We are mere days away from the release of the second Lola Cruz Mystery, Hasta la Vista, Lola! (4 1/2 stars from RT Book Reviews!), and the buzz is building. Yesterday, the Book List review came in.
“In Ramirez’s second novel featuring the feisty Latina detective, Dolores “Lola” Cruz is investigating her own death. That is, she is trying to find out why a woman who stole her identity ended up dead. With sexy reporter Jack Callaghan—her on-again, off-again love interest—by her side, Lola finds out that the other Dolores is actually Rosie Gonzalez, a single mother, whose young son has been missing since his mother’s death. Now Lola’s search turns to finding the young boy, which leads her closer to home than she expected. Fans who fell for Lola in Living the Vida Lola (2009) will welcome her smart and snappy return. The suspense here revolves as much around the will-they or won’t-they romance with Jack as it does with the missing boy and mysterious death, leading up to a shocking ending that ties everything together.”
Needless to say, I’m thrilled by the great response to this book. It takes a lot of patience and good luck to build a series, and I feel like Lola Cruz Mysteries finally has some momentum.
A lot of you probably haven’t met Lola. First, let me say that you do not have to read book one (Living the Vida Lola) before you read book 2. You can, of course, but it’s not going to mess you up if you do. Go HERE to see more about both books.
In order to introduce you to fledgling detective Lola Cruz, I’ve put an excerpt up. You can be introduced to all of the characters at On-Line Dating with Lola’s Crew.
Enjoy!
Chapter 1, Hasta la Vista, Lola!
I can’t even begin to count the number of times my grandmother told me that she would die a happy woman if only I’d join the Order of the Benedictine Sisters of Guadalupe and live a chaste and holy life.
To which I always nodded, smiled, and said, “I want you to die happy, Abuela, pero I’m not going to become a nun.” There were several problems with me and a pious life. If you asked my mother, she’d say I’d sinned over and over and over again, beginning with premarital intercourse [which she suspected but had no actual proof of], and ending with my job. In my mother’s eyes, being a detective necessitates questionable actions and an ‘ends justifies the means’ philosophy.
Which is not actually my philosophy. I do things by the book, and let my conscience be my guide. I was God-fearing so I tried to toe the line, but I was also a driven, independent woman walking a tightrope between modern American culture and my parents’ old-fashioned male-oriented Spanish culture so my conscience didn’t always know which way to go when I hit a fork in the road.
Case in point. It was a brisk Friday night, downtown Sacramento was lit up with twinkling white lights, I was all dressed up, and even though I had no one to go salsa dancing with, joining those crazy Benedictine Sisters still never entered my mind. The nuns might enjoy their celibacy, but I was one hundred percent positive that I wouldn’t embrace a lifetime of abstinence. Hell, I’d just spent the better part of two hours photographing acrobatic sex in a back ally [which had left me un poquito hot and bothered]–all in the name of being the best private investigator I could possibly be–and I was okay with my decision.
I was almost to Camacho and Associates, the small PI firm where I worked. I dialed Reilly Fuller, the Jill-of-all-trades secretary of the office–and my homegirl. I wanted to go out dancing tonight and I knew I could count on her to have my back.
She picked up on the third ring, breathing heavy and almost out of breath. “Lola!”
“Hey, chica. How’d you know it was me?”
“Call waiting.”
I frowned. The phone company had effectively destroyed kids’ innocent prank call fun–not to mention obsessed stalker-girls calling and hanging up on a guy just to hear his voice [not that I’d had any experience with that type of juvenile behavior].
“Lola, I’m in the middle of something,” she said. She panted.
“I’ll call you back, okay?”
I’d never known Reilly to willingly break a sweat, so I was curious. I checked the time. 8:40. An odd time to be using the treadmill–if that’s what she was up to. “Are you exercising?”
But electric blue-haired Reilly couldn’t answer me because she’d already hung up.
Huh. My long night loomed ahead of me and dancing wasn’t going to be part of it. Looked like it was going to be me, a container of Mapo Tofu from Schezwan House (my favorite restaurant of all time, coincidentally right next door to Camacho and Associates), my camera hooked up to the office computer, and a whole lot of sex pictures uploading. One at a time.
I turned onto Alhambra and immediately spotted my boss’s truck in the parking lot. I slid my little red CRV into a space right beside it. Apparently Manny Camacho didn’t have plans for Friday night, either. Hard to believe. He was puro Latino machismo Greek God material–dark and brooding and scary in an I-could-do-things-to-you-and-make-you-scream-for-mercy kind of way.
I couldn’t help sneaking a quick peek in the rearview mirror. Low cut filmy dress, Victoria’s Secret Ipex cleavage, clear olive skin, salon-highlighted copper strands framing face, MAC O lips. I would not be put out to pasture because of a roguishly sexy reporter who disappeared for days on end and who I did not want to think about right now.
I grabbed my cell phone, the Nikon, my note pad with the Zimmerman case information, and my new favorite accessory– courtesy of Ebay–my Sexy Señorita drawstring bag. Shoving the notepad into the coral-colored purse, I headed toward the office.
In your face, Callaghan. I had options. Dark and brooding suddenly held a new appeal.
Just as I reached the office, Manny pushed open the door. “Dolores?”
My wedge heels teetered on a crack in the sidewalk. Maybe appeal was the wrong word. Dark fascination? Sadistic curiosity?
Fact is, Manny flustered me without even trying. Not many people could do that. I’d solved my first big case as primary investigator a few months ago. I chided myself. It was way past time to get over the nerves that shot through me when I was around him.
He looked at his watch, then back at me. “¿Que onda? Are you working?”
I nodded. “The Zimmerman case.”
He held the door, apparently waiting for me to continue.
I held up my camera. “Got some great pictures.” Especially if I had contacts at Playboy or Penthouse, which, unfortunately, I didn’t.
“Pictures of–?”
“Of Mrs. Zimmerman, um, making-out with her personal yoga instructor.” Making out might have been understating Mrs. Zimmerman’s activities, but it was the safest answer.
“How’d you get them?”
“I followed them after yoga class.”
Manny’s eyes narrowed as he looked me up and down. “Are you supposed to be undercover?”
My dress was a far cry from yoga-wear, but there was nothing wrong with in looking good on a surveillance job. “They changed after class then went to dinner. Lucky for me I’m a yoga junkie and very flexible–” Maybe not as flexible as Mrs. Zimmerman, but her sexual creativity was in a class by itself– “and have decent cargo room in my car.”
Manny seemed to ponder this, his expression unreadable. “And the photos?” he finally asked.
“After dinner they went around the corner from the restaurant.” Totally classless. Who screw–er, got down and dirty–out in public? “I was across the street. Excellent telephoto capabilities on this camera, by the way.”
He let the door to the office close while I accessed the pictures on the digital camera. I froze when his arm brushed against my back. The touch had been as light as a breath, but any physical contact from Manny Camacho could send a woman into premature orgasm. He moved behind me to look over my shoulder. A zing shot through my body and I gulped. Looking at X-rated pictures with my boss was muy uncomfortable.
I tried not to think about how flexible he might be and whether his slight limp or his cowboy boots would interfere with the Kama Sutra position in photographs three, twenty-seven or thirty-one.
When we’d gone through all the pictures, I stepped away, trying to ignore the charged silence. “Open and shut,” I said. “She’s clearly cheating on her husband.”
“Good work.” His voice sounded strained. I shoved aside the idea that it might be because of the photos, particularly what Mrs. Zimmerman had been doing in shots ten through eighteen.
My PI gene kicked in. Why didn’t he have plans on a Friday night? He had the hottest girlfriend this side of the Rio Grande. Maybe this side of anywhere. Her only competition was the phantom ex-wife who nobody had ever laid eyes on.
Neither were in sight. “You’re here late,” I said casually. “Where’s Isabel?” I pronounced the name in Spanish: Ee-sa-bel.
