Here’s what critics are saying about

Gemma Halliday’s High Heels series:

"A saucy combination of romance and suspense that is simply irresistible."

- Chicago Tribune

"Stylish... nonstop action...guaranteed to keep chick lit and mystery fans happy!"

- Publishers’ Weekly, starred review

“Smart, funny and snappy…the perfect beach read!”

- Fresh Fiction

"A is a roller coaster ride full of fun and excitement!"

- Romance Reviews Today

"Gemma Halliday writes like a seasoned author leaving the reader hanging on to every word, every clue, every delicious scene of the book. It’s a fun and intriguing mystery full of laughs and suspense." - Once Upon A Romance

"Fresh and witty little number that will appeal if you like sparkling, good stories with a splash of mystery. Full marks go to Ms. Halliday on what promises to be a very successful debut to a fabulous career."

- Romance Junkies

OTHER BOOKS BY GEMMA HALLIDAY

Viva Las Vegas

High Heels Mysteries:

Spying in High Heels

Killer in High Heels

Undercover in High Heels

Alibi in High Heels

Mayhem in High Heels

Christmas in High Heels (short story)

Hollywood Headlines Mysteries:

Scandal Sheet

The Perfect Shot

Deadline (coming soon!)

SHORT STORIES & NOVELLAS

BY GEMMA HALLIDAY

So I Dated an Axe Murderer (novella)

Watching You (short story)

Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit (short story)

* * * * *

CHRISTMAS IN HIGH HEELS

by

GEMMA HALLIDAY

* * * * *

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2010 by Gemma Halliday

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

* * * * *

CHRISTMAS IN HIGH HEELS

* * * * *

“Maddie, what is that?” a deep voice asked behind me.

I looked up at the green sprig I was currently pinning to the ceiling of my boyfriend’s living room.

“Mistletoe.”

“Mistletoe?”

“Yeah, you know, you’re supposed to kiss under it.”

I felt a pair of large, warm hands at my waist as I strained forward on my stepladder. “I know what it’s for. I just don’t get why you’re risking life and limb to stick it to my ceiling. Whoa, careful,” he added, grabbing my hips as I teetered to the left.

“Use your imagination, big guy,” I responded, stepping down to face him.

“Hmmmm.” He looked up. We were standing directly underneath the green sprig. “Good point.”

He leaned in close, his warm breath hitting my lips just a second before his mouth did. He tasted like coffee and the rocky road ice cream we’d had for dessert. Yum. I kissed him back. Hard. With tongue.

“So,” he said when we finally came up for air. “What’s on the agenda tonight?”

I nipped at his lower lip. “Use your imagination, big guy,” I repeated with a grin.

Tonight was Christmas Eve. Our first together. Not that it was the first Christmas Eve that had passed since we’d started dating, but it was the first one we’d spent together. In fact, it was the first holiday of any kind that we’d really spent together.

Jack Ramirez was tall, dark, and handsome with a capital H-O-T. He was also a homicide detective with a captain who tended to call at all the wrong times. Like on my birthday when our opera tickets had gone to waste over a double homicide in the West Hills. And last Valentine’s Day when he’d made reservations at this romantic, little Italian bistro with drippy candles and everything. Then had to cancel when some stockbroker got hopped up on one too many triple lattes and shot his partner in their office downtown. And then there was Halloween. My best friend, Dana, had thrown this huge costume party, and Ramirez and I were supposed to go as two-person horse. An outfit that doesn’t work so well when the front half gets called to a triple homicide near the airport.

So, when Ramirez had sworn on his grandmother’s grave that his captain was not only not calling him in this Christmas but was also in Vancouver visiting his mother, I immediately made the agenda for our evening. Ramirez, me, and a nice romantic evening at home. Quiet. Alone.

Possibly even naked.

And from the look in Ramirez’s eyes, I’d say he was totally on board with that plan.

He leaned in close again, doing a sort of deep growl thing in the back of his throat, before his hands snaked up my sides, pulling me taut against a six-pack Budweiser would kill for.

I planted my lips squarely on his, nibbling again until we both started panting like Dobermans.

