wise guy, Alex decides he needs to stick close to the quirky yet captivating children's book author while he discovers who is behind a series of mob hits. But can he resist the urge to kiss the kid magnet now in the crosshairs?

A
relative newcomer
to New Orleans—with no family but her college friend—Nell spends her days in seeming obscurity, sketching tourists in the French Quarter and serving canapés for her friend's catering business. When a chance encounter makes Nell the target of a mob hit, the only silver lining is meeting the cute cop who is determined to protect her.

But when she finds herself at the head of a second line made up of goons and gangsters, and secrets start bubbling up out of her own past, Nell must figure out what she's made of so she can live long enough to kiss the cop again…

T
his book is dedicated
to

the City of New Orleans,

AKA the Big Easy,

both before and after Katrina.

You made this Wyoming girl love you.

W
hen Alex Baker
felt the cold gun barrel press against the back of his neck he knew a bad night had just gotten worse. New Orleans at night was always a walk on the wild side, but when the moon was full, wild got super sized. The crazies came out, the bullets flew, and the emergency rooms filled up with the bloodied and the bowed.

When he already had the best view of the city's worst, working Homicide for the New Orleans Police Department, it wasn't a good idea to piss off a mayoral aide, cuz the view was worse at night. Thank goodness it was his last night shift, at least until he pissed off someone else. It had felt like everyone was taking potshots at everyone else the whole damn night. The homicide rate had never been great, but it had gotten worse since Katrina. If something didn't change, the City Council really would move to reclassify bullet holes as a natural cause of death, just to improve the stats for tourists. Starting to feel like it didn't matter how many people lived in New Orleans, just how many died.

Nights like this, he wondered why he didn't find some quiet little town where only wildlife got shot at. But the Big Easy had moved into his head and his heart and worse, it set a good table. His stomach rumbled a reminder that it had been a long time since its last feeding. No question the food wooed the taste buds, wined, dined, and entertained them. Lured a body like those sirens in the legends. Even when he hated the city, he loved it. If the devil had a home here and in hell, he'd live here, no question about it. Except in August, when hell was cooler.

In the quiet semi-dark, with morning just starting to lighten the horizon, he'd turned onto the narrow street where home, breakfast and bed waited. As usual, cars haphazardly crowded both sides of the street, fitting in where they could and where they shouldn't. Parking in New Orleans required patience, ingenuity and a huge pile of luck. Sometimes he'd be driving along, spot a great parking place, and feel this overwhelming urge to grab it because it was there. Alex had known he was running out of patience, was probably out of luck. This time of the morning no one was likely to clear as space just because he needed it. They were all sleeping something off in their beds. He should have taken the front fence down a long time ago so he could park on the lawn, but Zach insisted a white picket fence was a chick magnet. A guy really didn't want his dad saying chick magnet, let alone having one in the yard.

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 scuffed 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.”

He should stop her, would have if he'd shot the kid. Instead, he watched her go. Caboose looked even better straddling the bike. When she'd pedaled from sight, he extracted his cell and rallied the troops, before looking down at the card she'd given him.

By Whitby
.

Then in smaller print, her name—Eleanor Whitby—and other relevant details, next to what looked like a tiny vegetable, only with eyes, nose and huge teeth. Opposite that, in fancy script he read….

“Alfonse the artichoke?” Alex rubbed his aching head.

“Alfonse? The artichoke?
The
Alfonse? That's so sick!” The groggy carjacker lifted his head. Alex looked at him, both brows arched, and the kid said in a defensive rush, “Dude. Alfonse is happening.” He looked down the street with a look that was almost awe. “Was that Whitby? I was sure he was a dude.”

Alex gave a brief summary to dispatch and rang off.

“I got knocked on my ass by Whitby.”

Apparently he missed the part where his chin connected with Alex's fist. But he'd be less likely to file a complaint with IAD if he blamed her, so Alex let it pass.

“Wow. She was kinda sick.”

Alex shook his head. So the carjacker had a crush on the artichoke author. Just when he thought New Orleans had gotten as weird as it could get. They should call this place the Big Uneasy.

“She gave you her card? Could I get her address—”

“You have the right to remain silent. I'd suggest you exercise this right until you're in the presence of your lawyer or I might just forget I'm a good cop and kick your skinny ass up over your pointy head.”

When Alex finally got clear of the crime scene—something that took way longer than it should have—and made it into his house, he found his dad sitting at the kitchen table, the
Times-Picayune
spread out in front of him.

“You know they are going to quit printing that, don't you? You'll have to go online to get your news.” Alex was pretty sure the neighborhood wouldn't mind missing his dad in his ratty robe collecting the newspaper every morning, but he didn't say so. He'd outstripped his dad in height but the old man could still take him down. And if that stare meant what Alex thought it did, he'd have heard the shot. He sighed. Couldn't stop shifting from one foot to the other. “I'm fine.” Dad eyebrows arched, still packed a punch, even sprouting white and gray. “Truck needs a new window.”

And his temper needed an adjustment. Sleep should take care of that, though it would be harder to get to sleep now that the sun was fully up. He gave the rays streaming in the window a baleful look, which didn't faze it at all.

“I know someone who can fix it cheap, bubba.” Zachariah Baker called all his sons bubba.

It was faster than working his way through all seven names until he hit on the right one. His six daughters, Alex's half sisters, were all “honey,” except for the youngest, who was “baby,” in spite of her shiny new law degree. Alex wasn't that fond of lawyers, but he could see value of having one in the family.

“Fixing it cheap would be good.” Especially with his insurance rates about to take another hike.

Satisfied, Zach returned to his newspaper. Alex removed his gun and stowed it in the same locked cabinet that had been his dad's. Zach had started out as a street cop with the NOPD and had managed to make it to retirement with his integrity intact, no mean feat in the scandal-ridden police department of the past. A hair shorter than Alex, he was a bulky, large-boned man's man with a weather-beaten face and gray hair. He'd married and buried two wives. Signs number three might be incoming, now that his thirteen children, his Baker's dozen, were grown and mostly gone.