“Not here.” The corner of his mouth notched up. “Where’s Callaghan?”
There was a good chance that Manny Camacho, ex-cop-turned-super-detective-who-seemed-to-know-everything, knew exactly where Jack Callaghan. Then again, maybe not. He wasn’t psychic, after all, and I hadn’t let on that Jack had been MIA for almost a week now. “Not here,” I said, then quickly changed the subject. “I’m going to upload the photos and write my report for Mr. Zimmerman.” Which brought to mind something else. “I’m ready for a new case.”
Manny pressed a button on his key ring. Two beeps sounded from his truck, a white, lifted kick-ass 4×4. It wasn’t the most unobtrusive vehicle on the road in Sacramento, but it certainly had style. “The report can wait until Monday. We’ll talk about the caseload then.”
I started to stick my phone into my purse and to retrieve my set of office keys. The straps slipped off my shoulder and the bag fell. Manny was right. Uploading the pictures could wait till Monday, but since I had nothing better to do tonight, there was no reason to put it off. “I like to finish what I start,” I said as I bent down to grab the straps of my bag. “I’ll do the report tonight.”
As I straightened, he gave me another slow once over. “Callaghan’s a fool.”
A shiver swept up my spine and I shifted uncomfortably. Reality bit me. I didn’t think I could cross the line into fraternizing with my boss after all and I certainly wasn’t ready to write Jack off, even if he had a few secrets and the annoying habit of disappearing. He probably had a very good reason for dropping off the face of the earth. Again.
He’d better, damn it.
“Dolores.”
“Hmm?”
“I said you’re going to break your phone.”
I started. He had? I was? I loosened the death grip on the device, but dropped my purse in the process. “I, um, need to call my mother. See if she needs anything.”
“¿Por qué, mi poderosa? ¿Qué pasa?”
Ay, ay, ay. Manny had taken to calling me “strong woman”. Now he was calling me his strong woman? I gulped and stumbled back a step. I might be a good Catholic girl, but I wasn’t immune to temptation. “She’s home sick. I, um, think I should buy her some medicine and Ginger ale.”
“Can I help?”
Manny as nurturer? It didn’t compute. “No, no, no!” I just wanted to go upload the Zimmerman pics and go home to my empty flat. Above my parents’ house. That I shared with my brother. “I mean, I’m fine. I can handle it.”
He pressed the button on his key ring again, reactivating the truck alarm. “I have some more work I can do. I’ll stay with you.”
My hackles went up. I thought about jabbing him in the chest and reminding him that my Salma Hayek curves didn’t mean I wasn’t Xena, Warrior Princess, through and through. I didn’t need a protector–or a babysitter.
Thankfully–since it wouldn’t have been a good idea to chastise my boss–or touch his chest–I was stopped by the sound of a horn blaring behind us. A sporty silver Volvo pulled into the parking lot. Jack! My heart immediately slammed in my chest and I caught my breath. ¡Mi amor!
He stepped out of his car, all tousled brown hair and swarthy Irish complexion. His gaze swept over me and an angry dimple pulled his cheek in. My heart lurched again. I could imagine what he thought. I was dressed for a night on the town and Manny wore black and gray, his burnished skin and onyx eyes contemplating Jack with harsh scrutiny.
I took a small step to the side, putting space between Manny and me. No need to stoke the fire.
Not that it mattered, I reminded myself. Jack had up and left for a week–without a word. If he had issues with Manny, that was his problem. You snooze, you lose. I side-stepped back to where I’d been.
“Hasta la vista, Dolores.” Manny’s voice had turned gruff.
“Right. See you later.”
His black alligator-skin cowboy boots clapped unevenly against the sidewalk as he walked to his truck.
Jack came toward me. He dipped his head in an almost imperceptible nod at Manny as they passed, and then his eyes flicked to the bodice of my dress.
They lingered and his face tightened, not in the I want to ravish you kind of way I would have liked, but more in a what the hell are you wearing around him kind of way.
Catching my reflection in the window pane, I immediately saw what had caught his attention. It was my 34Cs–in the midst of a wardrobe malfunction. My dress was askew and part of my right breast plumped out of my demi bra. ¡Ay caramba! No wonder Manny had given me a slow burning look after I’d picked up my purse.
I straightened it as Manny pulled out of the parking lot. Shit! Manny had gotten an eye-full of my assets, and he hadn’t uttered a word.
From the way Jack looked from me to Manny’s truck and back, I suspected that he was thinking the same thing. “Purple, huh?” he said when he steadied his gaze back on me. His voice had that low, sexy tone that created instant yearning in the pit of my soul.
“It’s called Lavender Ice,” I said cooly.
“For him?”
“Well, it’s not like you’ve been around, Callaghan.” I ran my hands down my front in full temptress mode. Jack’s gaze smoldered as it followed my actions. Slow torture. God, sometimes it was so good to be a woman.
His gaze finally found its way back to my face. “I go away for one week and you start dating your boss. Nice, Cruz.”
I kept my gaze steady. “You went away without a word. That was not nice, Callaghan.”
He stood like a statue, then like a blip during a film, he shrugged. “I had something I had to take care of, that’s all. It’s no big deal, Lola, really. Sorry,” he added with a contrite smile.
Not a big deal to him, but it had been a pretty big deal to me. I waited, thinking he’d offer more of an explanation but he gave me nothing. Finally I jammed my hands on my hips and stared him down. Fine. I was just going to have to drag it out of him. “What kind of thing?” I should have left it at that, but damn it if my mouth didn’t have a mind of its own. “You might as well spill it. You know you can’t keep secrets from me.” I pointed at myself. “Private investigator, remember?”
“How could I forget?” he muttered, and he took a small step toward me.
His musky scent. His six feet of hard body. His tousled hair. His crooked little smile. Ay carumba. Jack Callaghan sent me into a tailspin. Rooting out his secrets could become one of my favorite past times if he didn’t infuriate me so much.
I backed up. Distance. He would not sweet talk me into forgetting why I was mad. “Where’d you go?”
“I had an emergency I had to deal with, Lola.”
The way he rumbled my name made my knees go weak and diluted my anger. “What kind of emergency?”
He took a panther-like step toward me. “Unfortunately, it was the kind I couldn’t say no to.”
“Is that your explanation?”
“It’s the truth,” he said.
In a half-truth kind of way. “What kind of emergency couldn’t you say no to?”
He backed me up against the window of Camacho and Associates.
“You really want to talk about this now?”
I breathed in. God, he smelled fabulous. Forget about dancing. The musky pheromones were sending promises of acrobatics. “Y-yes.”
“I missed you.”
“It’s going to take some serious convincing to make me believe that.” My eyelids fluttered. “You didn’t call–”
His hand slipped behind my back, a feather-light touch that sent whispers of desire up my spine. “The battery on my phone died.”
“Come on, Callaghan,” I breathed, summoning my self-control. “You can do better than that. No charger in your car? No money to buy a new one? Ever hear of a pay phone?”
“Couldn’t find one, bellísima.”
Ooh. Low blow. And good memory. I’d taught him the word for beautiful and now he was using it on me. “Pulling out all the stops, eh?” I pressed my palm against his chest. “Spill it, guapo. You can’t just sweet talk your way into–”
The corner of his mouth crept up wickedly and his hand moved to my hip. “Sweet talk my way into what?”
My skirt. My heart. My…
Dios mío. His chest felt amazing under my hand–all hard and muscled and– What was I mad about again?
He bent his head and brushed his lips against my neck, trailing them to my collarbone.
“Mmm.” The moan slipped out. Reality or not, his charm was second to none.
“Mmm-hmm,” he echoed.
I jumped when my cell phone belted out the chorus of La Bamba. Reality came flooding back into my brain. He’d left without so much as an adiós, that’s what I was mad about.