But just as his fingers began flirting with the button fly of my jeans, the “William Tell Overture” rang out from my purse.

Ramirez groaned.

“Hold that thought,” I told him, quickly locating the offending cell and hitting the on button.

“Hello?”

“Merry Christmas, Maddie,” my mom’s voice sang out from the other end.

“And Happy Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Ramadan, and Yule, too!” I heard Faux Dad (as I’d affectionately dubbed my stepfather) add in the background.

“Thanks, same to you guys, too.”

“We’re heading to your cousin Molly’s right now,” Mom said. “Are you there yet?”

“Uh, no.” I glanced across the room to where Ramirez was folding up the stepladder, while conspicuously standing just beneath my mistletoe. “We’re actually staying in tonight.”

There was a pause. Then Mom’s voice rose two octaves. “What do you mean staying in tonight? Don’t you know it’s Christmas Eve?!”

“Yes…” I hedged.

“A holiday.”

“Yes…”

“A day for spending with family.”

“Mom, I swear I will be at your house for turkey dinner tomorrow. But, Ramirez and I wanted to spend our first Christmas Eve together with just a nice, romantic, quiet evening at home.”

“I never promised to be quiet,” Ramirez teased, grabbing my butt as he walked past with the ladder.

I gave him a playful swat.

“All right,” Mom said with a long-suffering sigh that only those who have given birth can master. “Spend the evening at home. You can catch up with us at Midnight Mass with your grandmother.”

“Um, actually…”

“Don’t say it, Maddie,” Mom warned.

“Well, I kinda…”

“If you love me at all, don’t tell me you’re not going to Midnight Mass with your grandmother.”

I bit my lip. “Okay. I won’t say it.”

Expectant silence hung on the other end.

“Maddie, how could you!” Mom screeched.

I pulled the phone away from my ear.

“I’m sorry?” I said. Though it came out more as a question.

“Your grandmother is Irish Catholic. Your grandmother lives for the church. Christmas Eve is maybe the most important day in the church. I just know you would not make you own mother, who loved you through every scraped knee and over-pierced adolescent boyfriend, tell your grandmother that you’re not coming to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve because you’re having a quiet evening at home!”

I bit my lip again. Then said, “No, I wouldn’t.”

Mom let out a sigh.

Then I added. “Make Faux Dad do it.”

“Maddie…” she warned.

“Loveyou,MerryChristmas,you’rethebest,” I slurred together and quickly hung up the phone.

Then dropped it in my purse again as if it were a time bomb waiting to go off.

Yes, I know it was mean to leave Mom alone with Grandma. But I was pretty sure that I had years of dealing with my own mother’s eccentricities left, so it was only right to let her do her time with hers.

“Did she blow up?” Ramirez came up behind me, wrapping both arms around my middle.

“Like a hurricane on a trailer park.”

“She’ll get over it.”

“Maybe. Or maybe she’ll poison the cranberry sauce tomorrow night.”

“Still worth it,” he mumbled, his lips nuzzling against my neck. His hands slid down to frame my hips, his mouth nibbling just at my pulse.

I sighed. Yes. Yes, it was.

“Hey,” I said. “I got you a present. Wanna open it?”

“Now?” His hands moved upward, cupping my bra, as his lips gave way to teeth, doing tiny little nips along my throat.

I giggled. “Yes, now. Trust me, you’re going to like it.”

I wriggled away, grabbing a bright green package from beneath our little Christmas tree in the corner. And, I was pleased to notice as I settled onto the sofa with it, Ramirez had a box of his own in his hands.

“Is that for me?” I asked, looking at the red, candy-cane striped paper.

He nodded. “Uh huh. Here, you open first.”

I wasn’t a girl who had to be told twice.

I took the box and shook it. “What is it? Jewelry? Candy? Shoes?”

His eyes twinkled mischievously. “Open it.”

I tore into the paper with gusto, ripping the red wrapping off to reveal a plain white box beneath. I lifted the lid, pushing aside some very pretty pink tissue paper, and came out with…

“What is this?” I asked.

I held up a scrap (and I do mean scrap) of bright red fabric.

