After her celebrity ex-husband’s ironic joke about her “kinky sex habits” is misquoted in a tabloid, New York etiquette columnist Camilla Randall’s life unravels in bad late night jokes.
Nearly broke and down to her last Hermes scarf, she accepts an invitation to a Z-list Writers’ Conference in the wine-and-cowboy town of Santa Ynez, California, where, unfortunately, a cross-dressing dominatrix plies her trade by impersonating Camilla.
When a ghostwriter’s plot to blackmail celebrities with faked evidence leads to murder, Camilla must team up with the dominatrix to stop the killer.
Meanwhile, a wannabe writer who happens to be a hot L.A. cop just may steal her heart.
This book is the first in the Camilla Randall Mysteries series that has variously topped the charts in humour and romantic mystery on Amazon.
The subway car was so crowded I couldn’t tell which one of the sweaty men pressing against me was attached to the hand now creeping up my thigh.
I should have known better than to wear a dress on a day I had to take the subway, but in the middle of a New York heat wave, I couldn’t face another day in a pants suit.
I tried to lurch away from the large man in shirtsleeves who looked to be the most likely owner of the hand. One of his beefy paws clutched the pole just above me, but the other was invisible in the crush of bodies. Getting away from him meant I had to press closer to a besuited Wall Street type, who was engrossed in reading a newspaper over the shoulder of a woman in the seat nearest us.
I managed to move a few inches, but the hand continued its relentless journey northward.
Maybe it was the pimply kid in the Marilyn Manson tee shirt who had insinuated himself into the already overflowing car at Columbus Circle. He’d pressed in to join the three of us who had already staked claims on the center pole.
I jabbed the boy in the ribs with an elbow. He grunted an obscenity.
But the hand continued to creep.
The man in the suit turned away from his reading and whispered in my ear.
“Dr. Manners, I’ve been a bad, bad boy.”
My throat closed. The guy wasn’t just grabbing an anonymous feel. This was personal. He knew I wrote the Manners Doctor column. Did he imagine my good manners would keep me from protecting myself?
I reached behind me and slid my hand in between our pressed-together bodies. Grasping his wrist, I tried to pull his hand from between my legs. But he dug his fingers into my thigh and hung on.
| Language | Status |
|---|---|
|
Spanish
|
Already translated.
Translated by Irina Lifszyc
|
|
|
Author review: Excellent work as usual! Great communications! |