Grabbing the phone from my bag, I flipped it open. Holding it to my ear, I tried to ignore how close Jack was to me, how the miniscule amount of air between our bodies sizzled with heat. “H-hello?” My voice croaked and my eyes fluttered closed. I dropped my purse on the ground.
The line was dead. Thank God; a misdial. My grip on the phone became limp. The camera I still held by the strap dangled loosely from my other hand. I was putty.
The heat from Jack’s mouth radiated through my body. I gasped as his hands slid up my sides and his fingers spread wide on my ribcage. His lips sought out my mouth. I wanted him. Right here. Right now. I just hoped no one was lurking around a corner taking digital photos of us.
I was going to have to go to confession for this. Maybe twice. Those Benedictine Sisters would never have me now.
“You taste like heaven,” he said.
“Mmm–” I broke off when my phone rang again. My eyelids flew open.
“Hold that thought,” I said, and I flipped open the phone. “Hello?”
No one spoke. Chaos echoed on the other end of the line. I tried to make out a sound. Something identifiable. Jack’s mouth settled in against my neck again, but a cry that sounded like an injured animal, followed by a primal scream, assaulted my eardrums. My nerves crackled. “Who is this?” I demanded.
The connection cut out. I pushed the END button with my thumb then pressed another button to check the phone number. I froze.
Jack’s blue bedroom eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”
Panic lodged in my throat. “My parents. Somebody was crying and screaming.”
I hit redial, but the line beeped incessantly with a busy signal.
I snatched my purse from the ground and fumbled inside. “I have to go.” My hands shook and I couldn’t grab hold of anything. “Where the hell are my keys?!”
Jack grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward his car. “I’ll drive.”
There was no point arguing; I didn’t think I could maneuver a vehicle in a straight line with the panic that was seizing my insides. With runway model balance on my wedge heels, I jumped into Jack’s super cool Volvo.
He gunned it out of the parking lot and raced down ‘H’ street toward my parents’ midtown house.
To learn more about Lola Cruz Mysteries, go HERE.
I’m also smack in the middle of a KILLER blog tour. Follow along. There are lots and lots of chances to win books along the way!
Misa
And a New Book for Me
/in Uncategorized/by The Stiletto GangBefore the month is over, I’ll have copies of An Axe to Grind, the latest in my Rocky Bluff P.D. series.
Unlike my Deputy Tempe Crabtree series, these tales are told from multiple points of view–officers of the Rocky Bluff P.D. and members of their families. Rocky Bluff is a fictional beach community located between Santa Barbara and Ventura on the Southern California coast.
The story begins with the discovery of a headless corpse. The victim turns out to be a stalker and the suspects include the father, brother, and boyfriend of the young girl being stalked, as well as the victim’s foster father.
The romance between Detective Doug Milligan and Officer Stacey Wilbur is put on hold because of the investigation. Maria Navarro continues to have a problem with her mother-in-law.
Stacey is called on to investigate the report of a child molester. Barbara Strickland, a mother and the wife of the handsome public information officer, learns something surprising about herself.
During the investigation Doug disappears and Stacey sets out to find him.
Though this is a series, I’ve written each book so it can be read as a stand-alone.
Because the Rocky Bluff P.D. is small, they don’t have all the modern equipment larger cities have and most investigations are done the old-fashioned way. Asking questions, following clues.
I’ve had a great time writing about all these folks and have come to know them as well as I know any of my friends, and Rocky Bluff is as real to me as any of the many towns I’ve visited.
Having a son-in-law who was a 15 year veteran of a similar police department gave me the incentive to write this series. I really wanted to show how the job affects the family and what’s going on in the family affects the police officer on the job. I also wanted to show something my son-in-law pointed out to me, the police never work on one case at a time, as shown on TV and in the movies.
Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com
A Little Respect Please
/in Uncategorized/by The Stiletto GangLike most kids, I grew up on animation – when there were artists who actually sketched each cel, and computer-generated graphics hadn’t been invented. Think about how labor-intensive each animated movie was. Lady and The Trampis beautifully and lovingly drawn, with a story to warm the cockles of the hardest hearts. Is there a child who hasn’t cowered under the seat at Maleficent transformed into a dragon in Sleeping Beauty? Many a youngster (and Mom) cried when Bambi’s mother is killed (and what is Walt Disney’s problem with mothers?). But I always found the scene in Dumbo, when Mrs. Jumbo is chained and unable to comfort her baby at least a two-hanky sob fest.
Animated features, like comic books and now graphic novels, still seem to be the illegitimate children of cinema and literature. And yet, some of the best stories are to be found in these media. Graphic novels have captured an audience of young readers, especially boys, long lost to more conventional books. Graphic novels are among the highest circulating collections in public libraries. Today graphic novels cover a broad range of subject matter – fiction, nonfiction, sci-fi, fantasy, almost every classification found on library shelves. The 1986 publication of Maus, by Art Spiegelman, may have been told in comic book format, but the subject matter was anything but comic. In using this format to describe the horrors of the holocaust, Spiegelman forever changed the impact that this type of literature could convey. It won a “Special” Pulitzer Prize – but today, I wonder if it wouldn’t have competed with conventional books for the Literature Prize – no need for a special category.
Whatever you like to read and watch – I guess short of porn, but then I shouldn’t be judgmental on that either! – is a personal decision. Enjoy the escape!
Marian, the Northern Half of Evelyn David
Murder Takes the Cake by Evelyn David
Murder Off the Books by Evelyn David
http://www.evelyndavid.com
The Mid-Life Dating Game
/in Uncategorized/by The Stiletto GangPromoting The Cougar Club has me thinking (and talking) a lot about dating in mid-life. It’s a fascinating subject, perhaps because it’s not something most of us imagine we’ll ever do, not when we’re in high school and crush-worthy subjects are abundant. Worrying about possibly being single for the rest of your life isn’t even a big deal when you’re out of college and embarking in the real world, becoming bridesmaids in your friends’ weddings and pursuing your dreams instead of Mr. Right. Then all of a sudden you’re forty, and your mother’s bemoaning the fact that she may never have a grandchild. Or worse, she makes comments like, “If you get pregnant by that adorable guy you’re dating, it’s okay. I’ll be there for you. In fact, I can babysit whenever you need me.” And she does it with a straight face.
Initially, I didn’t dwell much on the fact that I was still single when I crossed the big 4-0. After ten years of working like crazy to get published and several more after that building the foundation for my career, I was just thrilled to be writing mysteries for Avon that were selling well. I loved being on the road, hanging out with writer friends, and meeting fellow book lovers across the country. It felt like heaven to me.
So while I was too busy to worry about becoming a notorious cat lady, my relatives apparently weren’t, something I realized at any/every family gathering. I believe it was at my brother’s wedding that a male cousin asked if I might be a lesbian. When I told him, “No. I like men,” he nodded and leaned in to whisper, “But it would be all right if you were.” Thank you, Dr. Phil. My sister (who is a year older and still single) never seemed to get as much scrutiny about her love life. Perhaps because the myriad dating stories she theatrically shared (she’s an actress at heart) made everyone afraid to comment or ask questions! By the way, she’s the real Cougar in the family, having dated younger dudes since high school. My family calls her “free-spirited.” As a kid, I imagined she’d grow up to be a go-go dancer or a magician’s assistant. Not the kind of gigs that demand marriage and stability.
