Unleashed E-Book

Lois Greiman

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 400

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Chrissy McMullen #8 "Dangerously funny stuff." –Janet Evanovich LA therapist, Chrissy McMullen and her on-again-off-again LAPD hottie, Jack Rivera, have agreed that it would be best for the civilized world if they ended their too-hot-to-handle relationship… Until they run into each other at a posh Rodeo Drive restaurant. Chrissy is there with a date. Rivera is escorting his mother, who ends up guarding the restroom door while the ex-couple revisits their decision to break up. Their reunion is definitely explosive—but it could also be deadly when the most bloodthirsty criminal gang in modern history arrives carrying a big grudge and lethal weapons. Desperate to protect Chrissy, Rivera convinces her to leave town until it's safe to return. Thus her frantic exile to parts unknown. Sans money, decent clothing, and any kind of technology, Chrissy takes an alias, becomes a waitress and defends her dubious honor while trolling for tips. She can feel her IQ dropping with every slack-jawed patron she serves; with the exception of Hiro Jonovich Danshov, the intriguing mystery man who Chrissy simultaneously hates and admires. Will he teach her to defend herself before they kill each other or is he a member of the very gang she's hiding from? "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 "Sexy…sassy…An entertaining series." —Mystery Scene "For the Janet Evanovich fans who are craving a protagonist similar to Stephanie Plum." —CurledUp.com ing series." —Mystery Scene A delightful romp, a laugh on every page." –MaryJanice Davidson—Mystery Scene "Just what the doctor ordered."--Publishers Weekly

Leseprobe

Unleashed

Lois Greiman

Copyright

This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Unleashed

Copyright © 2016 by Lois Greiman

Ebook ISBN: 9781943772513

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

NYLA Publishing

350 7th Avenue, Suite 2003, NY 10001, New York.

http://www.nyliterary.com

Praise for Lois Greiman

"Dangerously funny stuff."

Janet Evanovich

“Simple sexy sport may be just what the doctor ordered.”

Publishers Weekly

"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

"What a marvelous book! A delightful romp, a laugh on every page."

MaryJanice Davidson, NYTbestsellingauthor of the Undead series.

“Amazingly good.” (Top Pick!)

Romantic Times

“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

"Excellent!"

Library Journal

"Sexy, sassy, suspenseful, sensational!! Lois Greiman delivers with incomparable style."

Bestselling author ofTo the Edge, Cindy Gerard

"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. Lois Greiman, who has written over fifteen delightful romance books, appears to have a great career as a mystery writer also."

thebestreviews.com

"Ms. Greiman makes a giant leap from historical fiction to this sexy and funny mystery. Bravo! Well done!"

Rendevous

“A fun mystery that will keep you interested and rooting for the characters until the last page is turned.”

Fresh Fiction

"Fast and fun with twists and turns that will keep you guessing. Enjoy the ride!”

Suzanne Enoch, USA Today best-selling author of Flirting with Danger

“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."

Book Loons

Dedication

To all of Chrissy’s crazy friends who have so patiently waited.

Chapter 1

You’re pretty, you’re skinny, and you’re nice. But I think we can still be friends.

—Christina McMullen, following a flare-up of teenage angst and a buttload of chocolate mousse

“How’s the unborn?” I asked. My best friend since fifth grade, Brainy Laney Butterfield, was due to give birth to a baby girl in a matter of weeks. In fact, months ago, she’d named the adorable little zygote Tina, after moi.

“What’s wrong?” Laney’s voice was terse, steady, and take-no-prisoners focused, though we hadn’t, as of yet, exchanged more than the vaguest of cell phone pleasantries.

“What? Nothing. I was just calling to see—”

“Are you okay?”

I laughed. “Of course I’m okay. I’m better than okay. In fact, my life’s fantastic.”

Silence.

“If things were any better it would be forbidden by California statute 3021-2304 to be Christina McMullen. PhD,” I added, just to make sure she remembered that I was, in fact, well educated and hopelessly euphoric.

“What’s going on?” Judging by her tone, she wasn’t buying the euphoria segment of my proclamation, but it’s not as if Elaine Butterfield, better known to the television-viewing masses as Hippolyta, Amazon queen, was psychic or anything. She could probably just guess at my current state because we’ve been bonding over dreamy guys and hokey movies since time out of mind.

“I have a date.” My voice was chipper as hell, like a Laker Girl on a helium high.

“A date?” She’d gone from terse to suspicious. In the big scheme of things, I preferred the former. “With Rivera, right?”

I turned off the 170 and zipped onto Riverside Drive. My car has about ten million miles on it, but it still runs like a champ…or like a seriously outdated Saturn, kind of bumpy and a little whiny but still moving. At my seasoned-but-unsullied age, I’ve realized that it does no good to allow your expectations to become too lofty.

Speaking of expectations, I was wearing a silky lavender skirt topped with an ivory cap-sleeve blouse. Manolo slingbacks adorned my feet. They were a sassy little pair, even if they were secondhand. The ensemble hinted of class and whispered of sexy. Or maybe it screamed that I was holding on to hope by my well-manicured fingernails. “Who?” I asked.

“Rivera,” she repeated dryly. “Is your date with Rivera?”

Jack Rivera and I had been running hot and cold and crazy all over for a couple of lifetimes. He’s a cop. I’m a psychologist. He lives in Simi, where the neighborhood kids play ball on manicured lawns. I live in Sunland with a lone cactus and neighbors who probably wish I would move to Tibet…or at least install a sprinkler system. But irrigation systems are environmentally detrimental…and expensive.