“Lingerie.” Ramirez grinned at me, obviously pleased with himself.

Me - I frowned, holding the red lace up to my torso. “A lace teddy?”

He nodded, the grin growing.

I dropped the fabric back into the box. “You got me lingerie for Christmas?”

His grin faltered. “Yeah…”

“That is a terrible present to give your girlfriend.”

“Why?”

“Because, it’s not for me, it’s for you!”

He gave me a blank look.

“You do realize that we girls don’t go prancing around the house in little lace teddies when we’re home all alone, right?”

Ramirez’s wicked grin returned. “You’d look pretty damned cute prancing around in that,” he said.

I gave him a playful swat on the arm. “You are so bad.”

“Yeah, but you love me that way,” he said, drawing me in for a warm, wet kiss.

He was right. I did kinda.

Especially when his hands slipped inside my shirt and began fumbling with the clasp on my bra. Despite the fact he’d given me such lame present, I was just about to help him out when the doorbell rang.

Ramirez groaned again.

And I thought a really dirty word.

“If that’s my mother…” I trailed off, leaving the threat hanging as I stalked to the door.

Only, I threw it open to find Dana, standing there. Or, more accurately, teetering there, in a pair of six inch heels that looked like they were bordering on stilts.

“Merry Christmas, Maddie!” She said, throwing both arms around me in a big hug. That turned into a stumble as she tripped on one heel.

“What are you wearing?” I asked.

“What?”

She looked down. The heels were red with little green holly leaves all over them. Which matched her green mini-skirt with little red holly leaves. Which matched her red leather bustier and green earrings shaped like, you guessed it, holly leaves.

“I’m in the holiday spirit,” Dana responded.

I took a step back. “It smells like you’ve been drinking some holiday spirits.”

She giggled, stepping into the living room and giving Ramirez a wave.

“You bet I have! Ricky and I just came from his after party.” Dana gestured behind her to a gorgeous guy in a velvet Santa hat at the wheel of a convertible parked at the curb. Ricky was Dana’s boyfriend, who currently made his living as an actor on a highly rated primetime soap. I waved. He waved back.

“What after party?” I asked.

“A Christmas Carol. Down at the Civic Center. Ricky played Bob Cratchet. He was so sexy.”

A sexy Bob Cratchet. Only in Hollywood.

“Anyway,” she went on, “we’re on our way to the big Sunset Studios bash. You guys want to come?”

I looked behind me to Ramirez. He’d shoved the gifts aside and was searching the sofa cushions for the TV remote.

“Actually… well, we were going to spend a quiet, romantic evening at home.”

“Oh, come on,” Dana said, flipping her strawberry blonde hair over one shoulder. “You can do that anytime. It’s Christmas Eve, Maddie. There are rockin’ parties happening all over Hollywood. You can not spend the evening at home.”

“But it’s our first Christmas Eve together.”

“Oh, ours too!” Dana said, clapping her hands with glee. “All the more reason to come out party hopping with us. I swear you’ll have a blast.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Ramirez had flipped the TV on to some football game. If I didn’t act now, I was afraid I’d lose him altogether to the pigskin gods.

“Thanks, but I think we’re going to decline this time. You two go have fun, though. And tell Ricky ‘happy first Christmas together,’ from me.”

Dana did a little pout. But, considering she had about a bazillion more bowls of eggnog punch to sample, she finally gave in. “Okay, fine. Well, enjoy your quiet evening at home. But don’t come running to me in the morning if you get coal in your party pooping stockings,” she called over her shoulder as she skipped out the door to join Ricky in his convertible.

I waved as they pulled away from the curb, then shut the door behind her.

“I thought she’d never give up,” Ramirez mumbled from the sofa.

“You and me both.”

I crossed the room, snuggling up next to him.

“Mmmm,” he growled in approval, one hand curling around my shoulders. “Where were we?”

I lowered my mouth slowly over his, sampling his lower lip. “Right about there.”

“You know,” he mumbled. “I didn’t open your gift yet.”

I froze. “Oh, well, it can wait. I mean, it’s not even really technically Christmas yet.”

He shook his head. “No fair. You opened one. I get one, too.”