I, on th
e other hand, had a lot expected of me. I was the responsible one, the driven one so I expected a lot of myself, too. I was all about setting the bar high and meeting my career goals, not sitting at bars trying to meet men. Besides, the guys I ran into at book-related events, in airports, or through set-ups weren’t ever people I could imagine spending two dates with, much less the rest of my life. Wasn’t there a study that said women over forty have a better chance of being killed in a terrorist act than they do of getting married? Let me tell you, dating when you’re over forty sometimes feels like a terrorist act, especially if you’re looking for guys your own age. Here’s Kat Maguire’s Facts of Life for Women over Forty from The Cougar Club, which sums up the situation rather neatly:
The idea of finding a soul-mate sounded oh so appealing, but how to locate the pearl among the swine? I soon learned what I had to do was open my eyes a little wider. I needed to chuck the list of “must-haves” that I used to judge potential boyfriends in high school and–not settle–but realize that maybe lack of fashion sense isn’t the kiss of death, that a doctorate in computer science is far more valuable to a writer than a doctor of medicine, and that humor and wit outweigh bulky muscles by a long shot. I should have written a book about my epiphany before someone else did. (Because it’s too late now. I just heard about a book this morning called Marry Him: The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough, which is really about looking for potential, not settling. It’s written by a 42-year-old single woman who had a baby via a sperm donor because she set her standards so high she blew off every guy she might have/could have/may have loved).
I feel extremely fortunate that I met Ed at a time when I was satisfied with the direction of my career and feeling very happy with myself. I still look back and shake my head, amazed at how events lined up so fatefully in 2005, leading to the introduction to my husband. So many “ifs” could have taken us in separate directions: if my mom hadn’t sent in an email to St. Louis Magazine asking them to consider me and my sister as “top singles” for that year’s issue, if they hadn’t selected me, if I hadn’t filled out the questionnaire, if I hadn’t made friends with Jeremy Nolle (Ed’s former co-worker) at the magazine shoot, if I hadn’t been talking to Jeremy when Ed showed up at the Contemporary Art Museum for the party the magazine threw…if so many little pieces of the puzzle hadn’t come together perfectly, I would have missed finding my own Mr. Right. (Ed and I honestly think that our deceased grandmothers had a hand in things somehow, meeting up in Heaven and saying, “Oh, your grand-daughter is single?” “Wait, you have a grandson?” You know the drill.)
I had always felt independent–lived independently–so much so that I imagined it would be very hard once I fell in love with someone I wanted to be with for the rest of my life. My family used to tease me about a comment I made long ago that even when I married I’d want a duplex so I could have one side and my husband the other. “I need time alone!” I would insist while they quietly chuckled. My mom even mentioned this in her toast at Ed’s and my rehearsal dinner.
As it turned out, I never feel like Ed and I have enough time together. We’ll be celebrating our second wedding anniversary on February 24, and I love him more now for all the things we’ve been through together than I did when we were at that dewy “OMG, I could just suck face all night” falling-in-love stage.
If I hadn’t been part of the mid-life dating game, I wouldn’t have married an amazing man (who just happens to be younger)…and I would never have written The Cougar Club. The moral to my story: ladies over forty, it ain’t over ’til it’s over! Or maybe it’s that there’s always a book in everything. Hmm.
Mysteries Fill the Bill
/in Uncategorized/by Stiletto GangDonna Parker. Nancy Drew. Trixie Belden. These were the first mysteries I remember reading, teenage sleuths who lived lives filled with adventure and danger. These three sleuths provided a respite during the teenage angst years. It was to mystery that I escaped and mystery which still provides my solace. Whether legal, historical, English country house or humorous, police procedurals, female detectives, and romantic suspense, to name a few categories, mysteries are my “drug” of choice.
Mysteries assist in learning about life. Dame Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple lived in a small English village for all her “life” and yet she understood people better than many others who had traveled the world. According to Miss Marple (and I’m majorly paraphrasing here), one could see all manner of human behavior in a small village, which psychology could then be transferred to the world at large.
Mysteries provide resolution. In a mystery, particularly a “cozy” (my favorite type), the problems presented in life can be solved. At the end of a few hundred pages, all the loose ends are tied up and answers to all questions provided. If only all the problems of life could be so easily answered.
The books, especially those written during the Golden Age of mysteries (mostly the 1920s, ‘30’s and ‘40’s), provide puzzles that can be solved by the reader. In the mysteries I love, whether in a country mansion or an academic community, there is a finite list of suspects for whatever the crime happens to be. Like Sudoku and crossword puzzles, the mysteries exercise one’s mind but there is always an answer provided at the end (not necessarily found in real life, though).
Mysteries are a great place to escape, whether to revisit a place I’ve already been or to discover somewhere I’ve never visited. I’ve traveled the world through mysteries, to places I’ll probably never see (whether the Botswana of Alexander McCall Smith, the Africa of Suzanne Arruda or the Australia of Kerry Greenwood) and to places I’ve seen and love to visit time and time again (the England of Agatha Christie, Ngaio Marsh, Anne Perry, G.M. Malliet or the Greece of Mary Stewart).
There are so many writers whom I adore reading, including the writers of the Stiletto Gang (two [Maggie Barbieri and the northern half of Evelyn David] of whom I was privileged to meet, at the 2009 Malice Domestic, and who are really fantastic people and authors). Some of my other favorites include the writers I’ve already mentioned, as well as other writers whom I met at Malice Domestic: Louise Penny (who is also a wonderful person and fantastic writer), Ann Parker (who is especially nice and very modest), Cathy Pickens (whom I saw on a panel and who had me and my sister in stitches for the entire time), Elaine Viets, Rhys Bowen, JoAnna Carl, Krista Davis, Dana Cameron, Mary Jane Maffini.
(And now a plug for Malice Domestic, which was an awesome experience. As I tell people, it was like the Hollywood of the mystery world — at least for me — and I was thrilled and agape the entire time at the lineup of authors who attended!)
There are then writers whom I wish I could have met but who were before my time: Georgette Heyer, Margery Allingham, Josephine Tey, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Erle Stanley Gardner, John Mortimer, and Rex Stout. Finally, there are those writers whom I still may have the chance to meet and, in the meantime, heartily enjoy and anticipate their books: M.C. Beaton, Elizabeth Peters, Jacqueline Winspear, Margit Liesche, and the list goes on and on.
In an age where the greatest mysteries, both big and small (whether Osama bin Laden will ever be caught, whether my house will ever approach the cleanliness of my mother’s) remain unsolved, it’s nice to be able to escape to a different life, but with a story that will always provide answers. Mysteries fill the bill perfectly.
Georgia Davidis Malone
Why I Don’t Outline
/in Uncategorized/by The Stiletto GangPeople often ask me if I outline my novels. I do if the editor requires it, but I may as well not bother. I’m not good with advance planning.
Even in real life, my days rarely end up as expected. The day I thought I’d finish a short story turns out to be the day I have to nurse a sick daughter. The week I meant to knock out the first few chapters of a novel, my other daughter had half days because of mid-terms. The interview scheduled for a time when my husband could get the girls to their clubs? He went to Australia.
Is it any surprise that my books rarely end up as planned?
Freelance entertainment reporter Tilda Harper has never had it so good. She’s become the darling of every formerly famous star in the country hoping to become famous again. The editors know it, too, so the assignments arrive daily. The checks are rolling in–she’s even shopping for a condo.
And she’s never been so bored in her life.
If she’d wanted to be an industry shill, she’d have become a publicist. Still, as a freelancer, it’s hard to pass up money, especially when it means getting rid of her latest roommate. If that means writing puff pieces about the former cast members of “The Ranchers,” a long-running Western that was even cheesier than “Bonanza,” how can she complain?
It’s while researching something that really interests her–a piece about pinup gals of the fifties–that she finally gets a whiff of a real story. It turns out that squeaky-clean Ranch gal Paige Henrickson started out posing for girly pictures. At first Henrickson begs Tilda not to reveal her secret, but when Tilda points out how much money there is to be made selling pictures and memorabilia, Henrickson embraces the idea, and Tilda writes “Breast of the West.”
Then Henrickson is found dead, and Tilda is determined to round up the killer.