“You mean that relatively attractive police officer I socialized with for a short while?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, then spoke quietly to someone nearby. He was probably male, ungodly handsome, and wonderfully obsequious. Laney attracts that kind of guy like masochists draw sadists. And I should know. I’m a psychologist, remember?

“We had a long-overdue colloquy,” I said.

“Holy moly. A colloquy?” Suspicion had morphed into an arid sort of what-the-hell-are-you-yammering-about tone, but Laney had been swearing off swearing for a long time. Now, with mommyhood impending, her phraseology had become increasingly G-rated. If I weren’t so fucking sophisticated, I would have enjoyed the shit out of mocking her.

“Yes. It was all extremely civilized.

There was a stunted silence. I would say it was fraught with disbelief, but I’ve never been entirely sure what fraught means, despite my aforementioned education.

“We’re still discussing Rivera, right?”

I smiled with genteel tranquility. “Yes.”

“And you,” she added.

The jacaranda trees were beginning to bloom, thrusting out their purple trumpet flowers with Seuss-like surrealism. I used the calming beauty of nature to nurture my inner Zen. “Listen, Laney, I’ll admit that in the past I may have acted somewhat…” I considered, then subsequently discarded, several terms, one of which might have been bat-shit crazy, and continued on. “Irrationally where the dark lieutenant is concerned, but—”

“Irrationally? I believe Captain Kindred was called in to mediate on more than one occasion.”

It was true that I had a somewhat fractious relationship with Rivera’s commanding officer, but I didn’t see a need to address that just then. “As I was saying…things have changed.”

“So I don’t have to notify the paramedics?”

I held on to the smile. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to know you haven’t lost your stellar sense of humor.”

She ignored my sarcasm with well-practiced aplomb. “Tell me now if I have to call an ambulance; I’m due on set in five minutes. We’re shooting…” She gasped softly, as if struck by a terrifying thought. “I don’t have to call the morgue, do I, Mac?”

“You just get funnier and funnier.”

“Must be the clean air out here.”

Due to Laney’s delicate condition, the powers that be had moved the production from New Zealand to Idaho, so as to continue the queen’s questionable adventures practically up to the moment of parturition. I worried that she was working too hard, but at least she wouldn’t have to board a plane to return to L.A. for the birth.

Personally, I think anyone who intentionally brings another squalling Homo sapiens into the world must be a couple rungs short of a full ladder. But diplomacy suggested I keep that information to myself.

“I can assure you that not a single drop of blood was shed.”

“Strangulation, then?” she asked.

“You’re hilarious.”

“You didn’t poison him, did you?” Then, to Mr. Handsome, who I could picture perfectly with my extremely fertile imagination, she said, “I’ll be right there.”

“This may surprise you, Laney,” I said, breaking out the terminally snooty tone I had been holding in reserve, “but we didn’t even raise our voices.”

“That does surprise me.” She sounded impressed and, I thought, more than a little dubious.

“We came to a mutually agreeable decision.” My hands tightened on the steering wheel, but I convinced myself to relax, employing one of the many techniques I learned at a recent symposium given by Dr. Bram Dirkx, a genius in the field of schizophrenia. I was operating on the theory that if his methods were effective with psychopaths they would probably work for me.

“You’re certain you were talking to the right Rivera?” she asked.

I pursed my lips and a couple other sphincters. “Yes,” I said. “And we decided it would be best for all parties concerned if we discontinued our…” I thought hard, trying to disavow a hundred lewd memories that involved a scantily clad Rivera. Those lean-muscled hips, those dark, do-me eyes. My fingers were beginning to hurt, convincing me to loosen my grip. “Our romantic relationship. That doesn’t, of course, preclude the possibility of us remaining platonic friends.”

The phone went silent for several beats. “You and Rivera,” she said again. Dubious may have stretched into the land of are-you-nucking-futs.

I narrowed my eyes and tapped an index finger against the Saturn’s unoffending steering wheel as I turned sedately onto Camarillo Street. “Yes,” I said, voice rising just a little. “We’re—”

“I’m sorry to bother you, Ms. Ruocco,” Mr. Handsome said, cooing her stage name. “Frank says they need you right away. You’re shooting the male-harem scene today,” he added, but she still didn’t speak.

“Laney?” I was beginning to worry that my news had caused shock-induced heart failure. But that was ridiculous. Jack Rivera and I were two perfectly mature individuals. There was no reason to believe our relationship couldn’t come to an amiable conclusion. “Laney?”

“Ms.—”

“Please extend my apologies and inform them I’m going to be a little late,” she said to Mr. Handsome.

“But—”

“Tell them now.” Her voice was firm. Almost borderline…brusque. I held my breath. Brainy Laney and I had attended Holy Name Catholic School together, where we’d bonded over preteen ugliness and shared ice cream. (She shared. I didn’t. Let it be said in my defense that growing up in a household with three idiot brothers, it was eat or be eaten.) And in all the years since, I have never known her to venture near the unfriendly border of brusque.

Apparently, Mr. Handsome was just as shocked as I, because in a moment I heard a murmured apology and handsomely retreating footsteps.

“Laney,” I said. “Are you okay?”

“What happened?”