“No, really, it can wait. I mean, it’s nothing really, it’s just…”

I trailed off as Ramirez grabbed the package, ripped off the green foil wrapping, and pulled a scrap of red fabric from the box. He stared at it, the corners of his mouth quirking north.

“What’s this?” he asked.

I did a deep sigh. “Lingerie.”

The grin broke out into a full bellied laugh.

“See, I told you it was more a gift for you!” I protested.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” he asked, that wicked twinkle back in his eye.

“What?”

He looped both arms around me, pulling me onto his lap. “Fashion show.”

I grinned. Well, I guess there were worse ways to spend an evening…

I leaned in to kiss him.

But never actually got to it as the doorbell rang. Again.

I was seriously contemplating disconnecting the thing.

“Don’t. Move,” I commanded, getting up.

Ramirez did a deep resigned sigh in the back of his throat, reaching again for the remote.

I jumped off the sofa and threw open the door…

Only to be immediately assaulted by the voices of no less than four men standing on the porch.

“…five Prada pumps! Four Gucci bags, three Hermes scarves, two Chanel wraps, and a Dior belt on a leather trench!”

I blinked, my eyes going from one man to the next until they landed on what was clearly their fearless leader. He was dressed in a matching orange scarf and knit hat set even though it was barely below 60 degrees out. (We don’t believe in weather here in L.A. any more than we believe in public transportation.). He held a songbook in one hand and a sprig of holly in the other, rocking onto the toes of his hot pink Converse. Topped with turquoise leg warmers. And hot pink tights.

Marco. The receptionist from Faux Dad’s hair salon.

I watched in awe, barely stifling my laughter, as the colorful quartet finished their West Hollywood version of the “Twelve Days of Christmas.” They finally ended with a drawn-out falsetto note, then Marco launched himself at me with air kisses.

“Merry Christmas, Mads!” he sang out.

“Same to you,” I returned. “All of you,” I said, nodding to his merry little band of fashionistas.

“Maddie, I’d like to introduce you to GAYMAS.”

“Gaymas?”

He nodded, his heavily lined eyes taking on a serious look. “The Glendale A Cappella Young Men’s Activity Squad. What do you think?”

I bit back a giggle. “Very clever.”

“Thanks. We’ve been practicing for months, right fellas?”

The men behind him all nodded.

“We only have one problem,” he went on. “We’re going caroling down Venice Beach tonight, but Aldo, our tenor, got the flu and we’re one short for our big ‘Deck the Halls with Diamond Tiaras’ finale.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, still struggling to keep a straight face.

“So, we were wondering, I mean, if he’s around, if maybe we could borrow your man for the evening?” Marco batted his enviably long eyelashes at me.

“Ramirez?” I choked the word out on a laugh.

Marco nodded. “Pretty please? Just for a couple of hours?”

“Um, I don’t know that he’s much of a singer.” I looked behind me. Ramirez once again had the TV on, the strains of some sports announcer filling the living room.

“Oh, all he really has to do is the fa-la-la-la-la parts. I’m sure he can manage those,” Marco pleaded.

“Well, we actually planned to spend the evening together just the two of us.” I said. Not to mention Ramirez was more of an NFL guy than a fa-la-la-la-la guy.

“Oh.” Poor Marco’s face looked so crestfallen I felt sorry for him despite how ridiculous his plan had been.

“Listen, Dana and Ricky were just here and they’re chock full of holiday spirit. Maybe Ricky would be your tenor?” I suggested.

Marco’s face brightened some. “You think? Okay, I’ll call Dana as soon as we get to Venice. Thanks, Mads. Merry Christmas,” he called as he led his merry troupe back down the drive.

As I shut the door, I swore I could hear the first bars of “I’m Dreaming of a White Tie Christmas”.

I was still grinning as I settled myself back on the sofa, curling into the crook of Ramirez’s arm.

“So… I believe we left off at fashion show,” I said, coyly running my finger down his chest.

“Uh huh.”

“You, me, Christmas lingerie, your big bed…” My hand trailed lower, flirting with his belt buckle.

“Uh huh.”

