by Lotta Smith
As I stood in front of the East German-style building, I felt so depressed, I almost started sobbing.
Look at the bright side, Mandy… I tried to convince myself.
At least I was going to have a job, and their offer wasn’t bad. I would be able to make monthly payments on my student loan and make a decent living. Maybe I could even move out of my parents’ townhouse in a year or so.
Actually, I wasn’t eager to take this job when I received the offer, but Mom and Dad insisted I should. They were not very keen on spending the rest of their lives paying off my student loan.
“Miss, you’ve been standing here for a long time.” Frowning, the guy in a guard’s uniform gave me an accusing glare.
“Um… I’m sorry. I got a little bit distracted. I’m supposed to start working here today,” I said, but based on his deep frown, I was positive he didn’t believe me.
“Oh, I’m running late. I’ve got to go….” I attempted to walk away, but he grabbed my arm.
“What is the purpose of—?” the guard started interrogating me, but he didn’t get to finish his sentence.
“Good morning, Stanley,” a male voice boomed from behind us. It was a deep, smooth baritone—clear, calm, and confident. Without turning back to see him, I found myself picturing a tall guy with a certain level of sexiness. He continued, “For your information, you don’t want to mess with her. Guess what? So far, she’s killed three men just by touching them. In addition, it’s her first day working as my assistant. If you convince her to leave without even starting the job, Hernandez will be so pissed.”
I had a remote knowledge that the head of the FBI’s New York Office was named Hernandez.
“Mr. Rowling!” The guard’s response sounded more like a surprise than an acknowledgement.
When he straightened himself, he was no longer grabbing my arm, too busy saluting Mr. Rowling.
“I am awfully sorry for my rude behavior. I didn’t know she was your new assistant.”
Then, turning to me, he apologized profusely. “I’m awfully sorry, ma’am.”
If eyes could speak, his were saying, ‘Why didn’t you mention you worked for him?’
“Okay, so we’re all cool,” said Mr. Rowling.
I turned back to thank and greet him, but words failed me.
He was tall, athletic, and had broad shoulders. He had flawless fair skin and dark hair styled in a conservatively messy ‘do. His mesmerizing green eyes looked almost blue, and his cheekbones were prominent. His nose and jaw were sculpted to perfection.
In a nutshell, he was drop-dead gorgeous.
But that wasn’t the only reason I was at a loss for words.
“You are the—” Clenching my teeth and fists, I searched for words.
Though I didn’t remember his name, I did recognize him, in an ‘I am so going to kill him if I ever lay my eyes on him again’ way.
“Yeah, I’m Rick Rowling.” He flashed his perfect set of pearly whites. Obviously, he didn’t read my mind. “Hi, Mandy. Nice meeting you again.” He extended his right hand toward me.
I took a deep breath. I had no fucking idea why this guy was so familiar with me to call me by the nickname I’d used since kindergarten. Before today, we had met only once for just a couple of hours, and during that short period of time, he killed my future as a doctor.
I took his hand, half wishing he’d drop dead on the spot.
After all, he was the one who convinced the Chapel Hill Police Department and my medical school that I’m the Grim Reaper.
Book 2: W is for Wicked: http://amzn.to/29s5SLj
Murder investigation is tricky—especially when the deceased threatens to kill you...
FREE on Kindle Unlimited!
Former medical student turned FBI special assistant Amanda Meyer isn’t thrilled about her new gig as a ghost whisperer, especially now that she has the spirit of a departed drag queen following her around.
But having a pal on the other side may just come in handy when a billionaire’s widow meets her untimely demise and Amanda and her oh so sexy boss, Rick Rowling, head of the Paranormal Cases Division, are called in to find the killer.
With nine scandalous suspects, nine questionable motives, one dead witness and one cryptic clue, the bureau’s dynamic duo should be able to solve this case by the numbers, but the victim’s restless soul wants revenge while the clock is ticking. What’s the girl nicknamed The Grim Reaper to do? M may be for Murder, but W is for Wicked.
Book 3: Wicked Little Secret: http://amzn.to/2du4JWy
Everyone has secrets--ghosts are no exception...
