New York Times bestselling author of It All Began in Monte Carlo From the Hollywood Hills to the streets of Barcelona, from lush vineyards and wineries to the most exclusive homes in Europe, let Elizabeth Adler take you on a journey with a story that will hold you spellbound.  Bibi Fortunata was the hottest ticket in town: singer, actress, and celebrity. Two years ago she was arrested on suspicion of murdering her lover and his new mistress, who was also Bibi’s best friend. Bibi was front-page news in a way her publicists had never dreamed of. But the police were never able to prove anything and she was set free, with the cloud of suspicion and murder still hanging over her. Bibi left for Barcelona where she quite simply disappeared. But when Bibi’s daughter comes to private investigators Mac Reilly and Sunny Alvarez for help, they can’t resist the temptation to solve this mystery once and for all. Who really killed Bibi’s lover? Who would want to frame Bibi? And who is beckoning them from Barcelona? Filled with Adler’s trademark lush descriptions, twisty plots, and decadent luxury, From Barcelona, with Love will transport you. "Fun.... sexy...This summer smoothie goes down in one great gulp."-- Publishers Weekly  "In a few short pages, Adler uses beach chic, summer breezes, lots of champagne and the passionate gaze that drew her most famous couple together to create a climactic scene full of promise."--Bookreporter.com ELIZABETH ADLER is the internationally bestselling author of twenty-six novels. She lives in Palm Springs, California. Visit her at www.elizabethadler.net and on Facebook. Chapter 1   Malibu Much later,  when Mac thought about it he realized the story had not begun in Barcelona, but at his own funky Malibu beach house, a pistachio-colored wooden shack built in the thirties by an adventurous would-be movie actor who’d never made it. It was rumored to have been lived in by sex goddess Marilyn Monroe, in her early Norma Jean days, and had ended up like a small green barnacle stuck on the end of a row of expensive houses owned by mega-moguls and billionaires, whose sea-view decks took up more space than Mac’s entire home. Anyhow, he happened to be sitting on his own, smaller deck, with his dog, the three-legged, one-eyed Pirate, whose underbite gave him a permanent smile and whose ragged gray-brown fur looked as though the moths had been at it. Mac had rescued him one dark rainy night driving over Malibu Canyon, stopping to scoop up what he thought was a dead mutt, only realizing when it opened its one uninjured eye and looked gratefully at him, that it was still alive. He took off his shirt, wrapped the dog in it, and drove straight to the emergency vet in Santa Monica, where they’d performed a miracle of surgery. The dog lived, and of course he had become Mac’s dog. He’d named him Pirate because of the eye patch the dog had worn, Long John Silver–style, until the eye socket healed, and Pirate was now his best buddy. Mac loved that dog and the dog loved him. “And never the twain shall part,” misquoted Sunny Alvarez, Mac’s fiancée. Well, she was his fiancée  again,  after the debacle in Monte Carlo the previous year. At least Mac hoped she was. But that was another story, and anyway, she was right about the dog. He remembered the evening the Barcelona saga began perfectly. He’d propped his feet on the deck rail and was watching waves crashing onto the sand, comfortable in shorts and a favorite old blue T-shirt, dark hair still wet from the shower and combed hastily back, eyes narrowed against the flame of the setting sun, with not a thought in his head other than that Sunny, his girlfriend—his lover—his on-again fiancée—was busy in the kitchen. She had gone to fix “something to nibble on,” while they drank what she called “the good stuff,” which meant the bottle of expensive champagne she’d bought to celebrate their reunion. They had been apart too much these last few months but were now as passionate about each other as ever, though Sunny still maintained it was Mac’s PI work—and his inability to ignore a ringing phone that they both knew usually meant “trouble”—that had caused the rift. As well as Mac’s calling off the wedding, one more time, due to “work,” of course, and that’s when Sunny had run off to Monte Carlo. But Mac wasn’t about to bring that up now. They would simply drink their champagne and make a toast to “true love.” Mac had been sorting out other people’s lives for a lot of years now. He had a sixth sense for “trouble” and a double-six for bad guys, no matter how charming and plausible they might appear. In the past few years, as well as his PI “day job,” he had become TV’s super-detective, with his own show,  Mac Reilly’s Malibu Mysteries,  appearing on your screens Thursday nights in real-life docu-drama style, reinvestigating old Hollywood crimes, with Mac looking extra-cool in jeans and the black leather Dolce & Gabbana jacket Sunny had bought him and that ha