Suspects include the man trying to open a dude ranch modeled on the fictional one from “The Ranchers;” Henrickson’s family, who hated the idea of her becoming notorious; former cast members, and a frighteningly devoted fan.
Whoever it is, he’s gunning for Tilda next, and he wants her dead, not alive.
Sounds pretty exciting, but it has nearly nothing to do with the book I actually wrote. And I can’t blame a kid or my husband for the changes.
First to go was the condo hunt. I decided that one successful story—the one I from in the previous book in the series—was not enough to make Tilda sought after. And without her being in demand, I couldn’t use the stuff about her being bored. Instead, I inserted a subplot about Tilda being offered a fulltime job.
I still wanted to write about pinup queens and TV cowboys, but I came up with a different fictional show that Tilda liked. (I don’t remember why I switched from “The Rangers” to “Cowtown,” but there must have been some reason.) The pinup queen story split off, and my murdered pinup had nothing to do with the cowboys.
Having Tilda trying to convince a pinup queen to go public slowed the pacing to a crawl. So I put the initial meeting with the pinup in as back story, introduced her briefly, then killed her off right away.
And that list of suspects? I lost interest in most of them. The family? Too obvious. I kept a niece, but the rest got relegated to a page. The guy starting the dude ranch? Other cast members? Now that the pinup queen was separate from the cowboys, that didn’t make sense. The freaky fan? Too easy. Time for a new set of suspects. I changed the murderer, too, more than once.
The fact is, it doesn’t matter if I outline ahead of time or not. The book never looks like I expected it to look. I like it that way—I never get bored.
Come to think of it, I think I meant this blog to be about guinea pigs.
Toni L.P. Kelner
http://www.tonilpkelner.com/
Dreaming
/in Uncategorized/by The Stiletto GangHow’s your dream world treating you?
I’ve read some writers say that a dream gave them an idea for a book. I could never put anything I dream into a book. Not only are my dreams vivid, in color, but they are also weird.
After I quit smoking, for years I dreamed I was still smoking.
I dream about the house I grew up in–though I’m an adult in the dreams and the house was demolished for a freeway.
The house we had in Oxnard is often the setting for my dreams. We remodeled that house several times, and I’ve dreamed about it in all the different stage s of remodeling. The neighborhood around the house doesn’t resemble the true neighborhood at all. The houses are huge, three and four stories and in stages of disrepair. I don’t think I’ve ever seen any houses like that, yet I’ve dreamed about them many times. I’m usually trying to get somewhere.
One night recently I dreamed about a lady who goes to our church. She offered to take me home and we drove on a narrow mountain road (no, you don’t have to take a mountain road to get to my house) and all of a sudden she drove down another steep road that went right into a huge lake. She couldn’t stop and there we were. She couldn’t swim so it was up to me to save her. I woke up and have no idea how that ended. I’ve turned the woman down a couple of times when she’s offered to drive me home, just in case, but I finally rode with her and she managed to get me to my house without driving into the drink.
I’ve had a recurrent dream about driving high into the mountains and finding the road impassable because of snow and getting out and trying to hike to the place I needed to go. (I would never drive into the mountains on my own–and I’m not all that fond of snow so I’d never get out and hike in it.)
My most frequent dream is being in most any place: camping, a large hotel, someone’s house and trying to find a bathroom. If I do find one, there’s no door, or long lines waiting for only one bathroom, or a bathroom with no toilet. When I wake, of course I need to make a trek to my own bathroom.
I’ve dreamed that I could fly several times. All I had to do was stand in a corner, raise my hands over my head and off I went–and I could actually go right through the ceiling and up into the sky. (Sounds more like astral projection than flying.)
I dream a lot about writing conferences and not being able to find my way to where I’m supposed to be going. If I’m presenting in my dream, I can’t find my materials, or they are all jumbled up.
Though I can certainly figure what sparked a lot of these dreams, others are a puzzle. Many of them border on nightmares, but I kind of enjoy them.
So what kind of dreams do you have? Do you dream in color or black and white? Can you figure out what your dreams mean?
Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com/
The Impending Storm & Postscript
/in Uncategorized/by The Stiletto GangIt’s Tuesday night (January 26) and I have six days to get this blog done. I don’t normally write anything that far ahead of a deadline, but the weather guys are predicting that within 36 hours my world is going to have an Armageddon of the icy variety. The guys with the color radar and storm model gizmos have proclaimed that by early Thursday morning (January 28) there will be enough ice to down power lines and close highways in Eastern Oklahoma.
I’m writing this blog early, because if I wait until the weekend, I might not have …wait for it … horror of all horror … no internet access! No internet, no posting of my Monday blog on February 1. Of course I might not have heat, light, or television either. I guess it says something scary that I worry more about dealing with the lack of internet than with how I’ll keep my pipes from freezing. Sigh.
In the last few years more and more of my life has become entangled with computers and the superhighway. Many of my monthly bills are delivered to my computer inbox instead of the mailbox nailed to the side of my house. I pay those same bills with a point and a click. I get most of my news from the computer. I shop via the computer. I write with my co-author on-line. Many of my e-friends are waiting in yahoo groups for me to pop in and say, “hey.” How will I do that if the ice descends and encases my life in frozen, electronic silence for days on end?
Is your life tied to a computer? Can you go for days without checking email? Do you bank on-line? Watch movies on-line? Can you go “cold” turkey? I may have to. So, I’m trying to prepare for the worst. I just scheduled on-line payments for the bills that come due early next week. So even if I have no electricity or cable, my accounts will be current. There’s something ironic about that but .. oh whatever.
If the power is with me on Monday, I’ll update this blog. If not, when you read this, think of me – trapped, alone in my house, wrapped in my snuggy, drinking hot tea made on a gas stove, and reading mysteries by candlelight.
I guess I shouldn’t complain, but I will. I’ll miss my computer soooo much. I’m already feeling withdrawal pangs.
Rhonda
aka The Southern Half of Evelyn David
Postscript:
It’s Friday night and the worst of the storm is over. I ended up with about 2 inches of ice with a 3-4 inch snow layer on top. Although there were power outages in the area, my town was spared. It will be a few more days before any melting occurs, but I think this crisis was averted. Probably due to all that money I spent on batteries, a weather radio, and canned soup. Sigh. (Kind of like washing your car to insure it rains.) Not that I’m complaining.
You Know in Your Heart You Want this Skittle
/in Uncategorized/by Stiletto GangThink back to the last time you surprised yourself and accomplished something you weren’t sure you could pull off. Maybe you did it last week.
Maybe it’s been a few years. Regardless, I’d wager that all of us can come up with something, maybe several things.
I’m in the middle of one right now. On New Year’s Day, probably sometime around lunch, I logged onto my Facebook account and saw that a friend had posted: “I haven’t had any junk food yet this year.”
I smiled. The year was about as young as it could be. I hadn’t had any junk food yet either. As far as 2010 was concerned, I was a clean, nutritiously balanced slate. I’m not the resolutions-type, but this one caught my fancy so I ripped it off.
Today it has been twenty-nine days since I’ve had chips, desserts, sodas, candy, or anything with grease. I’m not on a diet and this isn’t about weight loss. In fact, my weight is the same as it was on January 1st. I eat as much food as I ever did, it’s just better food.
I didn’t eat many of those things before January 1st anyway, so this might not seem like much of a sacrifice, but you’d be surprised. The hardest part is passing on the homemade brownies and cakes that co-workers leave in the conference room.
Just Tuesday, my supervisor brought in a glorious tray of huge assorted cookies.
Anyone who experiences an afternoon “brain sludge” at work might relate to my temptation.
Last weekend, my nine-year-old held up a blue Skittle: “Come on, Mom.
You know in your heart you want this Skittle.”
She knows me well.
But I’d committed: No Junk.