“What?” I was within three blocks of Le Petit Château, a lovely little restaurant resembling a French castle, where I was to meet my date, one Tyler Simonson. I slowed the Saturn down despite the fact that my stomach was growling carnivorous obscenities at my mouth, demanding that it be fed. In the past, food and I have had what some might refer to as a confrontational relationship. But I’m classy now and had gained control over my baser corporal impulses. I hardly ever have wet dreams about lobster manicotti anymore.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Laney ordered. “And start at the beginning.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” I assured her. “We mutually agreed to go our separate ways. We’re too…” I shrugged. My throat felt kind of tight. Maybe I was coming down with a cold. “The unfortunate truth is, I’ve simply outgrown him.”

“Mac—”

“You know it’s true.” My voice was absolutely level, perfectly logical. I’ve never been more proud. “He’s a police officer. Not that there’s anything wrong with his chosen profession. It’s a commendable career choice, and I’m sure he’s excellent at his job. But his work calls for a certain degree of…” I remembered him in cop mode…all hard lines and dark intent, head lowered as he sauntered toward me. I cleared my throat and tried to do the same with my memories. “Base physicality. My chosen path is more…cerebral. More cultured. A therapist requires a certain amount of tranquility if she hopes to assist her patients in achieving the same. And with Rivera out of my life…” My voice cracked. I cleared my throat again. “Listen, Laney, I’m afraid I’m going to have to call you back. I think I’m having an asthma attack.”

“You don’t have asthma.”

“I can if I want to,” I snapped, then closed my eyes and found the inner peace that Dr. Dirkx had written of so eloquently in chapter seventeen. “I’m sorry, Laney, I guess I’m a little stressed. But it is six fifty-seven, and I don’t like to be late.”

“Since when?”

I gritted my teeth and wondered why I loved her so much. “Perhaps you’re unaware of this, but the last several months have been a time of introspection and growth for me. I feel I’ve become a better human being, more stable, more empathetic. More…” I paused, thinking. “Outward-looking, if you will.”

“I won’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“Talk to me, Mac,” she said, and there was something in her softening tone that made me want to curl into the fetal position and blubber like a baby, but I fought back the infantile urges.

“I would love to,” I said. “But I’ve made a commitment to Mr. Simonson and I really must go. We’ll talk again as soon as I get a spare—”

“If you hang up on me, I’m taking the first flight home.”

I laughed, confident in her inability to shake the truth from me. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re due on set in about three—”

“Jean-Claude,” she said, voice muffled slightly. Apparently, there had been two ungodly handsome, obsequious men in the room. “Please get me on the first available flight to LAX.”

I was a little less amused now. “You’re not flying anywhere, Laney,” I said. “I’m fine. I’m great. Everything’s great.”

“Any available seat will be fine,” she added to Mr. Handsome II.

“Laney,” I said, tone a little less dulcet, “you have a show to do. What would the unwashed masses do without their queen?”

She ignored me. “Tell Frank we’ll have to wrap up the harem scene next week.”

Panic was setting in. I understood, of course, that the delay was not going to cause the crash of civilization as we knew it, but a bazillion rabid fans were dying to find out if Queen Hippolyta and her swarthy but oh-so-sensitive man-slave were ever going to be free to “share their love.” Not me, of course, I was far too busy rereading Dr. Dirkx’s chapter thirty-one, succinctly titled “The Hidden Agenda Behind Every Seemingly Logical Decision: A Therapist’s Guide to Delving Into the Truth Behind Falsehoods.”It was absolutely gripping and couldn’t possibly be considered competition for over-the-counter sleep aids. Neither had I, on several occasions, set it aside to read novels with scantily clad men on the covers. That would be wrong.

“You’re not going to wrap anything up next week,” I said.

“You might be right,” she agreed, returning her attention to me. “My midwife thinks the baby might come early.”

My stomach twisted into a double knot. I wanted to see her more than I wanted a fudge-brownie sundae supreme. But even I was not so selfish as to risk her well-being for my crisis du jour. “Laney, you can’t fly when you’re eight months pregnant. It’s not—”

“Have Britta pack me an overnight bag, will you, Jean-Claude?”

“Okay!” I snapped, cracking like an Easter egg in a pressure cooker. “Our parting wasn’t perfectly cordial.”

“What happened?” Her voice was low and quiet, filled with gut-level caring and a bottomless well of friendship. My eyes watered, blurring my vision; I pulled into a McDonald’s parking lot and turned off the engine. Nearby, a thousand hopeful roses bloomed in wild profusion. The air smelled heavenly…I felt like I was doing an extended stint in purgatory. “I’m a therapist,” I whimpered.

“So you’ve mentioned.”

“A licensed psychologist.”

“And a very good one.”

Was I? I wondered, but shoved aside the doubts and glanced out my passenger window. At the top of a steep concrete incline, three teenagers were arguing over a dented shopping cart that looked like it, too, had spent a considerable amount of time in the underworld. “My career, my chosen path, dictates that my life be relatively sedate…you know, so that I might better serve the clientele that comes to me with their troubles.”

“So you’ve said,” she agreed cautiously.

“But Rivera makes me…” I paused, clenching one fist as I searched for the proper phraseology. “He disturbs my tranquility.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious. He makes me…less than perfectly rational,” I said, and rubbed my eyes with my fingertips. When I withdrew my hand, one of the teenagers was scrambling into the shopping cart. I wondered distractedly if he had won or lost the argument.

“Have you ever considered the fact that that might be your gift, Mac?” Laney asked.

“What’s that?” I asked, tearing my attention from the adolescents and wondering vaguely how our species had ever clambered out of the primordial ooze.

