Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [0]
“Dangerously funny stuff.”
—JANET EVANOVICH
“Lois Greiman is a modern-day Dorothy Sayers. Witty as hell, yet talented enough to write like an angel with a broken wing.”
—KINKY FRIEDMAN, author of Ten Little New Yorkers
“Simple sexy sport may well be just what the doctor ordered.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Fast and fun, with twists and turns that will keep you guessing. Enjoy the ride!”
—SUZANNE ENOCH, USA Today bestselling author of Flirting with Danger
“Sexy, sassy, suspenseful, sensational!! Lois Greiman delivers with incomparable style.”
—CINDY GERARD, USA Today bestselling author of To the Edge
“Lucy Ricardo meets Dr. Frasier Crane in Lois Greiman’s humorous, suspenseful [series]. The result is a highly successful, tongue-in-cheek, comical suspense guaranteed to entice and entertain.”
—BookLoons
“Move over Stephanie Plum and Bubbles Yablonsky to make way for Christina McMullen, the newest blue collar sexy professional woman who finds herself in hair raising predicaments that almost get her murdered. The chemistry between the psychologist and the police lieutenant is so hot that readers will see sparks fly off the pages.”
—thebestreviews.com
“A fun mystery that will keep you interested and rooting for the characters until the last page is turned.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Greiman makes you feel for all of her characters. Whether you hate, love or fear for them, she brings forth every emotion.”
—Romantic Times (Top Pick!)
“L.A. psychologist Chrissy McMullen is back to prove that boobs, brass and brains make for one heck of a good time … laugh-out-loud-funny … sassy … clever.”
—Mystery Scene
Also by Lois Greiman
UNZIPPED
UNPLUGGED
UNSCREWED
UNMANNED
ONE HOT MESS
To my sister, Gail, who inspires me daily
with her love and devotion.
You’re my hero.
1
Give me ice cream or give me death.
—Chrissy McMullen, during
an ongoing bout of teenage
angst
I had just drifted into the feathery nest of Sleepdom when the phone rang. Cracking one aggravated eye, I glared at my bedside clock. Eleven-seventeen. Okay, eleven-seventeen may not exactly be the wee hours of the morning, but I have a deep and abiding affection for sleep and tend to get somewhat miffed when I and my beloved are separated. I happen to consider REM to be the next best thing to chocolate, which is the next best thing to … damnit. I couldn’t remember anything that beat the cocoa bean for sheer unadulterated bliss, and that wasn’t a good sign. I was pretty sure there had once been something rather titillating.
The phone blasted my eardrums a second time. I gave it a jaundiced glare, but it remained unrepressed and rang again. Cheeky bastard. Snaking an arm across Harlequin, a dog who disguises himself as a hundred-pound door-stop, I hauled the receiver from its cradle, dragged it into my lair, and rumbled an impolite salutation.
There was a moment of silence followed by, “Jesus, McMullen.” Rivera’s smoky voice sizzled through my system like cheap wine. “Did your larynx have a run-in with a sander or are you just on a bender?”
Meet Lieutenant Jack Rivera, LAPD down to his cotton boxers. He and I go back a ways. When Bomber Bomstad, client and ex–football star, dropped deader than kibble on my overpriced berber, Rivera was the first on the scene. Irritating, smart-mouthed, and preposterously hot, he’s as tempting as truffles. He is also equally restricted, because although a little dark chocolate may boost your serotonin levels, a steady diet is likely to be fatal. And I had no intention of suffering death by Rivera. On the other hand, I had no qualms about a little Latin appetizer. I turned on my side, letting the cord drape over Harley’s bicolored ear. He ignored it as if it were the “sit” command.
“Maybe this is how I sound when I’m satisfied, Lieutenant.” My voice was sexy-low and husky.
“Like you need a defibrillator?”
I grinned a little. After all, he couldn’t see me, so it was okay to admit that sometimes I kind of appreciate his smart-ass wit. “You a doctor now, Rivera?”
“If that’s what floats