Though my goal was arbitrary, my mind was made up, and I passed. This started me thinking about other things I’d done once my mind was set. I made a list to include here so I could make a big, terrific point about what huge things we can accomplish if we really, really want to.
But then I tossed it.
Compared to personal hurdles others have tackled, my list is small. But it’s mine. In my opinion, it’s less important what’s on our lists than that we have one, period.
Everyone should know the joy and pride that comes from accomplishing something they believed was impossible. I worry sometimes for those among us who are too afraid to try.
In making my list, I realized I’ve done some remarkable things. That sounds egregiously egotistical, but what I mean to say is that I’ve done several normal things that seem remarkable to me because at one time I didn’t think I could. Why’d I think that?
Only recently have I learned that I can take on those big goals as long as I do them one at a time. It seems incredibly obvious, but Type A’s like me are thick sometimes. We have a long list of stuff to do, we desperately want to do it all, we really want to do it all well, and there is an overriding feeling that if we don’t do it now, we might never get another chance to try.
I’m learning to let my goal list be dynamic, to let it ebb and flow. I’m learning that balance doesn’t mean putting everything on the tray and finding a place where it doesn’t tip. In my case, everything does not fit on the tray. Sometimes I have to take an item off, just for now, and put it back later, when I’m finished with something else. Otherwise, all it takes is one blue Skittle to bring the whole tray crashing down.
I propose that sometimes it’s a good idea to challenge ourselves, no matter how frivolous. Tell me how you’ve surprised yourself by putting your mind to something, big or small. What’s next on your list?
Rachel Brady
The Countdown is On!
/in Uncategorized/by The Stiletto GangWe are mere days away from the release of the second Lola Cruz Mystery, Hasta la Vista, Lola! (4 1/2 stars from RT Book Reviews!), and the buzz is building. Yesterday, the Book List review came in.
“In Ramirez’s second novel featuring the feisty Latina detective, Dolores “Lola” Cruz is investigating her own death. That is, she is trying to find out why a woman who stole her identity ended up dead. With sexy reporter Jack Callaghan—her on-again, off-again love interest—by her side, Lola finds out that the other Dolores is actually Rosie Gonzalez, a single mother, whose young son has been missing since his mother’s death. Now Lola’s search turns to finding the young boy, which leads her closer to home than she expected. Fans who fell for Lola in Living the Vida Lola (2009) will welcome her smart and snappy return. The suspense here revolves as much around the will-they or won’t-they romance with Jack as it does with the missing boy and mysterious death, leading up to a shocking ending that ties everything together.”
Needless to say, I’m thrilled by the great response to this book. It takes a lot of patience and good luck to build a series, and I feel like Lola Cruz Mysteries finally has some momentum.
A lot of you probably haven’t met Lola. First, let me say that you do not have to read book one (Living the Vida Lola) before you read book 2. You can, of course, but it’s not going to mess you up if you do. Go HERE to see more about both books.
In order to introduce you to fledgling detective Lola Cruz, I’ve put an excerpt up. You can be introduced to all of the characters at On-Line Dating with Lola’s Crew.
Enjoy!
Chapter 1, Hasta la Vista, Lola!
I can’t even begin to count the number of times my grandmother told me that she would die a happy woman if only I’d join the Order of the Benedictine Sisters of Guadalupe and live a chaste and holy life.
To which I always nodded, smiled, and said, “I want you to die happy, Abuela, pero I’m not going to become a nun.” There were several problems with me and a pious life. If you asked my mother, she’d say I’d sinned over and over and over again, beginning with premarital intercourse [which she suspected but had no actual proof of], and ending with my job. In my mother’s eyes, being a detective necessitates questionable actions and an ‘ends justifies the means’ philosophy.
Which is not actually my philosophy. I do things by the book, and let my conscience be my guide. I was God-fearing so I tried to toe the line, but I was also a driven, independent woman walking a tightrope between modern American culture and my parents’ old-fashioned male-oriented Spanish culture so my conscience didn’t always know which way to go when I hit a fork in the road.
Case in point. It was a brisk Friday night, downtown Sacramento was lit up with twinkling white lights, I was all dressed up, and even though I had no one to go salsa dancing with, joining those crazy Benedictine Sisters still never entered my mind. The nuns might enjoy their celibacy, but I was one hundred percent positive that I wouldn’t embrace a lifetime of abstinence. Hell, I’d just spent the better part of two hours photographing acrobatic sex in a back ally [which had left me un poquito hot and bothered]–all in the name of being the best private investigator I could possibly be–and I was okay with my decision.
I was almost to Camacho and Associates, the small PI firm where I worked. I dialed Reilly Fuller, the Jill-of-all-trades secretary of the office–and my homegirl. I wanted to go out dancing tonight and I knew I could count on her to have my back.
She picked up on the third ring, breathing heavy and almost out of breath. “Lola!”
“Hey, chica. How’d you know it was me?”
“Call waiting.”
I frowned. The phone company had effectively destroyed kids’ innocent prank call fun–not to mention obsessed stalker-girls calling and hanging up on a guy just to hear his voice [not that I’d had any experience with that type of juvenile behavior].
“Lola, I’m in the middle of something,” she said. She panted.
“I’ll call you back, okay?”
I’d never known Reilly to willingly break a sweat, so I was curious. I checked the time. 8:40. An odd time to be using the treadmill–if that’s what she was up to. “Are you exercising?”
But electric blue-haired Reilly couldn’t answer me because she’d already hung up.
Huh. My long night loomed ahead of me and dancing wasn’t going to be part of it. Looked like it was going to be me, a container of Mapo Tofu from Schezwan House (my favorite restaurant of all time, coincidentally right next door to Camacho and Associates), my camera hooked up to the office computer, and a whole lot of sex pictures uploading. One at a time.
I turned onto Alhambra and immediately spotted my boss’s truck in the parking lot. I slid my little red CRV into a space right beside it. Apparently Manny Camacho didn’t have plans for Friday night, either. Hard to believe. He was puro Latino machismo Greek God material–dark and brooding and scary in an I-could-do-things-to-you-and-make-you-scream-for-mercy kind of way.
I couldn’t help sneaking a quick peek in the rearview mirror. Low cut filmy dress, Victoria’s Secret Ipex cleavage, clear olive skin, salon-highlighted copper strands framing face, MAC O lips. I would not be put out to pasture because of a roguishly sexy reporter who disappeared for days on end and who I did not want to think about right now.
I grabbed my cell phone, the Nikon, my note pad with the Zimmerman case information, and my new favorite accessory– courtesy of Ebay–my Sexy Señorita drawstring bag. Shoving the notepad into the coral-colored purse, I headed toward the office.
In your face, Callaghan. I had options. Dark and brooding suddenly held a new appeal.
Just as I reached the office, Manny pushed open the door. “Dolores?”
My wedge heels teetered on a crack in the sidewalk. Maybe appeal was the wrong word. Dark fascination? Sadistic curiosity?
Fact is, Manny flustered me without even trying. Not many people could do that. I’d solved my first big case as primary investigator a few months ago. I chided myself. It was way past time to get over the nerves that shot through me when I was around him.
He looked at his watch, then back at me. “¿Que onda? Are you working?”
I nodded. “The Zimmerman case.”
He held the door, apparently waiting for me to continue.
I held up my camera. “Got some great pictures.” Especially if I had contacts at Playboy or Penthouse, which, unfortunately, I didn’t.
“Pictures of–?”
“Of Mrs. Zimmerman, um, making-out with her personal yoga instructor.” Making out might have been understating Mrs. Zimmerman’s activities, but it was the safest answer.
“How’d you get them?”
“I followed them after yoga class.”
Manny’s eyes narrowed as he looked me up and down. “Are you supposed to be undercover?”