“Maybe your particular personality type is the reason you’re so successful?”

“I’m successful?” I asked, feeling my aching insecurities clatter like wind chimes.

“Now’s not the time for false modesty,” she said.

“If not now—”

“Maybe the reason your clients appreciate you so much is because you can relate to them on their level.”

“Are you saying I’m deranged?”

“I’m doing my utmost to avoid that,” she said, and I almost laughed despite everything. “When did this talk take place?”

“Talk?” I said, hedging carefully.

“Don’t mess with me, Mac. I’ve got a tankard of toxic hormones swimming around in my system.”

“You mean the talk with Rivera?”

“Yes.” Her tone suggested that I was testing her patience. I was used to hearing that tone since before I was able to breathe without the aid of an umbilicus.

“Oh. Monday.”

There was a pause that suggested repercussions to come. Repercussions from Laney usually consisted of hurt feelings. I’d rather be boiled in castor oil. “And you didn’t tell me before this?” she asked. I tensed against the guilt.

It was Wednesday. I had spoken to her twice since Monday and had failed to broach the subject on both occasions. “It’s no big deal,” I said. “It’s not as if I haven’t broken up with guys before.”

“Eighty-three times, if my math is correct.”

“It’s not.” I tried to sound indignant. Eighty-three failed relationships might suggest a certain lack of…something. But for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what that something was, despite the damned PhD.

“I might have missed a few guys,” she said, then steered back onto the verbal track. “Listen, Mac, I know you and Rivera are…” She paused, possibly still searching for a euphemism for weirder than shit. “Fractious. But I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. I mean, people fight. Everyone—”

“Do you?”

“What?”

“Do you and…” I drew a deep breath, searching for the proper term. J.D. Solberg, her husband of nearly a full, mind-numbing year, was the dweebiest, most obnoxious man on the planet, a fact that I had voiced on more than one occasion. The new and classier me, however, would no longer lower myself by mentioning that fact to the woman who honest-to-God loved him. “Do you and…your spouse…” I winced a little as I admitted their union. “Fight?”

“Of course. Jeen and I fight all the time.”

“Really?” Atop the concrete incline, a second teenager was scrambling disjointedly into the shopping cart. “When was the last time?”

“What?”

“When was your last big blow out, Laney?”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it a blow out exactly.”

I felt tired and strangely…dusty. “What would you call it…exactly?”

“It was more like a…a disagreement.”

“A disagreement.”

“Yes.”

I nodded. Laney would have disagreements. Rivera and I had what might better be referred to as street brawls. But that was the old me. “When was it?”

“Just…” I could almost hear her shake her head. Maybe it was her hair crackling against her cell phone. The Amazon queen’s on-set stylists liked to starch her coiffure to magnificent heights. “Just last week we had an argument.”

“What was it regarding?”

“I don’t think that’s the point, Mac.”

“Was it about who loves whom the most?”

There was a pause.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I might have momentarily lost my fabulous composure, but seriously…“That was your argument?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Excuse me,” I said, and turned away from the phone to produce gagging noises possibly loud enough to be heard without a cellular device. I know it was infantile, but honest to God, the thought of the sweetest, most beautiful woman in the world consorting with the dweebiest man on the planet always makes me queasy.

She laughed. “Listen, if anyone gets to barf, it’s me.”

I pushed my phone back to my ear. “What do you mean? Are you sick?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just a little nauseated sometimes. And tired. And I don’t know. Kind of lonely, I guess.”

“Lonely?” I scowled at the squabbling teenagers. One of them—the sanest of the trio, I suspected—was still outside the cart. The other two were hanging onto the corner of the nearby building, keeping their soon-to-be vehicle immobile. I could see the muscles in their scrawny, spider monkey arms stretched taut. “I thought Solberg was there with you?”

“He is, and it’s great to have him here. But I just…”

“What?” Memories of death threats and hostage situations jolted through me. Laney’s life had been endangered on more than one occasion. The disappearance of the dweebster had nearly killed us both when my misbegotten attempt to find him took us to Vegas, the only place on earth with more oddballs per capita than L.A.

“I miss you, Mac.”

My heart ached, my vision went blurry, and my stomach twisted. Three sure signs of love. Or gastric irregularities. “I kind of miss you, too,” I said.

She sighed. “Maybe when I get home we should buy a horse ranch together.”

“Sure,” I said, and fondly remembered our requisite horse-crazy years, when she and I had haunted every equestrian stable within a ten-mile radius of Schaumburg, Illinois. “Because I’ve got so much money and you’ve got so much time.”

She sighed at my sarcasm. “I think you should give Rivera another chance.”

But he made me crazy, and I so very much wanted to be sane.

“Maybe sane’s overrated,” she said, making me wonder for the hundredth time if she was just a little more psychic than I cared to believe.

I glanced at the teenagers. The one I had tagged as “most sane” was climbing laboriously into the cart/suicide vehicle, knobby limbs folding like a praying mantis’s. “I don’t think so.”

“What’d he do wrong?”

“Listen, Laney…” My eyes stung. I blinked repeatedly. “You know I love you, but my date’s waiting and I—”

“I can still catch that flight.”

“I doubt it,” I said. Despite my flirty skirt and classy top, I felt hot and wilted. “I have to assume Jean-Claude has passed out by now from waiting with bated breath for your next command.”

“Who?”

“Jean—” I began, then narrowed my eyes. “There is no Jean-Claude dying to buy you airline tickets, is there?”