FREE on Kindle Unlimited!
Finding her body taken over by a ghost with unfinished business while entertaining a tempting (yet dangerous sounding) invitation from Rick Rowling--her boss--has Amanda Meyer, FBI special assistant and resident ghost whisperer for the Paranormal Cases Division, in a tailspin. Her drag-queen-guardian ghost is acting even stranger than usual, a murder victim holds a clue to finding a stolen sculpture, and a parade of well-meaning family members might just set another murder in motion.
What's the girl nicknamed Grim Reaper to do when a departed witness won't fess up, and she finds herself living with her crazy, arrogant, yet irresistibly sexy boss? Everyone's got secrets, but only the ghosts know whose will be revealed in this hilariously wicked romp in the Paranormal in Manhattan Mystery Series.
Excerpts:
“By the way, are there any rooms off-limits to me?”
“No. Why?” he said, frowning.
“Well, this place reminds me of Christian Grey’s penthouse, so I assumed maybe you have something you’d like to hide from me—such as a torture room.”
It was supposed to be a joke, but Rick sucked in air. “How did you know that? Actually, I’ve got seven of them in the upstairs. Each room has uniquely themed décor and equipment for you know what.”
“What?” My eyes widened. It was my turn to gasp for air. “Not just one but seven torture rooms?”
“Yup, so I can shift them every day of the week. I’m sure you’ll like them.” He winked and ran his finger across my lips. “Don’t tell anyone, it’s my dirty little secret that I have those rooms.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but words failed to come, so I nodded like a bobble-head.
“Good girl.” Glancing at his splinted and heavily bandaged right leg, he said casually, “The stairs are a bitch to climb up and down on crutches, so I’d appreciate it if you’d bring down the handcuffs and whips, along with a silk blindfold and hogtie. Oh, I’ve got a can of whipped cream in the fridge. We’ll have tons of fun.” He winked.
Book 4: Wicked of the Christmas Past: http://amzn.to/2heVZIQ
Deck the halls with wows of wicked!
FREE on Kindle Unlimited!
A romantic getaway to a posh spa with her devastatingly sexy boss seems like a Christmas miracle to FBI special assistant Amanda Meyer, but when you work for the bureau’s Paranormal Cases Division, disaster never takes a holiday.
Bestselling author Carina Christien is dead, her apparent suicide covered up for a year. There’s no shortage of suspects, but this is one case that won’t be wrapped up neatly. Confessions ring false, intrigue runs high, but even a bevy of disgruntled ghostwriters is no match for the girl they call the Ghost Whisperer. It’s mistletoe and murder for Christmas in this fast-paced, quirky, fourth installment of the Paranormal in Manhattan Mystery Series.
Book 5: Sweet Wicked of Mine: http://amzn.to/2nxMtAG
I could stay awake just to feel you creeping...
FREE on Kindle Unlimited!
Life is sweet for FBI Special Assistant Amanda Meyer. Her live-in boyfriend just happens to be her sexy boss, Rick Rowling, head of the Paranormal Cases Division, and cozy evenings at home are becoming a thing - but that just means a wicked new case is right around the corner.
When a little girl is kidnapped, the evidence points to world renowned psychic Aurora Westwood but something just
doesn’t add up. In exchange for her help finding the missing child, Aurora has a proposition for Mandy that could change everything.
Juggling life-changing proposals, grim reminders of her haunted past and a parade of restless spirits is just another day at the office for the girl they once called the Reaper in this madcap fifth book in the Manhattan Mystery Series.
Book 6: Wicked and Haunted: http://bit.ly/2pnWicked6
A blissful engagement, a haunted ring, throw in the mother-in-law from Hell...
FREE on Kindle Unlimited!
Wedding bells are about to ring for FBI Special Assistant Amanda Meyer and her sexy boss, Rick Rowling, but before they walk down the aisle, Mandy will have to solve a new case for the Paranormal Cases Division…and stop Rick’s estranged mother, Alice, from turning their ceremony into the wedding from hell.