My dress was a far cry from yoga-wear, but there was nothing wrong with in looking good on a surveillance job. “They changed after class then went to dinner. Lucky for me I’m a yoga junkie and very flexible–” Maybe not as flexible as Mrs. Zimmerman, but her sexual creativity was in a class by itself– “and have decent cargo room in my car.”
Manny seemed to ponder this, his expression unreadable. “And the photos?” he finally asked.
“After dinner they went around the corner from the restaurant.” Totally classless. Who screw–er, got down and dirty–out in public? “I was across the street. Excellent telephoto capabilities on this camera, by the way.”
He let the door to the office close while I accessed the pictures on the digital camera. I froze when his arm brushed against my back. The touch had been as light as a breath, but any physical contact from Manny Camacho could send a woman into premature orgasm. He moved behind me to look over my shoulder. A zing shot through my body and I gulped. Looking at X-rated pictures with my boss was muy uncomfortable.
I tried not to think about how flexible he might be and whether his slight limp or his cowboy boots would interfere with the Kama Sutra position in photographs three, twenty-seven or thirty-one.
When we’d gone through all the pictures, I stepped away, trying to ignore the charged silence. “Open and shut,” I said. “She’s clearly cheating on her husband.”
“Good work.” His voice sounded strained. I shoved aside the idea that it might be because of the photos, particularly what Mrs. Zimmerman had been doing in shots ten through eighteen.
My PI gene kicked in. Why didn’t he have plans on a Friday night? He had the hottest girlfriend this side of the Rio Grande. Maybe this side of anywhere. Her only competition was the phantom ex-wife who nobody had ever laid eyes on.
Neither were in sight. “You’re here late,” I said casually. “Where’s Isabel?” I pronounced the name in Spanish: Ee-sa-bel.
“Not here.” The corner of his mouth notched up. “Where’s Callaghan?”
There was a good chance that Manny Camacho, ex-cop-turned-super-detective-who-seemed-to-know-everything, knew exactly where Jack Callaghan. Then again, maybe not. He wasn’t psychic, after all, and I hadn’t let on that Jack had been MIA for almost a week now. “Not here,” I said, then quickly changed the subject. “I’m going to upload the photos and write my report for Mr. Zimmerman.” Which brought to mind something else. “I’m ready for a new case.”
Manny pressed a button on his key ring. Two beeps sounded from his truck, a white, lifted kick-ass 4×4. It wasn’t the most unobtrusive vehicle on the road in Sacramento, but it certainly had style. “The report can wait until Monday. We’ll talk about the caseload then.”
I started to stick my phone into my purse and to retrieve my set of office keys. The straps slipped off my shoulder and the bag fell. Manny was right. Uploading the pictures could wait till Monday, but since I had nothing better to do tonight, there was no reason to put it off. “I like to finish what I start,” I said as I bent down to grab the straps of my bag. “I’ll do the report tonight.”
As I straightened, he gave me another slow once over. “Callaghan’s a fool.”
A shiver swept up my spine and I shifted uncomfortably. Reality bit me. I didn’t think I could cross the line into fraternizing with my boss after all and I certainly wasn’t ready to write Jack off, even if he had a few secrets and the annoying habit of disappearing. He probably had a very good reason for dropping off the face of the earth. Again.
He’d better, damn it.
“Dolores.”
“Hmm?”
“I said you’re going to break your phone.”
I started. He had? I was? I loosened the death grip on the device, but dropped my purse in the process. “I, um, need to call my mother. See if she needs anything.”
“¿Por qué, mi poderosa? ¿Qué pasa?”
Ay, ay, ay. Manny had taken to calling me “strong woman”. Now he was calling me his strong woman? I gulped and stumbled back a step. I might be a good Catholic girl, but I wasn’t immune to temptation. “She’s home sick. I, um, think I should buy her some medicine and Ginger ale.”
“Can I help?”
Manny as nurturer? It didn’t compute. “No, no, no!” I just wanted to go upload the Zimmerman pics and go home to my empty flat. Above my parents’ house. That I shared with my brother. “I mean, I’m fine. I can handle it.”
He pressed the button on his key ring again, reactivating the truck alarm. “I have some more work I can do. I’ll stay with you.”
My hackles went up. I thought about jabbing him in the chest and reminding him that my Salma Hayek curves didn’t mean I wasn’t Xena, Warrior Princess, through and through. I didn’t need a protector–or a babysitter.
Thankfully–since it wouldn’t have been a good idea to chastise my boss–or touch his chest–I was stopped by the sound of a horn blaring behind us. A sporty silver Volvo pulled into the parking lot. Jack! My heart immediately slammed in my chest and I caught my breath. ¡Mi amor!
He stepped out of his car, all tousled brown hair and swarthy Irish complexion. His gaze swept over me and an angry dimple pulled his cheek in. My heart lurched again. I could imagine what he thought. I was dressed for a night on the town and Manny wore black and gray, his burnished skin and onyx eyes contemplating Jack with harsh scrutiny.
I took a small step to the side, putting space between Manny and me. No need to stoke the fire.
Not that it mattered, I reminded myself. Jack had up and left for a week–without a word. If he had issues with Manny, that was his problem. You snooze, you lose. I side-stepped back to where I’d been.
“Hasta la vista, Dolores.” Manny’s voice had turned gruff.
“Right. See you later.”
His black alligator-skin cowboy boots clapped unevenly against the sidewalk as he walked to his truck.
Jack came toward me. He dipped his head in an almost imperceptible nod at Manny as they passed, and then his eyes flicked to the bodice of my dress.
They lingered and his face tightened, not in the I want to ravish you kind of way I would have liked, but more in a what the hell are you wearing around him kind of way.
Catching my reflection in the window pane, I immediately saw what had caught his attention. It was my 34Cs–in the midst of a wardrobe malfunction. My dress was askew and part of my right breast plumped out of my demi bra. ¡Ay caramba! No wonder Manny had given me a slow burning look after I’d picked up my purse.
I straightened it as Manny pulled out of the parking lot. Shit! Manny had gotten an eye-full of my assets, and he hadn’t uttered a word.
From the way Jack looked from me to Manny’s truck and back, I suspected that he was thinking the same thing. “Purple, huh?” he said when he steadied his gaze back on me. His voice had that low, sexy tone that created instant yearning in the pit of my soul.
“It’s called Lavender Ice,” I said cooly.
“For him?”
“Well, it’s not like you’ve been around, Callaghan.” I ran my hands down my front in full temptress mode. Jack’s gaze smoldered as it followed my actions. Slow torture. God, sometimes it was so good to be a woman.
His gaze finally found its way back to my face. “I go away for one week and you start dating your boss. Nice, Cruz.”
I kept my gaze steady. “You went away without a word. That was not nice, Callaghan.”
He stood like a statue, then like a blip during a film, he shrugged. “I had something I had to take care of, that’s all. It’s no big deal, Lola, really. Sorry,” he added with a contrite smile.
Not a big deal to him, but it had been a pretty big deal to me. I waited, thinking he’d offer more of an explanation but he gave me nothing. Finally I jammed my hands on my hips and stared him down. Fine. I was just going to have to drag it out of him. “What kind of thing?” I should have left it at that, but damn it if my mouth didn’t have a mind of its own. “You might as well spill it. You know you can’t keep secrets from me.” I pointed at myself. “Private investigator, remember?”
“How could I forget?” he muttered, and he took a small step toward me.
His musky scent. His six feet of hard body. His tousled hair. His crooked little smile. Ay carumba. Jack Callaghan sent me into a tailspin. Rooting out his secrets could become one of my favorite past times if he didn’t infuriate me so much.
I backed up. Distance. He would not sweet talk me into forgetting why I was mad. “Where’d you go?”
“I had an emergency I had to deal with, Lola.”
The way he rumbled my name made my knees go weak and diluted my anger. “What kind of emergency?”
He took a panther-like step toward me. “Unfortunately, it was the kind I couldn’t say no to.”