She laughed a little. “Tell me what happened. Please.”

I sighed and ignored the teenagers, who were now frozen in anticipatory pre-death. “Nothing happened, Laney.” I fought the urge to unload my pathetic troubles onto her unreasonably capable shoulders, but I was weak. “All month,” I added. “Nothing happened all month.”

“You haven’t seen him for a month?”

“Except for the talk,I haven’t even spoken to him.”

“Well…” She seemed to be searching for some sort of platitude. “He’s a busy man, Mac.”

“Too busy to push a button on his phone?”

“I don’t mean to worry you, honey, but he is in law enforcement. I mean, you both work with troubled individuals, but his clientele tends to try to kill people with more frequency.”

“I don’t know. It might be about par,” I said. The laundry list of guys who had recently tried to off me was deplorably long.

“The point is he’s probably been working on something really important. Pretty soon, he’ll solve the case and the two of you won’t be heard from for three days and four nights…except for…you know, the complaints from your neighbors.”

I remembered the last night we’d spent together; my neighbor, Mr. Al Sadr, had, in fact, alerted the authorities about an animal in distress. Apparently, achieving sexual satisfaction after what some might refer to as a dearth can sound something like a hyena in the throes of torture.

I sighed, then pulled on my big-girl panties and moved on. “But that’s the thing, Laney. I’m almost thirty-five years old.”

“In your dreams.”

I ignored her. “And a licensed therapist, a PhD, a respected member of my community and…“

“Respected?” she began, but I powered through.

“I don’t want to disturb the neighbors anymore!”

“Are you sure? Usually—”

“I’m tired of the highs and lows. I want normal.”

She exhaled softly, as if about to divulge a hard truth. Generally speaking, I like my truths in small doses and laced with copious amounts of chocolate. “I don’t think normal’s for the likes of you, Mac,” she said.

A door squeaked in the background. “Ms. Ruocco?” The voice sounded as timid as a mouse, as smitten as a kitten. “Frank says we’re going to miss the sunset if you don’t come soon.”

“I’m sorry, Andy. Can you convince him that I need just a couple more minutes?”

I could hear his backbone stiffen from nine hundred miles away. Maybe other anatomical parts were stiffening, too. Laney’s boobs had been pretty impressive pre-gestation; I could only imagine her proportions now. “I can and I shall,” he said. The door closed resolutely behind him.

“You should go before Andy finds a cross and hangs himself on it for you,” I said.

“He’s a nice kid.”

“Kid?”

“Twenty-six in a couple of weeks.”

“Ah, yes, barely out of swaddling. How many times?”

“How many times what?”

“How often has he proposed?”

“I’m already married. Not to mention pregnant. Remember?”

“Did he just ask you to run away with him, then?”

She sighed. Hunky men throwing themselves at her feet seemed to make her weary. I don’t have that problem. “Listen, Mac. Don’t do anything drastic. Eventually, Rivera might get tired of you breaking up with him.”

“That’s what I’m talking about, Laney, I’m tired of it, too. I don’t want any more drama.”

“Are you sure? Because your extremities tend to go numb when you get bored.”

“Not anymore,” I said. “I’ve changed. Grown up.” Outside my little Saturn, the trio of teenagers loosened their simian grip on the building and screamed toward the bottom of the incline. “Boring is the new orgasmic.”

Chapter 2

While in a romantic relationship, women generally endeavor to be well-dressed, sophisticated, and articulate. If men manage coherency, they are well ahead of the curve.

—Regina Stromburg, professor of Women’s Studies 101, bitter but not entirely inaccurate

Holy hell, he was boring, I thought, and nodded at yet another of my date’s endless anecdotes.

Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t reconsidering my statement to Laney: Boring is good. So what if I had long ago lost feeling in my right foot? I had a spare. And Tyler was really quite attractive…in an industrial sort of way. He had blue eyes and a square jaw. Generally, I’m not fond of facial hair, particularly my own, but the carefully cropped beard looked good on him. As an added bonus, he seemed willing to pay for my meal, which, if you’re wondering, can be pretty spendy at a French castle.

So I nodded for the fifty-first time and refused to let my eyeballs roll back in my head like a drunken monkey’s. “Uh huh,” I said with enough enthusiasm to suggest that I not only remained conscious…I was still listening. But I seemed to be experiencing a loss of sensation in my shins.

“That’s when I decided to become an engineer,” he said.

I smiled again. My teeth felt tired. “Do you get to wear one of those cute little hickory-stripe hats?”

“What?” Not a dollop of humor showed on his face. I stifled a sigh as I felt my right butt cheek surrender to the inevitable. My left, however, was holding up like a real trooper.

“I’ve always wanted to blow the whistle.”

He watched me in silence for a few endless seconds. “I’m not a train engineer.”

“I thought maybe,” I said, and noticed that he hadn’t eaten his fair share of the shrimp appetizer. The waiter, fabulously pretentious, had informed us that they had been lovingly sautéed in garlic and brandy.

“You were making a joke?”

“I thought so,” I admitted, and tried to quit staring at his remaining hors d’oeuvres. The new Christina was only interested in food on the basis of its nutritional value. “What kind of engineer are you?”

“Electrical,” he said, and I felt my entire rear end go dead.

When the date whimpered to a merciful finale, I slumped into my Saturn and headed toward home. Two blocks from the restaurant, a shopping cart lay on its side at the bottom of a concrete ramp. In a fit of altruism mixed with entrepreneurial genius, I had given a business card to each of the still-conscious teenagers, who, I hoped, would hand them off to their parents before their next longevity-shortening adventure.

