Dolores ''Lola'' Cruz knew her love life was flat lining
thanks to her non-existent sex life with the incredibly
sexy Jack Callaghan. No matter how hard they try, their
timing is never right and the sexual chemistry is killing
them. But Lola never thought she would wind up dead from
lack of a little lovin'. Apparently she has.
Lola is shocked to find her family mourning her after
they hear on the news that she has died. When she shows up
at her parents' home, she realizes something fishy is going
on.
A single mother named Rosie Gonzales stole Lola's identity
and even had a driver's license in her name. Somehow Rosie
ended up dead in an alley with an ID that lead the police
to believe she was Lola.
Lola decides to take on the case to figure out how and why
Rosie stole her identity. Of course since it's her own
personal drama, she will not be paid by her job at Camacho
& Associates for investigating. Jack decides to pair up
with Lola to solve the case and plans on using the story
about identity theft as a column for his newspaper.
While working the case, Lola is asked by her grandfather to
find out if her cousin's wife is cheating on her husband.
An awkward situation but Lola will do what she has to do.
Everywhere Lola goes, Jack is there looking all sexy and
driving her insane.
Will Lola find out why this woman stole her identity? Will
Jack finally make Lola's teenage fantasies come true by
rocking her world?
HASTA LA VISTA, LOLA! is the second book in the Lola Cruz
mystery series featuring a Mexican private investigator
that is in love with her childhood crush Jack Callaghan, a
reporter who is all grown up now and drives Lola wild. I
enjoyed this well plotted mystery and it kept me guessing
until its exciting conclusion when all the side stories
were nicely put together in this puzzle.
I thoroughly adored reading a Misa Ramirez novel as they
are always truly entertaining, romantic, exciting and full
of witty charm and humor.
Lola is the kind of heroine you want to root for. She's a
black belt in karate and doesn't need a man to save her.
Lola is a strong woman, intelligent, brave and will not
settle for less than she deserves with anyone.
Lola Cruz is the epitome of how a heroine should react in
intense situations. Never will you see her throw her hands
up and scream like a girl for Jack to save her. Lola can
save herself in any situation and that is what makes her my
favorite character.
Overall, HASTA LA VISTA, LOLA! is a fantastic second
installment in the Lola Cruz mystery series. I look
forward to reading more books by the amazing Misa Ramirez
who also writes cozy mysteries under the name Melissa
Bourbon Ramirez.
When Lola comes home to her parents’ house to find a horde
of relatives mourning her death, no one is more surprised
than she is. The news had reported that one Lola Cruz, PI
was found murdered in an alley, causing great alarm in the
Cruz family. Before Lola can say “boo,” a cop comes to the
house. It turns out the dead woman had a driver’s license
with Lola’s information. Between avoiding an unsavory ex-
boyfriend, sorting out mixed signals from the very
interested but not yet committed Jack Callaghan, and
filling in as a waitress at her parents’ Mexican
restaurant, Lola tries to find out who the woman was and
why she stole her identity. Was the woman hiding from
someone who meant her harm, or is there someone out there
who wants Lola dead?
Excerpt
Chapter 1
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.
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