“Is that your explanation?”
“It’s the truth,” he said.
In a half-truth kind of way. “What kind of emergency couldn’t you say no to?”
He backed me up against the window of Camacho and Associates.
“You really want to talk about this now?”
I breathed in. God, he smelled fabulous. Forget about dancing. The musky pheromones were sending promises of acrobatics. “Y-yes.”
“I missed you.”
“It’s going to take some serious convincing to make me believe that.” My eyelids fluttered. “You didn’t call–”
His hand slipped behind my back, a feather-light touch that sent whispers of desire up my spine. “The battery on my phone died.”
“Come on, Callaghan,” I breathed, summoning my self-control. “You can do better than that. No charger in your car? No money to buy a new one? Ever hear of a pay phone?”
“Couldn’t find one, bellísima.”
Ooh. Low blow. And good memory. I’d taught him the word for beautiful and now he was using it on me. “Pulling out all the stops, eh?” I pressed my palm against his chest. “Spill it, guapo. You can’t just sweet talk your way into–”
The corner of his mouth crept up wickedly and his hand moved to my hip. “Sweet talk my way into what?”
My skirt. My heart. My…
Dios mío. His chest felt amazing under my hand–all hard and muscled and– What was I mad about again?
He bent his head and brushed his lips against my neck, trailing them to my collarbone.
“Mmm.” The moan slipped out. Reality or not, his charm was second to none.
“Mmm-hmm,” he echoed.
I jumped when my cell phone belted out the chorus of La Bamba. Reality came flooding back into my brain. He’d left without so much as an adiós, that’s what I was mad about.
Grabbing the phone from my bag, I flipped it open. Holding it to my ear, I tried to ignore how close Jack was to me, how the miniscule amount of air between our bodies sizzled with heat. “H-hello?” My voice croaked and my eyes fluttered closed. I dropped my purse on the ground.
The line was dead. Thank God; a misdial. My grip on the phone became limp. The camera I still held by the strap dangled loosely from my other hand. I was putty.
The heat from Jack’s mouth radiated through my body. I gasped as his hands slid up my sides and his fingers spread wide on my ribcage. His lips sought out my mouth. I wanted him. Right here. Right now. I just hoped no one was lurking around a corner taking digital photos of us.
I was going to have to go to confession for this. Maybe twice. Those Benedictine Sisters would never have me now.
“You taste like heaven,” he said.
“Mmm–” I broke off when my phone rang again. My eyelids flew open.
“Hold that thought,” I said, and I flipped open the phone. “Hello?”
No one spoke. Chaos echoed on the other end of the line. I tried to make out a sound. Something identifiable. Jack’s mouth settled in against my neck again, but a cry that sounded like an injured animal, followed by a primal scream, assaulted my eardrums. My nerves crackled. “Who is this?” I demanded.
The connection cut out. I pushed the END button with my thumb then pressed another button to check the phone number. I froze.
Jack’s blue bedroom eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”
Panic lodged in my throat. “My parents. Somebody was crying and screaming.”
I hit redial, but the line beeped incessantly with a busy signal.
I snatched my purse from the ground and fumbled inside. “I have to go.” My hands shook and I couldn’t grab hold of anything. “Where the hell are my keys?!”
Jack grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward his car. “I’ll drive.”
There was no point arguing; I didn’t think I could maneuver a vehicle in a straight line with the panic that was seizing my insides. With runway model balance on my wedge heels, I jumped into Jack’s super cool Volvo.
He gunned it out of the parking lot and raced down ‘H’ street toward my parents’ midtown house.
To learn more about Lola Cruz Mysteries, go HERE.
I’m also smack in the middle of a KILLER blog tour. Follow along. There are lots and lots of chances to win books along the way!
Misa
Bad Mommy
/in Uncategorized/by Stiletto GangA friend, and one-time guest blogger, Tina Jordan, just turned me on to a great blog that is carried by the New York Times called “Motherlode.” There, author Lisa Belkin expounds on a variety of parenting topics, often employing guest bloggers herself. Thanks, Tina. Now I’m really not getting anything done. See, it’s one of those blogs that is alternately fascinating and informative. I don’t really feel like I’m wasting time, because often I learn something. And there are also those times where I’m screaming “AMEN!” at the computer, because here I thought I was alone.
Did I mention that I hold the title of “Meanest Mom Ever”? True that. I told the child who bestowed the honor upon me that I strive to be the best at everything I do, and that includes being the meanest. Ever.
I visited the site the other day, which you can access at www.nytimes.com/motherlode and read with interest about one of my favorite topics: snacking. Let me give you a little back story: years ago, when I quit my in-house job to stay home with child #1 while gestating child #2, I started frequenting the local playgrounds and parks, if only to counteract the incredible boredom that comes along with leaving a high-paying, exciting job that offers you the company of fascinating people (hindsight is 20-20 after all) to spend your day with a four-year-old who, previously, has been coddled and mentally stimulated (for a small fortune, of course) by a nanny with only one charge. After my one thousandth game of “Candy Land,” I decided it was time to branch out. After lunch one day, I went to a park within walking distance of our house dragging only me, my kid, and one single, solitary, warm juice box, in the event that said kid would get thirsty. I’m not so worried about hunger, but I do worry about thirst. We got to the park and the kid went off to play, while I sat amidst other moms who were surrounded by coolers full of perishable food, not to mention a cornucopia of dry goods like pretzels, Cheez-Its, Rice Krispie Treats, and a host of other carbohydrates. Child #1, upon gazing at this Bacchanalian spectacle of little kid food, immediately pronounced, “I’m hungry.”
“She couldn’t possibly be,” I protested to the women who had turned their collective suspicious and derisive gaze toward me, “She just ate two slices of pizza. And she only weighs thirty-six pounds.” It never even occurred to me to bring food to the playground. Weren’t we there to play?
But my protestations were in vain. I was “bad mommy.”
When I was a child, we ate three meals a day. We occasionally came in looking for other sorts of treats, but they weren’t to be had. Nobody was cutting up oranges for us to consume at halftime during our CYO basketball games. Dare I say I even went to school a few days without even having eaten breakfast? The horrors. Today’s mothers and fathers are constantly monitoring their children’s food intake, making sure they are sated and hydrated with such fervor one would think that food and drink is scarce.
I was in the post office a few weeks back waiting on an interminable line behind a very pregnant woman with a barely-two-year-old little boy. He made one peep and she started digging around in her very big rucksack for food, offering him oranges, pretzels, water, juice, milk, a half a sandwich, and crackers. Once he made his decision of oranges, she wiped his hands with hand sanitizer (did I mention that he was sitting on the floor in the United States Post Office?) and gave him his snack, which he promptly dropped on the floor, picked up, and shoved in his mouth. When he was done with the oranges, he drank the milk. Then, he started on the crackers. By the time he was done, I think I had gained three pounds just from watching.
Okay, maybe the kid was hungry. Maybe he had hadn’t eaten since the day before. Maybe the mom knew something about his blood sugar that I didn’t. But I can tell you that no child that I know has ever been that hungry that they needed to eat a small meal in the post office a half hour prior to the dinner hour. Where did parents get the idea that kids need to be fed constantly? It’s baffling to me.
Back at the playground, someone eventually gave child #1 a pretzel rod or some such treat and she went off to play, something that the children who had the four-course meal awaiting them at the park bench seemed not to do. They circled like vultures, eating everything their parents had packed up for them, instead of swinging on the swings and playing on the slide and running on the basketball court. Eventually, I succumbed to peer pressure and began bringing a half-eaten bag of whatever snack was in our house, if only to show that I wasn’t completely cruel and heartless mother who denied my child her god-given right to eat a six-foot Italian wedge in between games of hopscotch.
Please feel free to chime in with your own bad mommy stories, Stiletto faithful.
Maggie Barbieri