It was clear that there would always be the need for a good shrink in the greater metropolitan area. Still, I felt dejected. I turned on the radio. Bach’s Mass in B Minor soared from the speakers. I winced, remembered Classy Chrissy had outgrown Mick Jagger, and turned off the sound.

Harlequin greeted me at the door with a tail whap and a wiggle. When he reared up on his hind legs, his face was level with mine. He put his saucer-sized paws on my shoulders, laid his snout against my neck, and sighed. I closed my eyes and kissed his ear. He’s a gigantic pest and a flatulent coward who shows an ounce of bravery only when scouting the kitchen for nose-pinching aluminum cans and scraps of burnt bacon. But I couldn’t love him more if I’d given birth to him. Such is true devotion. In actuality, our rapport had lasted far longer than ninety percent of the relationships I shared with my fellow Homo sapiens.

Two minutes after my arrival, we were snuggled up on the couch, sharing a bowl of Velvet Vanilla ice cream and watching The Princess Bride for the umpteenth time. Classy Chrissy generally didn’t participate in such self-indulgent behavior, but it seemed wrong to force abstinence on my innocent canine friend.

Thirty minutes and a full pint later, we were both asleep, while my sweet Westley rode through my dreams on a pearl-white stallion.

By the time I awoke from my post-consumption coma, it was 7:42 in the morning. I had a 9:00 client and a fifty-minute drive to my practice in Eagle Rock. After letting Harley out to relieve himself and terrorize the avian community, I rushed through a shower. With no time left for breakfast, I jumped into my trusty Saturn and raced off to work. The freeway gods were in a frolicsome mood. Nevertheless, I managed to careen to a halt in front of Hope Counseling by 8:54.

Still feeling groggy and out of sorts, I eyed Sunrise Coffee across the parking lot. I’m not a caffeine addict, but the old Chrissy appreciated any drink that wasn’t too self-important to incorporate massive amounts of sugar and a buttload of whipped cream, while the new Chrissy didn’t wish to deprive any small business of its…business. So, after a quick glance at my humble office, I hurried across the pavement and ordered a Caramel Carnival. The guy behind the counter was new…and cute…with surfer-dude hair and eyelashes that would make any member of the camelid family green with envy. Fortunately, Classy Chrissy cared naught about physical appearances and kept the transaction strictly business.

The damages came to more than you’d dish out for your mortgage payment in most parts of the world, but I shuffled rapidly through my wallet, handed over a couple crumpled bills, and hightailed it out of there without waiting for change.

My secretary/receptionist met me at the door. “You skipped breakfast again, didn’t you?” Shirley Templeton was not the most beautiful woman on the planet. I appreciated that almost as much as I did her light-years-above-pay-scale efficiency, especially since the stunning Brainy Laney had held the position before becoming Amazonian royalty.

“Not to worry,” I said, speed-walking toward my office in the back. “I ate a small hamlet last night.”

Shirley remained at her station but raised her voice so as to be heard. “There ain’t no substitute for breakfast. I told my nephew the same thing when he called about that sticky window of—”

“Good morning, Mr. Nettleton,” she said, switching to what she called her “show me the money” voice. “Ms. McMullen is currently updating records, but she’ll be with you momentarily.”

By two o’clock, my stomach was rumbling like a hungry volcano. I had counseled an insomniac, an egomaniac, and a boobiac, my own term for guys who spend their session staring at my fairly unimpressive chest.

With an hour’s break before my next client, I shambled up to the reception area just as the front door opened.

“Hi.” The guy from the coffee shop stepped inside and smiled. He was carrying a brown paper bag. “You overpaid,” he said, and stretched out his arm. “So I brought you a turkey sandwich.”

“I…” I scowled at him, suspicions firing up like smoke signals in my underfed psyche. If you’re at all familiar with my history, you’re probably aware that people tend to try to kill me. Hard to say why, but no new attempts had been made for several weeks and I was hoping to continue that fortuitous trend. So I tightened my fingers around a freshly sharpened pencil just retrieved from Shirley’s desk and faced him head-on. “How did you know where I work?”

“I, ummm…” He stepped back a pace, as one might when facing a rabid dog or really ugly shoes. “I saw you cross the parking lot.”

“I could have been a client,” I said.

His brows dipped cautiously. “Not unless you’re really disturbed.”

I could feel Shirley’s attention darting from me to him and back, like a spectator at an overactive tennis tournament.

“You come in every day,” he explained. “And don’t leave until late.”

“You’ve been watching me?”

“My window faces this direction.”

“But—”

“It was awfully nice of you to stop by,” Shirley said, and rose to her feet.

The silence that followed ticked like a time bomb.

“Wasn’t it nice of him to stop by?” she asked. Her tone was the kind one generally reserves for fractious two-year-olds and guys with plastic explosives strapped to their chests. “And bring lunch.”

I cleared my throat and loosened my grip on the pencil. “Yes. My apologies.” I tried a smile. Charming was probably not the adjective most would have used to describe the expression. Ghoulish might be a little too complimentary. “Working in this field can make one rather suspicious, I’m afraid.” I didn’t bother to mention that a couple dozen attempts on a girl’s life can kind of mess with her head, too. I thrust out a well-manicured hand. “I’m Christina McMullen.”

“Tony Amato. So you’re a psychiatrist?”