“I think that lacey one with the little ribbons might be a good place to start. Maybe you can help me put it on. Or better yet, take it off…” I trailed off, whispering my lips along his neck.

“Uh huh.”

I pulled back. His eyes were glued to the guys in little helmets running across the TV screen.

I put my hands on my hips. “Or maybe I could send you off caroling with Marco and the GAYMAS singers.”

“Uh huh. Sure, babe.”

I threw my hands up. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

Ramirez tore his gaze away from the TV and gave me a blank stare. “What?”

I opened my mouth to tell him I was disconnecting the cable through the rest of football season.

But didn’t get a chance as the doorbell rang.

Yes. Again.

I shut my jaw with a click, mumbling a, “Never mind” as I got up and threw open the front door.

Standing on the front step was my mother’s oldest and dearest friend, Mrs. Rosenblatt.

Mrs. Rosenblatt was a three-hundred pound, five time divorcee, Jewish psychic with Lucille Ball red hair and fluorescent-colored muumuus (currently dotted with pink poinsettias) who talked to the dead through her spirit guide, Albert. Eccentric didn’t even begin to describe Mrs. Rosenblatt.

“Fruitcake,” she said, pushing past me into the room.

I blinked. “What?” I asked, thinking she’d read my mind.

She shoved a round, metal tin at me. “I brought you and Ramirez a fruitcake.”

“Oh.” I took the tin (which weighed at least a ton and a half) and lifted the lid, peeking inside. A round cake dotted with bright red maraschino cherries stared back at me. “Thanks.” I think.

“No problem. Sally Slovesky and I baked a whole mess of them for the senior center, but only a few of them old folks ate any. Turns out they’re murder on dentures. Go figure.” Mrs. R shrugged her massive shoulders. “Anyhoo, your mom called and told me you weren’t going to Midnight Mass with your grandmother-”

I rolled my eyes. I was never going to live this one down.

“- and she said you deserved one of my fruitcakes for Christmas.”

That’s it, I was totally inspecting the cranberry sauce tomorrow before eating it.

“Great,” I said, trying hard to hide my sarcasm. “That’s very… nice of you.”

“So,” she said, sweeping a glance around the living room. “Where’s your menorah?”

“My what?”

“Your Hanukkah menorah? I don’t see it.”

“Oh, uh… I’m not sure we really have one.”

Mrs. Rosenblatt turned on me, her eyes wide above her pudgy cheeks. “What do you mean you don’t have a menorah? What are your neighbors gonna think?”

I looked to Ramirez for help, but he was either a) deeply engrossed in the game or b) pretending to be deeply engrossed in the game so he didn’t have to deal with Mrs. Rosenblatt.

“Uh, well, we’re not really Jewish, Mrs. Rosenblatt,” I said.

She waved me off, her underarms jiggling with the effort. “Nonsense. This is L.A. You live here longer than three years, you’re Jewish by default. I guess we’ll have to improvise. Where do you keep your candles?”

I blinked at her. “Uh…”

But she didn’t wait for an answer, charging into the kitchen and rummaging through the drawers until she came up with four tapered dining candles, two votives, a citron mosquito repellent candle, and a Glade scented oil light.

“This oughtta do it,” she said, huffing the entire group over to the front window. She arranged them in a line, then proceeded to light two of the tapered candles and plug in the Glade light. Immediately the room started to fill with Tropical Tryst air freshener.

Mrs. Rosenblatt cocked her head to the side. “Not strictly traditional, but I like it.”

“Great.” I wrinkled my nose. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, bubbee. Just don’t forget to light that mosquito candle tomorrow night, huh?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Now, as much as I’d like to stay and visit with you young folks, I’ve got other stops to make.” She headed for the door, her muumuu swishing around her ankles. “Happy Hanukah, kids.”

“Thanks for the fruitcake,” I said, quickly getting the door for her.

“You betcha. And you just let me know when you’re ready for a New Year’s aura cleansing. It pays to start the year off with a clean slate, karmicly speaking, you know,” she called, as I let the door click shut behind her.

Then locked it.

Then, just for good measure, turned out the porch light.

