Bayou Hero. Marilyn Pappano
In this book from USA TODAY bestselling author Marilyn Pappano, one family’s scandal is responsible for a rising body count…
Even for an experienced NCIS agent like Alia Kingsley, the murder scene is particularly gruesome. Someone killed in a fit of rage. Being the long-estranged son of the deceased, Landry Jackson quickly becomes a person of interest. But does Landry loathe his father as much as the feds suspect?
It’s clear to Alia that Landry Jackson has secrets, but his hatred for his father isn’t one of them. Alia feels sure Landry isn’t the killer, but once more family members start dying, she’s forced to question herself. What if the fierce attraction between her and Landry has compromised Alia’s instincts?
“You’re not really planning to walk home with me.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Alia continued shrugging into her shoulder holster.
Landry swallowed hard. He’d never been drawn to needy women, and Alia was a prime example why. She damn well protected herself, and he found that way sexier than a damsel in distress.
Beads of sweat were gathering across his skin, and they made his voice thick, even though he tried to hide it with teasing. “What’s the plan? If we get mugged, you’ll hold them off while I run for help?”
Her gaze was warm and heated him from the inside out. “I don’t know how fast you can run.”
“Doesn’t matter. I only have to be able to outrun you.”
She smirked. “Not likely. I’ll tell you what, if we get mugged, I’ll handle the bad guys. Then you can thank me later.”
He knew exactly what form he would want that thank-you to take. Blocking the image from his mind, he snorted. “I think getting to kick bad-guy butt in front of me would be reward enough for you.”
Bayou Hero is a story close to my heart. That kind of sounds as though the others aren’t, but that’s not the case. It’s just a matter of connecting with this story in different ways than I do with the others. I’ve always heard the advice “Write what you know,” to which my usual response is, “Write what you want to write about—that’s what research is for.” But when I do write what I know—whether it’s a place where I’ve lived, a pastime I’ve indulged in or my experience as a military spouse—that special bond is there.
Being a navy spouse, and with my husband being a former cop, I couldn’t avoid getting exposed to the Naval Criminal Investigative Service during our military years, especially since my husband worked with them the last several years. I always wanted to do an NCIS book, and finally here it is. And it’s set in New Orleans, my favorite city in the world (outside of Oklahoma, of course), and has a hero and a heroine whom I’ve adored spending time with. I hope you enjoy NCIS, New Orleans, Landry and Alia as much as I have.
MARILYN PAPPANO has spent most of her life growing into the person she was meant to be, but isn’t there yet. She’s been blessed by family—her husband, their son, his lovely wife and a grandson who is almost certainly the most beautiful and talented baby in the world—and friends, along with a writing career that’s made her one of the luckiest people around. Her passions, besides those already listed, include the pack of wild dogs who make their home in her house, fighting the good fight against the weeds that make up her yard, killing the creepy-crawlies that slither out of those weeds and, of course, anything having to do with books.
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Even if every single book doesn’t say so, they’re all for you, sweetie. I couldn’t do this without you.
The Greek Revival mansion sat a hundred feet back from Saint Charles Avenue, separated from the street by a six-foot-tall wrought iron fence. The house was stately, the lawn perfectly manicured and the very air around it smelled sweeter, or so it seemed to Alia Kingsley as she snagged a few feet of curb space and climbed out of her car.
The only things more out of place than her in New Orleans’s Garden District this summer morning were the vehicles that overflowed the mansion’s brick-paved drive and clogged the side street. New Orleans Police Department cars, marked and unmarked; an ambulance, its paramedics standing idle; a van from the coroner’s office; sedans bearing US Government tags; and trucks carrying the logos of the local media outlets.
Yellow crime-scene tape kept the reporters and curious neighbors at bay. Alia flashed her credentials to the young cop standing guard at the end of the drive, and