“Psychologist.”

We shook hands. His fingers were long and tapered, his grip firm. His eyes were summer blue and pretty as a picnic.

I introduced Shirley, who said her salutations, then hustled into my office in the back. The room was the approximate size of a thumbtack, which made her sojourn there a little suspect. But I wasn’t complaining. Tony did have nice eyes…not as seductive as the scents emanating from the brown paper bag, but nice.

“The extra money was a tip,” I said, indicating the bag.

“I can’t take tips.”

“Really?” I enjoyed being a therapist more than schlepping drinks at the Warthog, as I had in my former life, but I still mourned the lack of gratuities. “Allergic to making a profit, are you?”

He grinned, flashing teeth as white as last night’s ice cream orgy. Twin dimples winked in his cheeks. “I’m the owner of the establishment.”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“I didn’t even know it had been for sale.” A man named Igor Kuchuk, known as Icky Igor by some of his employees (one of whom was his wife), used to own it. He had been, by all accounts, icky.

“I was a regular for years,” he explained. “When I heard Kuchuk was thinking about retiring…” He shrugged. He was dressed in a lime-green tee and cargo shorts. The lean muscles in his forearms flexed pleasantly as he mimicked a lunging motion. “I pounced.”

“I see,” I said, and tugged my gaze from his forearms. In my experience, men with nice forearms were usually serial killers. “Well…it really was nice of you to stop by. But I don’t feel right about accepting gifts from anyone I don’t know well.” Besides, the way my luck had been running, he’d probably peppered the turkey with arsenic for as-yet-to-be-determined reasons. “But I really appreciate—”

“You’re not vegan, are you?”

Vegan? Hardly. The old Chrissy had been one baby step from cannibalism. But the classy new Chrissy kept that fact strictly to herself. “No, but I’m afraid I overindulged a bit yesterday evening.” I remembered the beef Wellington with lascivious joy, but managed to refrain from drooling. “So I’m going to have to be more judicious today.”

He rocked back on his heels. The water shoes he wore were made of eye-popping orange neoprene, as if he were prepared, at any given moment, to dive into the surf and wanted to be seen beneath the waves. “Overindulged? Are you kidding me? You’re perfect.”

I blinked, regrouped, and realized with some surprise that I’d always had a soft spot for serial killers.

“But if you’re seriously worried about your caloric intake, I’ll leave off the bacon next time,” he said, and lifted the bag a little.

“There’s bacon in it?” My voice sounded a little weak. I don’t mean to put too fine a point on this, but bacon to a McMullen is like catnip to a…McMullen. Seriously, my brother James got high on catnip on more than one occasion.

“Apple-smoked,” he said, giving the contents a little shake. “I hate to throw it out.”

I forced my gaze from the gift with some effort. “That wouldn’t be very environmentally responsible.”

“And I’m trying to cut down on my carbon footprint.”

I realized at that moment that I might be in love. Some practical portion of me suggested I could simply be hungry. But how was a woman to tell the difference? Love and hunger…they both suck.

“Once we run out of our current inventory, all our cups will be corn-based and compostable.”

“Well, then…” I said, and reached for the bag. “I can hardly turn it down.” There was no tingle as our fingers brushed, but my stomach did rumble a little. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he said, then shuffled back a step. “Hey, would you…” He shrugged, a nervous lift of substantial shoulders. “Are you busy Saturday?”

“This Saturday?” Surprise snagged me.

“Sure. Why not? We could catch Baker’s Marionette Show or something.”

My eyebrows zipped toward the ceiling. Marionettes? As in, puppets? How old was this guy?

He laughed. “Or go to a movie.”

“I’m sorry…” Thoughts of my latest ass-numbing date were spinning in my mind, making the myriad attempts on my life rather appealing by comparison. “But I have an appointment with my…” I thought fast. “Accountant that day.”

“On a Saturday evening?”

“Tax season.” I shrugged, feeling guilty. If my olfactory system was correct—and it had a 97.2 percent accuracy where high-caloric treats were involved—the turkey and bacon were being lovingly cradled by a toasted croissant. I love toasted croissants. They’re classy…and buttery. “She’s very busy. I was lucky to get—”

“Which is why she canceled,” Shirley said.

I glanced to the left. She was just zeroing in on us from the back.

I scowled at her. She raised her brows in tacit challenge. “Said she had another appointment she’d forgotten about.”

“Oh,” I said, while my mind scrambled for another excuse. “Darn. I’m afraid I forgot another appointment, too.”

“With whom?” she asked, giving her head a sassy tilt.

I gritted a smile in her direction. “I promised Micky a consultation.”

“Mr. Goldenstone canceled too,” Shirley said.

“I just spoke to him this morning,” I lied.

“He called while I was in back,” she parried.

“I didn’t hear the phone ring.”

“He called my cell.”

“Micky Goldenstone has your cell number?”

“On speed dial,” she said, and propped capable hands on ample hips, ready to do battle.

I opened my mouth to object, but just then the door jangled.

We turned toward it. A young woman stepped tentatively inside. She darted her gaze from me to the others.

“Is this the psychiatrist’s office?”

“Psychologist,” I corrected, then smiled, hoping to soften the mood from someone’s-gonna-die to confrontational. “Can I help you?”

“Saturday, then?” Tony asked, taking advantage of the cease-fire.

“Seven o’clock. At The Blvd,” Shirley answered, sashaying behind her desk. “I’m Mrs. Templeton,” she said to the newcomer. “And this is Ms. McMullen, PhD. Can we help you?”

