Praise for the Sophie Katz novels of
KYRA DAVIS
SEX, MURDER AND A DOUBLE LATTE
“Part romantic comedy and part mystery, with witty dialogue and enjoyable characters…the perfect summer read.”
—The Oregonian
“A thoroughly readable romp.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A terrific mystery. Kyra Davis comes up with the right mix of snappy and spine-tingling, and throws in a hot Russian mystery man, too.”
—Detroit Free Press
PASSION, BETRAYAL AND KILLER HIGHLIGHTS
“A witty and engaging blend of chick lit, pop culture, and amateur-sleuth whodunit [that] will appeal not only to female readers but to any mystery fan who has an offbeat sense of humor…. Laugh-out-loud funny.”
—Barnes & Noble
“Davis spins a tale full of unexpected turns and fun humor.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
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
KYRA DAVIS
LUST, LOATHING AND A LITTLE LIP GLOSS
This book is for my son,
who has taught me more than I thought it was possible to learn.
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
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
PROLOGUE
I DIDN’T ALWAYS BELIEVE IN GHOSTS. MY SKEPTICISM WAS BASED ON MY religious and philosophical beliefs. I believe that there are only three things that we can count on to make this world bearable: good friends, a loving family (even when they’re as crazy as mine) and certain mood-altering substances, mainly caffeine and vodka. I also believe that God is good. So why would a good God force the souls of the dead to stick around in a world where they can no longer talk to their friends, be comforted by their families or drink espressotinis? That just doesn’t seem right.
But now I’m beginning to question myself. What if the souls of the dead don’t need to exchange words with those they love in order to be comforted? What if ghosts have access to better drugs, ones that don’t lead to insomnia or hangovers? And ghosts don’t have to deal with mortgage payments. Perhaps heaven is free quality housing.
Then again maybe good people get to move to a more celestial address and it’s only the bad people who become ghosts. Is it possible that it’s the souls of the evil that are forced to stay here, doomed to an eternity of loneliness?
If that’s true then I have a problem because I think the house I just bought might be haunted. That’s what I get for making a deal with the devil, aka my ex-husband, Scott Colvin. He’s the Realtor who sold me my beautiful San Francisco Victorian.
But whether this place is haunted or not, I’m not leaving. I love my house. It has oak floors, crown moldings and, most importantly, two-car parking. This is my home now and I’m willing to fight to the death to keep it.
Unfortunately, I think it might come down to that.
1
There are men worth dying for and others who really just need to die.
—The Lighter Side of Death
WHEN OUR MARRIAGE ENDED TEN YEARS AGO, I FIGURED THAT WAS IT. I would never see Scott Colvin again. I certainly didn’t expect him to be at the open house for this Marina District $1.4-million fixer-upper. But there he was, standing right in the middle of the living room, making it impossible for me to concentrate on the water-stained ceiling or broken light fixture. His body was angled away, so I could only make out a partial profile, but I had no doubt about his identity; that was Scott and the very sight of him brought on a slew of conflicting emotions. One of them was hope. Hope that someone had secretly dropped acid in my Frappuccino and that the thing that looked like Scott was nothing more than a messed-up hallucination.
I had taken hallucinogenics once before, during my freshman year in college. Perhaps if I hadn’t allowed a magic mushroom to trample all over my brain cells I might have had the presence of mind not to get married at nineteen. Fortunately my brain cells were working again by my twenty-first birthday and I celebrated their recovery by getting a divorce.
But this moment didn’t have the feel of a hallucination. The Frappuccino in my hand tasted real. The hopelessly out-of-date faux-wood paneling looked real. The mildew on the windows smelled real. And Scott looked like a real real-estate agent trying to convince a real middle-aged Japanese couple that the house we were all here to see really wasn’t contaminated with asbestos. People on drugs see diamonds in the sky and riders on the storm; they don’t see real-estate agents and overpriced four-bedroom houses that need new flooring. That meant that what I was hearing, seeing and smelling was all horribly real.
But the