Praying we were done with visitors for the evening, I made my way back to the sofa.

Where I found Ramirez, slumped in front of the game. His eyes shut, his jaw slack, a soft snoring sound vibrating from his throat.

I felt a deep sigh seep through my limbs. Not exactly the romantic Christmas Eve I’d had planned.

Resigned, I grabbed an afghan from the armrest and covered his sleeping form with it. Then flipped off the TV and dropped a soft peck on his cheek.

“Merry Christmas, Jack,” I whispered. Then tip-toed off to bed.

* * *

Bright sunlight filtered through the curtains, invading my deep, dreamless sleep. I sighed and stretched, rolling over to find Ramirez beside me, still snoring slightly.

I grinned. I couldn’t help it. It was Christmas.

I quietly slipped out of the bed, throwing on a robe as I padded into the kitchen to make coffee. I contemplated the fruitcake for a moment, but, luckily, as the scent of French roast filled the kitchen, I came to my senses and dropped the tin in the trash instead. Never trust a food that’s been delivered as punishment. Instead, I took my “I Heart My Cop” mug over to the Christmas tree and flipped on our sparkly red and gold lights. Never mind that I was flirting with thirty, I suddenly felt like a little kid again as I watched the colored lights chase each other around the tree.

“Morning, beautiful.” Ramirez’s arms went around my waist, snatching me in a warm hug.

“Morning.”

“Sleep well?” he asked.

I nodded. “You?”

“Like a baby.” He leaned in close, nuzzling my neck. “Sorry I fell asleep on you last night.”

“Sorry my friends kept showing up.”

“Not really the evening alone you had planned, huh?”

I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.” And right then, as I leaned into his warmth, it didn’t. So, it hadn’t been the picture perfect romantic evening I’d envisioned. But, we had spent it together. That was what mattered.

Hopefully the first of many we’d spend the same way.

I sighed out loud at the pleasant thought.

“What’s that?” Ramirez asked.

I followed his gaze to a red envelope shoved under the tree.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t put it there.”

I bent down, retrieving it from the floor. On the outside was scrawled both Ramirez’s and my names.

“Should we open it?” I asked.

“It is Christmas,” he replied.

As I may have mentioned, where gifts are concerned, I don’t need to be told twice. I ripped the sucker open and slipped my hand inside… pulling out two airline tickets. To Hawaii. For an entire week’s stay.

I felt my breath catch in my throat.

“Whoa,” Ramirez said, voicing my sentiment. He grabbed the envelope, looking inside. “There’s a hotel voucher in here, too.”

“Who’s it from?”

Ramirez pulled a little slip of red paper out of the envelope, then smirked, the corner of his mouth tilting upward as he read it. “S. Claus. He says, ‘Enjoy your first Christmas alone together with a quiet, romantic vacation just for the two of you.’”

I took the paper, examining it even as I felt my lips curving into a matching smile. I flipped it over, wondering just which one of our visitors last night had slipped this little goodie under our tree.

“Well, what do you think?” Ramirez asked, his eyes twinkling.

“I guess we can’t very well disappoint Santa, now can we?” I replied coyly.

“That doesn’t sound wise,” he agreed.

“Tell you what, you pack and I’ll call Mom and tell her we won’t be making it for that turkey dinner after all.”

“Think she’ll be mad?”

I shrugged. “I’m sure by Easter she’ll have forgotten all about it.”

“Then it’s settled. We’re going to Hawaii.” He leaned in and planted a soft, warm kiss on my lips.

“Hey,” I mumbled. I reached toward the sofa and grabbed our ‘gifts’ from last night. “Don’t forget to pack these.”

His eyes went dark and liquid, his lips twitching into his trademarked wicked grin.

“Trust me, they were the first things on the list.”

* * * * *

About the author:

Gemma Halliday is the author of the High Heels Mysteries, as well as the Hollywood Headlines Mysteries series. Gemma’s books have received numerous awards, including a Golden Heart, a National Reader’s Choice award and three RITA nominations. She currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area where she is hard at work on several new projects, including a mystery series for teens debuting in 2011, and a new mystery series for adults, set to be published in 2012.

