"His Cold Case Is About To Get Hot"
Reviewed by Angela B.
Posted May 17, 2010
Romance
Cold case detective Randy Railsback is curious about the
new student in his
self-defense class, whom he secretly nicknames "Streak."
Her real name is
Helena but she's a bit too aggressive during the practice
drills and Randy
suspects that she carries a lot of anger. English Professor Helena Norcross, suffers from panic
attacks, the aftermath
of a violent sexual assault. The perp, a serial rapist, has
never been caught
and the still fearful that he may return she now owns a
handgun and takes
self-defense classes while she works to rebuild her life.
After the assault her
marriage crumbled leaving her a single parent of two
children. Randy, a committed bachelor, is attracted to Helena and
when he discovers
the reason for her anger he takes it upon himself to reopen
and investigate
her unsolved case. Opponents of genre novels who still assert that romance is
escapist fiction
that cannot be taken seriously have either never read a
romance novel or
have not read one within the last 30 years. Many romance
novels over that
time have featured serious subjects with which all women
can identify, and
this book is among them. The author deftly weaves rape,
mental illness, post
traumatic stress disorder and its devastating consequences
into a well-
crafted story that deals with violence against women. Helene is traumatized and Randy is her oasis after a long
sentence in a desert
prison. What a guy. The important thing to note is that she
suffers but must
keep going because she has children who depend on her and
it is this extra
element of her character that gives texture to the story.
Also, he is a
committed bachelor who has no intention of settling down
any time soon
(even though his mother nags him about grandchildren), yet
he chooses
someone with a lot of baggage and helps her to heal. The plot is solid and like most Harlequin romances, the
writing is tight and
dialogue heavy but it packs a lot of story in a little
space. Readers may find
themselves feeling emotional about Helene because of the
sensitive subject
matter, but unlike with literature they know that she'll
be ok in the end. A
good read.
SUMMARY
There's a reason his cold case colleagues call him "Randy"
Randy Railsback. And he's never been ashamed of his
reputation with the ladies. But he is surprised by his
intense reaction to Helena Norcross, one of his defense
class students. He usually steers clear of women who aren't
sending the get-to-know-you-better vibe. So what is it about
Helena?
The English professor is clearly bent on
revenge against her perpetrator, but Randy's research leads
him to believe the guy's crimes are escalating. Not on
Randy's watch, buddy. Because for the first time in his
life, he's fallen hard. And nobody's going to hurt the woman
he loves.
Excerpt"Okay, Streak, show me what you got." Randy
Railsback stood relaxed, with an easy grin on his face.The woman he'd nicknamed Streak came at him across the
workout room like a charging rhino. At the last second, he
casually moved his hands sideways. Completely off balance,
she stumbled past him. He caught her ankle with his instep. She sprawled on the big mat that covered two-thirds of the
floor, and rolled over onto her back awkwardly. The other
women gasped. "See, ladies," he said over his
shoulder, "you use their force against them." He
reached down to offer her a hand, and found himself facedown
across her body, staring into a pair of brown eyes so
enraged they seemed to be entirely black pupil.
"Whoa!" he said as he rolled off. "Way to go,
Streak. More than just a pretty face." He came to his feet in one fluid movement. She scrambled
away on the seat of her sweatpants. "Hope I didn't hurt you," he said, and rubbed
his wrist. "You definitely hurt me." The other women tittered. She hadn't hurt him, but she
might have. Out-of-control newbies were always more
dangerous than pros who understood how to engage and when to
stop. "Friends?" he said, and stuck out his hand.
She ignored it and struggled to her feet. Had to be a reason for all the anger she was carrying.
Jessica might have an idea. As manager of a working gym,
Strength for Health, Jessica often knew more about her
clients than they realized. He hadn't planned to take Streak down, but she'd
come at him with such force, he'd had no choice. She
toted some muscle on that skinny frame, she moved fast and
she was only three or four inches shorter than his six feet
two. If she learned to channel that anger, she might turn
into a formidable opponent. If she didn't, she was going
to get herself or someone else hurt. "Okay, ladies, gather 'round," he said.
"I'm Randy Railsback. I'm a Shelby County cop
and I teach this class several times a year, and I'm
afraid you're stuck with my standard introduction. After
that we'll get to work. During the break, you can all
introduce yourselves and tell us why you joined a
self-defense class." He opened his hands. "Okay with
you?" Most of the heads bobbed. Streak's didn't. "A competent big man will almost always beat a competent
small man," he began. "But we're not men, Randy," said the luscious
blonde, with a small waggle of her estimable rear. "I've noticed," he said, and included the whole
class in his killer smile. Streak didn't react.
"That's my point. Women are usually smaller than
their assailants. Most men have greater upper-body strength
than women, and most women have a glass jaw. A solid right
will take you out every time." "Then why are we here?" Streak asked. Voice like
velvet. Deep, almost baritone, but full of authority.