“I don’t know.” She fiddled nervously with the strap of her Prada knockoff. “My boyfriend doesn’t think anyone can.”

Dumb-ass boyfriends, I thought, a starving psychologist’s best friend.

Chapter 3

Blind dates, proof positive that our species is, as a whole, eternally optimistic…and somewhat stupid.

—Christina McMullen after her date with Vigo Wilshire, who did not, as his online bio suggested, have a BMW, washboard abs, or an IQ higher than that of your average nail file

The remainder of my week was filled with hypochondriacs, flashers, and your garden-variety nut jobs. I didn’t hear a word from Rivera. But that didn’t bother me. Why should it? I was the one who’d called it quits. I made myself feel really good about that as I dressed for my Saturday night date.

Shirley had been extremely pushy about arranging it, but I had generously agreed. The fact that The Blvd was a chic little restaurant on Rodeo Drive that served melt-in-your-mouth filet mignon had almost nothing to do with my decision.

I dressed conservatively in a plum-colored sheath with dangling silver earrings. I had once dined at The Blvd with Senator Rivera, the lieutenant’s illustrious sire, and bolstered myself with the knowledge that it was highly unlikely that I’d run into my ex-lover/nemesis, since he studiously avoided his father’s haunts.

Tony was already sitting at the bar when I arrived. He stood when he saw me. Good manners and twin dimples. If this guy didn’t try to kill me soon, I’d consider taking him home to Harlequin.

“Thanks for coming,” he said.

“Thanks for inviting me,” I said, though, in actuality, it was Shirley who had issued the invitation. Tony was dressed in a blue button-down shirt and pinstripe vest casually overlooking a pair of rust-colored skinny jeans. His shoes were retro and his autumn-gold hair charmingly tousled. We were seated in moments, after which he ordered a twelve-year-old bottle of Château d’Yquem. I didn’t bother to tell him I wouldn’t be able to differentiate it from grape Kool-Aid. We were painfully quiet. I was the one to start the proverbial ball rolling.

“So…” I refrained from fiddling with the silver fork, which weighed, I was pretty sure, more than my handbag. “Have you always wanted to be a barista?”

He glanced at me through charmingly long lashes. Maybelline might have paid him big bucks to do a commercial had they not been such female chauvinists. “I suppose that sounds boring to you,” he said. His tone suggested mild embarrassment.

“Actually…” I did fiddle now. First dates are like the plague. Horrible and potentially deadly. “I’m a big fan of boring.”

He raised his brows a little, looking hopeful. “Really?”

“It’s the new exciting.”

“I didn’t know that.” He thanked the woman who brought our wine and barely gave her a second glance after she’d poured. I added another tally to his ongoing score; she was obnoxiously pretty, probably an Oklahoma-farm-girl-turned-Hollywood-extra-turned-waitress.

“How about you?” he asked. “Have you always wanted to be a psychologist?”

I couldn’t help but be impressed that he had actually gotten my occupation right. My own father was still pretty sure I was a psychiatrist. Or maybe a psychopath. Glen McMullen didn’t like to become overly involved in his kids’ lives. It was one of my favorite things about him. “Anyone would if they’d grown up with my family.”

He took a sip of the lovely tawny beverage. “If family is the determining factor I’d be a therapist too.” He pulled a thoughtful expression. “Or a hit man.”

“You must have brothers,” I guessed.

“Four.”

God save me. “And nary a hit man in sight?” I said it like a question, since one couldn’t be too sure.

He chuckled, making me wonder if he might be in possession of a sense of humor. Dimples and a funny bone…the idea was almost too much to hope for. “I do own a bar, though, in case I feel the need to self-medicate.”

“Your family must be close by, then.”

“Too close, yes.”

“In L.A.?”

“On planet Earth. How about you?”

I laughed, relaxing a little. “Chicago area. What do you do when you’re not self-medicating or hopping up others with java beans?”

“I like to cook.”

“You’re a chef?” I loved chefs. Or more correctly, I loved the fruits of their labors.

“Not really. I just help out when someone can’t make it in.”

“Make it in where?”

He looked kind of embarrassed again. “I have a couple of restaurants.”

“A couple?”

“Well, three.”

“But you wanted a coffee shop, too?”

“The Sunrise was on my way to work, and I was spending so much on caffeine, so I thought…” He shrugged.

“You bought a shop so you wouldn’t have to buy coffee?”

He grinned a little and changed the subject. “Aubry said you’ve had your practice for a couple years now.”

I braced myself, mind screaming with possibilities. Aubry—his mother, with whom he cohabitated and shared a collection of human entrails? His ex-girlfriend, who he still loved “like a sister”? The pet hamster that had taught him everything he knew about world politics? “Aubry?” I kept my tone neutral on the off chance that he wasn’t as weird as the last eighty or so men I had dated.

“An employee. She’s got three brothers, too, and I thought—”

“Four.”

“What?”

I felt as if all the blood had drained to my feet. I tightened a fist around the substantial weight of my butter knife. “You said you had four brothers.”

“You have three.” He explained it so easily that for a moment I almost accepted it, but the truth dawned on me in an instant.

“I never told you how many I have.”

“Well…” He paused for an instant, smiling. “You moved all the way from Chicago. So I figured it was more than two but less than—”

“How did you know?” My voice was a little reminiscent of Darth Vader’s now…raspy and kind of scary.