While Mandy has no trouble talking to dead people, her very alive future mother-in-law is another story. As she tries to graciously dodge Alice’s nutty plans for the ceremony—including a live llama and a tattoo exchange—she dives full-throttle into the investigation of a haunted ring with a reputation for killing its owners.
Before Mandy can solve the case, however, Alice tries on the haunted ring and is possessed by its ghost. Can Mandy end the ring’s curse, save Rick’s mother, and keep her wedding from going to the llamas? Or will the cursed ring kill her before she can say, “I do”? Find out in this wickedly funny sixth adventure in the Paranormal in Manhattan Mystery Series!
Book 7: Wicked, Manor, and Murder: http://amzn.to/2s7KQvH
Wicked to the rescue!
FREE on Kindle Unlimited!
Soon-to-be-bride Amanda Meyer can’t wait to walk down the aisle with her fiancé Rick Rowling. Everything is falling into place for their long-awaited nuptials until Mandy’s BFF bridesmaid Fiona reveals that according to a cryptic message from her grandmother’s ghost, Fiona is soon-to-be-dead.
So before the happy couple can say I do, they’re off to Fiona’s family estate to find the murderer-to-be amid a bevy of paranormal ghost tour guests. Hidden affairs, family secrets and meddling spirits will keep the future Mr. and Mrs. Rowling tied in knots before they tie the knot in this seventh hair raising adventure in the Manhattan Mystery Series.
Book 8: Wickedly Ever After: Halloween Hijinks: http://amzn.to/2uoJsWi
Ghosts just want to have fun…
FREE on Kindle Unlimited!
As the new Mrs. Rowling, life is supposed to be easy for former FBI Special Assistant Amanda Meyer. Marriage to her drop dead gorgeous boss Rick is everything she dreamed of, unfortunately she can’t sleep, and she can’t even blame the ghost of his late stepmom Clara for popping up in the middle of the night with a tricky request.
Someone staged mechanic Fynn’s death to look like a suicide, and now his unhappy ghost is keeping Clara and her dead friends awake all night. Proving he was murdered will keep the newlyweds hopping, and the real trick will be staying alive in this hilarious eighth book in the Manhattan Mystery Series.
PI Assistant Extraordinaire Mysteries:
Book 1: Ghostly Murder: http://amzn.to/204aWJ4
A murder in a locked room…
A faceless ghost…
Throw in a cross-dressing detective-savant plus his assistant extraordinaire in this new mystery series!
A high profile murder calls for a high profile detective.
When the famous Sushi Czar is found dead in a room that’s locked from the inside, the evidence just doesn’t add up. Of course a killer ghost (supernatural killer) is no match for the deductive skills of Michael Archangel. The fabulous cross-dressing former FBI agent can rock a set of sky high stilettos and assemble clues like puzzle pieces, but can he actually prove a ghost committed murder?
Only his assistant knows for sure. Former housewife and London socialite Kelly Kinki (it’s Kinki ending with an I not a Y) may someday be the Watson to Archangel’s Holmes, but for now, she’s following orders, coveting his fashion sense and learning from the master PI that there’s something truly fishy about this case.
CHAPTER 1
There’s a first time for everything.
I was walking in the forest all by myself. It was a sunny day in late March, but in the shadows of tall trees, it was dark, cold, and creepy. Also, having a group of crows—a.k.a. a murder of crows—squawking over my head did nothing to calm my nerves.
Don’t get me wrong. I was not an adventurer wannabe or a plant hunter wandering about some exotic forest in the middle of nowhere with a totally unpronounceable name, such as Tweebuffelsmeteenskootmorsdoodgeskietfontein in Africa. On the contrary, I was one of those so-called city workers. My job title was the personal assistant to a certain private investigator based in McLean, Virginia.
I was in Arlington, the ‘good’ suburb of Washington DC. Though there was a metro station in walking distance, this part of the town was very quiet, giving it the feel of a godforsaken land. I wasn’t exaggerating. Maybe the fact that a man’s dead body was found nearby had something to do with my perception. In addition, considering he was stabbed to death, this neighborhood might not be such a good area. Oh, did I mention there was some wacko serial rapist still running loose in the neighborhood? As a woman with no expertise in martial arts, I had a gazillion reasons to be spooked.