He'd bet she was a doctor or lawyer or top-level manager
despite the droopy old sweats. Whatever she was, she sure
hadn't made it on her looks or cheerful nature. "Excellent question. I'm not about to teach you how
to start fights. I'mgoing to teach you how to finish
them." "And disable our attackers?" Streak asked. "If that's what it takes. We have three
objectives." He counted on his fingers. "First, get
free. Second, get away, and third, get safe." He grinned
at her. "And avoid a right cross while you're about
it." "Why not just shoot his ass?" asked a plump and
cheerful lady who looked like Mrs. Santa Claus. "My
husband says shoot until the gun goes click, click, then if
you have time, reload and do it again." There were nods all around. "What if you don't have a gun handy?" Randy
said. "How many of you have gun permits and carry a
weapon in your car, or have one in your house?" Every hand went up. "How many of you feel comfortable shooting it?" Everyone except Streak raised her hand. A cross section of
female West Tennessee America, and every one of them owned a
gun. If he were a perp, he'd be terrified. But then, if
faced with shooting someone for real, so would they. He
didn't usually do this until later in the course, but
after Streak's little episode, he decided to move up his
demonstration. "'Scuse me a second," he said. He came back from his gym locker with the .38 Smith & Wesson
short-barreled five shot he carried in his ankle holster as
backup to his Sig Sauer .45. He unloaded it, checked it
twice, dropped the bullets into his pocket and offered Mrs.
Claus the weapon, butt first. "I carry a weapon at all
times, even off duty." He winked at them. "So I can
take down your friendly neighborhood ATM bandit at
Kroger's. I've never shot anyone and I pray I never
have to, and I definitely hope you never have to, either.
Now, Mrs.…" "Ellen," she simpered. She held the gun low with her
trigger finger safely along the side, even though she had
just seen it unloaded. Someone had taught her well. "Most shootings occur from six feet or less." He
moved back ten feet and stuck out his hand. "Woman, how
'bout you give me that diamond ring you're wearing?" Ellen narrowed her eyes. The pistol swung up toward his
chest. Before she could dry fire, he crossed the distance,
blocked her finger on the trigger, wrenched the gun up out
of her grasp and pointed it back at her. "Oh," Ellen said. "It's not as easy as it looks." "So we can't shoot, we can't fight. Should we
just lie down and… die?" Streak again. He was certain
she was going to say something besides "die," but
changed her mind. He was glad he hadn't offered her the
gun. She'd probably club him over the head with it.
She'd relished the idea of disabling her opponent a tad
too much. "You're here to learn to avoid dying," he said.
"Get loose from whoever is after you and don't stick
around. We clear on that?" "We can beat his brains out with a rock," Streak said. "Only if you have one," he said. "Accept that
you may get hurt. Don't get dead." For the next half hour he put them through simple drills—how
to move forward, backward and sideways, how to keep their
weight balanced so they couldn't be knocked over easily.
They were sweating when he called for a break. Everyone
collapsed on the exercise mats, pulled bottles of water out
of their bags and drained them. He lobbed his empty bottle into the waste bin in the corner
and asked, "Who wants to start?" He smiled at the
little blonde. "How about you? First names only. Less to
remember." Plus it gave them some privacy among a group
of relative strangers. Before the classes finished, the ones
who stayed would know one another well, but at the moment,
first names were plenty. "Everybody calls me Bunny," she said. "I have no
intention of telling you the name Mama saddled me with. I
have a husband and two teenage boys, and there are times I
wish I could beat up every one of them. And no, I do not
have a job." "One husband and two teenage boys is a
job," said Mrs. Claus. She went next. "You already know—I'm Ellen. My
husband and I raise Black Angus in Fayette County, and
he's gone early and late with the stock. If I called the
sheriff's department, they wouldn't get to me for at
least twenty minutes. I'm on my own. I have to be able
to take care of myself." "Thanks, Ellen. How about you, Streak?" he asked. She arched an eyebrow at him. "My name is
Helena. I want to learn to protect myself." "I like Streak," said Bunny. "It suits you and
it's cute." The look Helena gave her would have peeled paint, but Bunny
grinned and shrugged. Everyone waited for Helena to continue. When she didn't,
he nodded to the fiftyish woman sitting beside her. "I'm Francine. I live alone, I run a day-care
center, and in case y'all hadn't noticed, I'm
sixty pounds overweight and black. I didn't give birth
to any of my kids, but I still consider 'em mine. As to
why I'm here… In the last year three deadbeat dads under
Orders of Protection have tried to pick up their kids when
they weren't supposed to, and one drunk mama was
strappin' her two-year-old daughter into her car seat
ready to drive home when I stopped her. I need to know how
to handle myself." "Did you keep the dads from taking their children?"
Ellen asked. Francine grinned at her. "Being a heifer like me has to
be good for something. You bet I stopped 'em." "Good for you," said the tall, dark woman who sat
beside her. She was maybe forty-five, and looked like Streak
might have if Streak only fixed herself up. Expensive
haircut, expensive workout clothes, expensive trainers.
Sleek as a pampered Siamese cat. "I'mAmanda. I'm
a divorce lawyer. Divorces bring out the absolute worst in
people and sometimes they take out their nasty tempers on
me." She nodded toward the girl sitting next to her, who
was maybe twenty-five, with wide hazel eyes. "Hi, I'm Lauren." She waggled her fingernails.
