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Vows, Vendettas And A Little Black Dress
Kyra Davis
Overjoyed at Maryanne's engagement, amateur sleuth Sophie Katz can't wait for the wedding vows and party toasts to begin. But then Dena–best friend, bridesmaid and all-around vixen–is mysteriously shot just after the announcement.Leave this to the authorities? No way. Dena may never walk again, and Sophie vows to marry her fists with the shooter's face.Problem is, the number of suspects is off the charts–from jaded lovers to anti-free-lovers to just plain old haters. Dena's made plenty of enemies thanks to her popular sex shop–and, yes, she's no saint–but really, who deserves to be shot?With an überlogical almost boyfriend condemning her vigilante quest, and a wedding planner going vicariously bridezilla over the dream princess wedding, Sophie's barely thinking straight. But if she can keep her cool (and avoid all errant taffeta), she just might nab her man and save the (wedding) day.Big if.
Praise for the Sophie Katz novels of
KYRA DAVIS
Sex, Murder and a Double Latte
“Packs a bigger jolt than a Venti latte at Starbucks.”
—Cosmopolitan
“A terrific mystery. Kyra Davis comes up with the right mix of snappy and spine-tingling.”
—Detroit Free Press
“A thoroughly readable romp.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Blending elements of steamy romance and hard-boiled mystery, this delightfully witty amalgam of chick lit and amateur sleuth mystery (featuring lovable, caffeine-addicted protagonist Sophie Katz)…[is] one of the most impressive genre debuts to come along in years!”
—Barnes & Noble
Passion, Betrayal and Killer Highlights
An Ebony magazine Noted Book
“[A] high-octane hookup.”
—Cosmopolitan [a Red Hot Read]
“Lively writing, action-packed plot and keen character development.”
—Santa Cruz Sentinel
“The perfect summer read…Davis constructs some broad sweeping social commentary in this book…bundled up amongst—what else—murder, fashion and frappuccinos.”
—The GoodTimes
Obsession, Deceit and Really Dark Chocolate
“Wry sociopolitical commentary, the playful romantic negotiations between Anatoly and Sophie and plenty of Starbucks coffee keep this steamy series chugging along.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Pulls readers in at the beginning…[and] Davis’ inclusion of the crazy sexual fetish ‘furries’ is an interesting twist.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Just the right amount of snazzy dialogue and intriguing imagery, making the reader think they are right there looking over Sophie’s shoulder. Once you start reading this entertaining tale, you won’t want to stop until you find out the ‘whodunit’ and the ‘why did they’ of the murder.”
—Romance Reviews Today
Lust, Loathing and a Little Lip Gloss
“A fresh approach to sleuthing.”
—Library Journal
“Humor, romance and an appealing, spirited protagonist…an entertaining read.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A cast of quirky, wonderful characters, a well-crafted plot and a generous helping of snarky humor make this one a winner. Sophie’s sassy first-person narration is a bonus—she’s one of a kind.”
—RT Book Reviews
Vows, Vendettas & a Little Black Dress
Kyra Davis
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
I dedicate this book to my loyal readers. I am always amazed by the tremendous and consistent support that you express both in person at my book-signing events or through your Internet posts and e-mails. You are my motivation, and Sophie belongs every bit as much to you as she does to me. Thank you.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
Sunday, May 6th, 10:00 p.m.
Like most people I have two families. The family I was born into and the family of friends that I’ve chosen for myself. That’s normal. It also shouldn’t surprise you to learn that my family is sort of crazy because that’s exactly what everybody else says about their own family. I mean really, telling people that your family is on the wacky side is right up there with confessing to being moody right before your period. It’s so commonplace it’s barely worth mentioning.
So if your family’s like mine and you don’t want to spend your life surrounded by head cases there is only one clear course of action: choose sane friends.
I didn’t take that route. All my friends are completely mad. You wouldn’t be able to get them institutionalized or anything, but suggesting that they are in any way normal would be, well, hyperbolic. I don’t mind though. They’re my family of choice, and although they do occasionally make me crazy, I really do love them, eccentricities and all.
Jason Beck is the perfect example of this. Right now he’s standing across the room from me. I can see the fluorescent lights reflecting off the water trapped in his hair, evidence of the swim he hurriedly abandoned earlier in the evening. His goatee is pointing toward the ugly gray carpet like an arrow and his white skin is even paler than normal. I didn’t exactly choose Jason. He’s one of my friend Dena’s two boyfriends. (Yes, I know. We’ll get to that later.) That sort of makes Jason a stepbrother. A wannabe-anarchist/wannabe-vampire/wannabe-philosopher stepbrother. He never manages to achieve more than wannabe status because he isn’t brave enough to openly defy authority when doing so is risky, he has never found a way to make the transition from human being to bloodsucker despite his insistence that Anne Rice’s early novels are really nonfiction, and his musings are only philosophical if you’re drunk or stoned. Still, he is…interesting. One of these days the psychiatric community might be able to come up with a more succinct and scientific definition for whatever Jason is. But the reason he’s become part of my extended family is because he is by far the most endearing lunatic I have ever met in my life. It’s his good heart that has brought him into this room tonight.
Then there’s my hairstylist, Marcus. God, do I love me some Marcus. Of all my friends he’s probably the least crazy one. He’s intelligent, talented, funny as hell and drop-dead gorgeous. With his brilliantly white teeth, smooth mocha skin, perfectly groomed locks…I swear if he wasn’t gay I would have jumped him years ago. But he is gay. Years ago he jumped out of the closet and right onto the first float of San Francisco’s Pride Parade. So instead of sensual rubdowns I have to settle for marginally frisky conditioning treatments. Lately he’s been calling me J-Lodad because he thinks that (thanks to my Black and Eastern European-Jewish ancestry) I look like a cross between Soledad O’Brien and J-Lo. That’s one of the main reasons why I’m willing to settle for the platonic scalp massages: when I’m stressed or sad Marcus makes me laugh.
