The Dimple of Doom by Lucy Woodhull
This first installment of Lucy Woodhull’s new Samantha Lytton series is like Janet Evanovich meets Entrapment. It’s art heist hijinks plus steamy romance plus random fried chicken cravings. And it’s utterly un-put-downable.
Monty Python-quoting, hard-boiled-talking, Xanadu-T-shirt-wearing failed actress Samantha Lytton just wants to make out with the cute temp accountant at the Steak on a Stick company Christmas party. What she gets instead is a holiday full of running from men with guns–who want to KILL HER!!!–possible Stockholm syndrome, but who cares when sex with an art thief is the best she’s ever had, and a surprising series of double crosses that leaves her uncertain whether she should wring her criminal lover’s neck or put her life and reputation on the line to save his neck.
I adored Samantha from page one. Every thought in her brain is steeped in humor. She makes self-depreciation an art form. She seizes opportunity by the balls and twists until fate grudgingly gives her a break. She doesn’t have much, but she’s worked hard to build a modest life in LA. Then she meets Sam/Nate/FBI agent/art thief/liar extraordinaire, and her life comes crashing down around her ears. But he softens the blow with some amazing orgasms and a surprising amount of tenderness that may or may not be genuine. Samantha and Sam have to work together to free themselves from suspicion, dodge the police, outmaneuver a professional art-theft ring, and escape her boss at Steak on a Stick, who wants her dead for figuring out the code to his secret vault is “boobs.”
Dimple of Doom is written from Samantha’s point of view. She’s a little klutzy and a lot unlucky, but she’s no dummy. She’s a smart heroine who’s brave enough to look out for number one. Unfortunately, that’s not so easy when one’s heart gets tangled up in the mix. Samantha is one of the most comically endearing heroines to grace my Kindle since Stephanie Plum. In fact, I can’t think of another series I’ve read that fills the hole of hilarity that Stephanie Plum fills with her capers and humor and inability to avoid completely crazy situations.
If you love Janet Evanovich and like a hefty helping of romance with your hilarious capers, you will want to take Lucy Woodhull out for a spin. Buckle the seatbelt of your 1963 Austin Healy 3000 Mark II, floor it to the nearest square-dance expo, and prepare yourself for adventure, danger, adorable kittens and, of course, irresistible dimples.
Here are a few lines to rev your engine (note: British-English spelling is used for this title):
Cocking my head, I posed in an alluring manner that I hoped brought Marilyn Monroe to mind. I should say something. Something not stupid.
“I love balls.” Oh, damn. “And potatoes!” Did I just tell him I loved to eat balls? “I mean I love to eat food! In ball form. You know. Because it’s easy. To eat. Except when it rolls. Then it can be hard to catch.”
II Talking.–Kindle Locations 220-225.
II The whirring hum of the old refrigerator sounded like a Lionel Ritchie love song to me in my hyper-aroused state. Hello? Is it me you want to do on the floor?–Kindle Locations 275-276.
II The sneer left his face, replaced by a wary respect. He turned on his heel and cuffed himself around a slat in the headboard.
II I couldn’t believe that had worked.
II Never taking my eyes from his, I tucked the gun into the back of my pants the way I’d seen Angelina do. I stared at him. He stared at me.
II “Your plan doesn’t go any further than this, does it?” he asked.
II Of course it didn’t. “Shut up.”–Kindle Locations 1307-1312.
II He stood behind me and moulded my hands on the firearm.
II Sidebar—I think shooting would be much more popular with women if hot, naked guys did the instructing. Or hot, naked ladies for my lesbian cohorts. I am an equal-opportunity objectifier.–Kindle Locations 2080-2082.