They were neatly manicured, but so short she must bite them. Oh, Lord, Randy thought, she's perky. "Walter and I haven't been married all that
long," she continued. "My mama and daddy live all
the way over in Birmingham and Walter's got a new job
where he travels a lot and works nights. He has to do it to
get ahead, but we live in a town house in Germantown, and I
don't know anybody to call if I get scared." Randy was surprised to see tears threatening to spill down
her cheeks. Okay, he'd forgive her for being perky,
since Walter, her husband, was obviously an insensitive
jerk. Lauren was lonely and frightened. He let his gaze run
over his group. He'd be willing to bet, by the time the
course finished, these women would have taken her under
their collective wings. The final member of the class worried him as much as Streak
did, but for a different reason. She had a head of fluffy
white curls without a hint of blue or purple, was nearly as
tall as Amanda and Streak, and according to Jessica, was
past seventy. He'd have to be careful not to hurt her
when they practiced. She stood erect, with no hint of a
dowager's hump. She might run marathons for all he knew,
but that didn't mean her hips would hold up. "Hello, I'm Sarah Beth." She nodded at Ellen.
"I live in the country, too, but we've sold all but
five acres. I have four cats, two dogs and a goat. The dogs
would probably lick a burglar to death, the cats
couldn't care less and, unfortunately, the goat is the
variety that faints at loud noises, so I need to be able to
protect myself when my husband's gone." Everybody laughed. The tension was broken. "You all ready to get started again?" Randy asked. By the time he dismissed the class an hour later, the women
were riding a tide of adrenaline, laughing and high-fiving
one another. Except for Streak. She drove away without
speaking to anyone. Too bad Bunny, the little blonde, was married. He watched
the others drive off, then found the gym manager in her office. "You ever go home, Jessica?" he asked. The manager answered, "I'm like a vampire. I sleep
during the day and babysit this place at night. How'd
your class go?" "Pretty well. Interesting group. I'm willing to bet
there's a lot they're not telling. Women don't
take self-defense for no good reason. What's
Helena's story?" "She's been a member of the gym for three or four
months, but she usually walks on the treadmill and
doesn't speak to anyone." "Lawyer? Doctor?" "College professor. Why?" "She came unglued. Lot of rage. I'd like to
understand why." "She doesn't seem like a nutcase. Should I refund
her money?" "Nah. I can handle her." Jessica rolled her eyes. "Right." "And I'd like to find out why she wanted to kill me
tonight." "I'm not going back to that class Thursday
night," Helena Norcross said. "The instructor is a
chauvinistic redneck." "Tell me what you really think," said
Marcie Hal-pern. "Don't leave your dirty glass in
the sink after you finish your drink. Put it in the
dishwasher." "Yes, Mother," Helena said. She poured herself an
inch of Irish Cream and sat at the small kitchen table to
sip it. "Thank heaven one of us is a neat freak," Marcie
said. "Otherwise this house would be so knee-deep in
books you wouldn't be able to find your children unless
they wore bells." "You are the best tenant in the universe, as you never
tire of telling me. Where are said children?" "Bathed, tucked in, read to, tomorrow's clothes laid
out, lunch boxes filled in the refrigerator…" Helena patted her shoulder. "I'll run up and kiss
them good-night. God help me if you ever find a husband.
I'll never have another tenant like you. All this and
rent, too." "Precious little rent. Thanks so much for agreeing to
swap nannying for the cash. If that no-goodnik ex of yours
would pay his child support…" "If Mickey doesn't pay, he can't come around and
mess up our lives again." "So, tell me about the redneck chauvinist," Marcie said. "He made me look like a fool. Told us we didn't have
enough upper-body strength to fight off a man, that we had
glass jaws and would never get in a shot before the bad guys
turned the tables on us." "I thought he was supposed to help you repel the bad
guys." Marcie leaned back so that her chair teetered and
only her toes touched the floor. "How'd he make a
fool of you?" Helena told her. Marcie laughed so hard she had to grab the table to keep
from tipping over. "It's the fool part you hated,
isn't it? You spend too much time with students who
don't dare talk back. God knows what they say behind
your back." "'Nasty old Dr. Norcross thinks Shakespeare's
plays are worth reading. Not.' In another
generation the entire human race will only text-message.
Pronounce 'roflol,' why don't you?" She
finished her Irish Cream and set the sticky glass on the table. Marcie pointed to it. Helena got up to rinse the glass in the sink and set it in
the dishwasher. "You should have seen him leering at the blonde trophy
wife. He'll be jumping her bones inside of two weeks.
Would you believe, he actually called me Streak." Marcie spat her mouthful of diet soda straight across the
table and laughed until she choked. Helena grabbed a paper
towel and mopped up the spill. "Oh, dear. Sorry." "Marcie…" "How many thirty-five-year-old women have a white streak
down the side of their head? You're lucky he didn't
call you Skunk." "That's it. I'm going to bed." "Wait. Helena. Please, sit down. Aside from your
assessment of his character, does he know his stuff?"
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