But not tonight. Tonight he’s facing away from me, a five-month-old People magazine in his hands, just one of the many outdated periodicals lying around the waiting room. He’s not reading it of course. He just needs something to hold on to while he waits for relief from his darkest fears…or the confirmation of them.
On the other hand Anatoly’s current focus is completely on me. Anatoly is…well, he’s my tall, dark Russian lover, my boyfriend, my nemesis, maybe even my soul mate. He lives with me and we are completely dedicated to one another…until we have one of our knock-down-drag-out fights. Then he storms out (or I kick him out) and at that moment we both know that it is totally and completely over.
Except it’s never totally and completely over because he’s Anatoly and I’m Sophie. We can’t stay apart because, to use his words, neither of us can claim ownership of the other and yet in some odd, paradoxical way I belong to him and he to me. You can’t stay away from something that belongs to you for any real length of time. Someone else might try to steal it.
But no one would dare try to steal him away tonight. Tonight he holds my hand firmly, his body’s leaning toward mine, letting the world know that he’s ready to catch me if I collapse into sobs, ready to hold me back if I lash out at the wrong person. He seems not to have noticed the hum of the fluorescent lights above although it’s exactly the kind of noise that usually annoys him. He hasn’t glanced at the television mounted in the corner that’s tuned to ESPN. Tonight his attentiveness and responsiveness can only be equaled by my need.
And to my left, sitting rigidly in what has to be the most worn chair in the hospital waiting room, is Mary Ann. Mary Ann is totally pretty, sweet, honest, loyal and totally, totally ditzy. She’s sort of an idiot savant. Her genius lies in her ability to make even the homeliest face look Vogue-worthy. She spent years being the favored cosmetician at the Neiman Marcus Lancôme counter and now she makes quite a good living free-lancing. So what if she thinks euthanasia is a creative way of referring to the young people in China? The woman can make the biggest zit disappear with the sweep of a powder brush. She’s like the David Copperfield of blemishes.
And now she has a ring that is as impressive as her talent. A heart-shaped ruby on a platinum band given to her by the man who currently has his arm draped over her stiff shoulders. If my relationship with Anatoly is tempestuous, Mary Ann’s romance with Monty checks in at a continual seventy-five degrees with a gentle breeze and only the lightest precipitation. I don’t often envy her because I do like stormy weather, but every once in a while I catch myself wondering if it might be better to live in a calmer emotional climate.
Of course she hasn’t been calm tonight. Only a few hours ago she was screaming.
Monty tried to soothe her but the only one who has the power to truly put her at ease is Dena. Dena is Mary Ann’s cousin and, as I mentioned earlier, my friend. My best friend. She’s a little Sicilian spitfire with a fierce intellect and a fondness for bondage wear. It would be hard to find a cute, available, straight guy in San Francisco who hasn’t worn Dena’s handcuffs at least once. Of course it’s hard to find a cute, available straight guy in San Francisco period, so perhaps that’s not saying much.
Dena understands me like no one else. She has fought for me in both the figurative and literal sense of the word. When I’m tempted to wallow in self-pity Dena’s always there to give me a swift kick in the ass. When I fly off the handle Dena helps me see logic…and that’s no easy feat. My feelings about logic are tepid at best. In turn I understand, and never judge, her proud promiscuity. I know her strength and I am deeply familiar with her fears. I know everything about Dena.
As of tonight I even know the color of her blood. It’s the exact same shade as the ruby on Mary Ann’s finger.
CHAPTER 1
I don’t want to look for a man. I want to shop for one. And if I can find one that comes with a lifetime warranty or at the very least an exchange policy I’ll buy him.
–Fatally Yours
Sunday, May 6th, 7:00 p.m.
“You’ll never believe what wonderful thing he’s done now!” Mary Ann exclaimed as she flung open the door of her San Francisco Lake Street apartment to greet Dena and me. Her deep brown eyes glittered with excitement.
Neither Dena nor I had to be told that he was Monty Sanchez, the very successful entrepreneur she had been dating for the past eleven months. He made robotic toys and stuffed animals that nobody needed but every gadget-collecting geek wanted. Like the lifelike seal pup that could recognize faces and dance the samba. That one was a huge hit.
Dena’s eyes slowly narrowed as they made their way down to Mary Ann’s hands. “What the hell? Why are you wearing long gloves?”
“Because tonight I feel like a princess!” Quickly she hustled us inside.
Dena and I exchanged glances. “She never drinks by herself…so she’s probably not drunk,” Dena mused.
“Maybe she’s sleepwalking?’” I suggested. “We shouldn’t wake her. You know what they say—sleepwalkers can get violent when awakened, especially if they’re already acting deranged.”
Mary Ann stuck her tongue out at us before breaking into a light laugh. “Come in, take your jackets off and I’ll tell you all about it.”
We followed Mary Ann into her living room, at which point Dena let out a yelp of alarm.
Sitting by the window was a giant orca. A plush orca to be precise, but, based on size alone, it could have given any living juvenile orca a run for its money. It gazed up at us with black oval pupils as if pleading for understanding.
“Don’t you get it? A day after I met Monty on the beach in San Diego he took me to Sea World for our first real date! He bought me a Shamu to show me how much that day meant to him! Isn’t it perfect?”
“Shamu?” Dena repeated, clearly baffled. “God, Mary Ann, he’s as big as my love seat!”