Walking in the forest wasn’t something I was doing by choice. Michael Archangel, my eccentric employer with a diva personality, made me do so. My mission was to look for either pantyhose, a ski mask, or big granny panties. Any of those items were supposed to help my employer with his most recent case, but I couldn’t figure out why or how. Anyway, I had never dreamed about going treasure-hunting for potentially used undergarments in the urban forest at the age of twenty-nine.
When I was a kid, I wanted to be an alchemist or a doctor. But the reality wasn’t rosy enough to realize either of my childhood dreams. First of all, there was no alchemist school. In addition, my test score wasn’t good enough for premed programs. So my mom and fifth—or was it sixth?—faux-dad sent me to a finishing school in Switzerland where I mastered the art of eating an orange using a knife and a fork. After that, I became a housewife in London, obtained a bachelor’s degree in art, and then I got a divorce. People in Europe, especially rich people in London, still called me ‘the bitch who used to be married to that swindler’ a.k.a. the man who had committed the largest investment scam in the history of Great Britain.
Here’s my point: Education is so overrated.
My name is Kelly Kinki. Yes, it’s my real name as written on my birth certificate. No, my surname is not a joke. And no, I’m not into kinky sex. Kinky or otherwise, it had been a while since I had sex.
As I thought about sex, I realized how much I hated walking through the creepy woods. I could think of much better things to do—such as tackling crossword puzzles or building a robot vacuum cleaner from scratch—but sometimes, you had to do what you had to do.
All of the sudden, one of the crows let out an especially menacing squawk as something started chirping and vibrating at the same time, startling me.
“Holy crap!”
A second later, I realized it was coming from my purse and reached for my phone.
“Hello? What can I do for you, Mr. Archangel?” I said to the person on the other end, who happened to be the one responsible for my current situation.
There was no response.
“Hello? Mr. Archangel?”
Still nothing.
From the other end, I could hear muffled voices. I recalled a bunch of retired gentlemen, who resided in the neighborhood, gathering at the crime scene. When I left there, they were busy gossiping. In my mind’s eyes, I could almost see and hear them cracking jokes and laughing their as—I mean, laughing their pants off. A moment later, I finally got a whispered response from Archangel.
“Password.”
“What? Password? What are you talking about?” I said, puzzled.
“You need to provide the password of
Michael Archangel Investigations.”
“Excuse me? I’ve got your name on my caller ID. And it’s my voice. You can recognize me from my voice, can’t you?”
“No. You sound different,” he said. “Actually, you sound pretty much annoyed.”
“Come on, so I’m pretty much annoyed right now, but still, it’s me. Besides that, you’re the one who’s calling my phone, so you should know—” I was tempted to go on with my rant, but I realized it was easier to just tell the password.
“All right! I’ll tell the password.” Then I stopped short. What was the password? I knitted my eyebrows. It was something about artists. Oh yeah—Matisse, Bonnard, and Rothko—that was it.
“Matisse, Bonnard,” I said my part and waited for him to say “Rothko” but—
“Okay, let’s get to the point.”
“Hey!” I protested. “You’re supposed to finish the password before getting to the point. I said ‘Matisse, Bonnard’ and you’re supposed to say ‘Rothko.’ Without your finishing, the password isn’t complete!”
“What are you babbling, Kelly? It’s me, Michael Archangel. You should be able to recognize me from my voice. Otherwise, you must be affected with an early-onset of Alzheimer’s.”
All right, he had a point. The password was pretty much worthless since I knew I was talking to Archangel. His voice was deep, husky, and somewhat seductive, per usual. In addition, I knew no one else as fuc—I mean, freaking annoying as him.
“So, what’s up, Mr. Archangel? Any progress?”
“Yeah. The cops found the item I was looking for. I knew it was somewhere in the ground. Anyway, you can come back to the tennis court.”
“What? So you sent me to this creepy forest fully knowing I wouldn’t be the one to find the granny panties?”
