Not One Clue
Praise for Lois Greiman
“Dangerously funny stuff.”
—J
ANET
E
VANOVICH
“Lois Greiman is a modern-day Dorothy Sayers. Witty as hell, yet talented enough to write like an angel with a broken wing.”
—K
INKY
F
RIEDMAN
, 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!”
—S
UZANNE
E
NOCH,
USA Today
bestselling author of
Flirting with Danger
“Sexy, sassy, suspenseful, sensational!! Lois Greiman delivers with incomparable style.”
—C
INDY
G
ERARD,
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 your boat.” I could hear the sigh in his voice as he started to unwind. A cop’s day can be as stressful as a shrink’s, which just happens to be my calling.
“In your dreams,” I said, but the dreams were more likely to be mine. I’d had enough fantasies about Rivera to fill an erotic miniseries.
“You’re usually Catwoman in my dreams.”
“Catwoman.” My stomach tightened a little at the thought that I might occupy his late-night imaginings.
“Crime fighter with a tail.”
“You’re one sick bastard,” I said, and he laughed.
There was something about the sound of it that did naughty things to my otherwise saintly equilibrium.
“Maybe
you
could play the doctor this time.” His voice rumbled through me, but I fought off the effects. After all, I was no longer a pubescent tuba-player. In fact, I had worked like the proverbial dog to become a card-carrying psychologist. Even harder to become immune to the kind of low-level charm Rivera exudes like rush hour exhaust fumes.
“Did you have a reason for calling?” I asked.
“This is it,” he said.
“Sexual harassment?”
I could hear the shrug in his tone. “I won’t call the cops if you don’t.”
I snorted. Sometimes when I’m really tired I tend to sound like an overwrought Guernsey and it was now … holy cow … 11:22.
“So what do you think?” he asked.
“About what?”
“Sex.”
The buzz that had begun in my overzealous endocrine system geared up to an insistent hum. “In general or—”
“Now.”
My breath caught in my throat. “You’re not under my bed or something, are you?”
“Freaky,” he said. “But if that’s what trips your trigger, I’ll try to squeeze in.”
“Big of you,” I said, and refrained from dropping my head over the edge of the mattress to take a peek.
“You’ve no idea,” he said.
I resisted rolling my eyes, mostly because, in actuality, I
did
have something of an idea. There had been a rather memorable episode involving an overdose of Nyquil and Rivera … in the shower.
“Listen, Rivera, as much fun as this is, I have to work tomorrow.”
“I didn’t think it would take
that
long, but I’m willing to call in sick if you think it’s necessary.”
“Are you drunk?” I asked.
“That’s not the adjective I’d use.”
“Adjective
…” I rolled onto my back, warming to the conversation. “I’m impressed.”
“They’ve been teaching us to read down at the station.”
“Our taxes,” I said, “hard at work.”
“I’m willing to share what I’ve learned.”
“Maybe you can send me a syllabus.”
“I could deliver it in person.”
“I said ‘syllabus,’ not ‘syphilis.’”
He chuckled. I could hear his chair squeak as he leaned back, and imagined him stretching, body arched, cuffs rolled away from well-muscled forearms, black hair teasing his button-down collar. “You always this mean when you’re sleeping alone?”
“Who said I’m alone?”
“Me.”
“Maybe you’re wrong.”
“I’m willing to put money on it.”
I considered swearing at him, but that was the old Chrissy. The new Chrissy was saving the “f” word for major emergencies. And L.A. drivers. Low-fat muffins. And Mondays.
“Unless Elaine’s sleeping with you,” he said.
“I’m not that desperate.”
“Yes you are. But if she’s not doing her fiancé I think I can trust her with you.”
I scowled. He had inadvertently touched on a raw nerve. Brainy Laney Butterfield, beauty personified, and my best friend since the fifth grade, was betrothed to a man I referred to in nothing but four-letter words. The kindest of them was “nerd.”
“So how you doing with that?” he asked, and I wondered in my sleep-deprived brain if that was why he had called in the first place. It didn’t take a genius—or a Homo sapien—to know that I was patently unhappy about the impending nuptials. It wasn’t just because Elaine would forever belong to someone else. It was because she would belong to the geekiest guy on the planet. And that made my skin crawl.
“Fine.”
“Yeah?”
“Of course.” Reaching out, I fiddled with the pad on Harlequin’s left hind paw. I’d learned early on that Great Danes did not necessarily make stupendous watchdogs. He was a gift from Rivera. As was my Mace, the cactus that guarded my yard, and the baseball bat I’d stuck in my hall closet. Rivera had a penchant for things that could inflict pain. “I’m a grown woman.”