To learn more about Gemma, visit her online at www.GemmaHalliday.com

* * * * *

SNEAK PEEK

of the first book in the

High Heels Mysteries

by Gemma Halliday:

SPYING

IN

HIGH HEELS

* * * * *

Chapter One

I was late.

And I don’t mean the kind of late where I spent too much time doing my hair and was now stuck in traffic. I mean I was late late. The kind of late where the 99% effective warnings on the side of condom boxes flashed before my eyes as I white knuckled my way down the 405, silently screaming, why me? Why, oh why me? I’m a new millennium girl. I took copious notes in 6th grade Sex Ed. I carry just-in-case condoms in the zippered section of my purse. And, after that first singularly awkward experience in the back of Todd Hanson’s ‘82 Chevy after junior prom, I have been meticulously careful. Me. I was late. And I was not taking it well.

“Dana?” Silence. “Dana, I need to talk to you.” Silence. “I swear to God if you are screening me I am never speaking to you again.”

I switched my cell phone to the other hand as I changed lanes, narrowly avoiding a collision with a pick-up that had “wash me” carved in opaque dust, before continuing my desperate pleas into my best friend’s answering machine.

“Dana, please, please, please pick up? Please?” I paused. Nothing. “All right, I guess you really aren’t there. But please, please, please call me back as soon as you get this message. I mean pronto. This is a serious code red, 911 emergency. I need to talk to you now!” I punctuated this last word by laying on my horn as a bald guy in a convertible cut me off then had the audacity to give me the finger. Welcome to L.A.

I flipped my phone shut, breaking a French tipped nail in the process, and counted to ten, trying to remember some of that calming yoga breathing from the one class Dana had dragged me to last month. Unfortunately, at the time I’d had my full attention focused on not falling flat on my face during a downward facing dog, and I think I was beginning to hyperventilate.

I merged onto the 10 freeway, glancing down at the digital readout on my dashboard clock, and realized with a twist of irony that I was now not only late, but late. As in not on time to meet my boyfriend, Richard Howe, for lunch. He’d made one o’clock reservations at Giani’s and it was now twelve fifty-eight. I eased my suede ankle boot (which had maxed out my Macy’s card, but was so worth it!) down just a little harder on the accelerator, after checking the rearview mirror to make sure the highway patrol was nowhere in sight. Not that I was speeding. Much. But considering the day I’d had so far, an encounter with the CHP was not on my list of to-do’s.

As I checked for motorcycle cops, I also gave myself a quick once over in the mirror. Not bad considering I was having the freak out of my life. My ash blond hair was still tucked into a flattering half twist, a few flyaways but the messy look was in, right? I pulled out a tube of Raspberry Perfection lip-gloss and applied a thin swipe across my lips, ignoring the obscene gestures from the guy behind me. Hey, if a girl in a crisis doesn’t have her lipstick, what does she have?

I’m proud to say I only got flipped off two more times before pulling my little red Jeep (top up today as a concession to my hair) into the parking garage on the corner of 7th and Grand. I fastened The Club securely on my steering wheel and prepared to hoof it the two blocks to my boyfriend’s firm where I was supposed to meet him… I looked down at my watch… damn. Twelve minutes ago. Well, on the up side, as soon as I told him about being late, I had a feeling he’d forget all about my being late.

A conversation I was seriously dreading. In my mind it went something like this: Hi Richard, sorry I’m late, by the way I may be having your child. Insert cartoon sound of Richard hitting the door at roadrunner-like speeds. Ugh. There was just no good way to ease into information like that. We’d only been dating for a few months. We hadn’t even made it to the shopping at Bed, Bath and Beyond stage yet, and suddenly we had to have this conversation? I adjusted my bra strap as I walked, tucking it back under my tank top, trying like anything to present the appearance of a woman with it all together. And not a woman trying to remember which pregnancy test commercial touted early results with digital readouts.

Exactly fourteen minutes behind schedule I walked into the law offices of Dewy, Cheatum and Howe. In reality the firm was called Donaldson, Chesterton, and Howe. But I couldn’t resist the nickname. Considering the type of clientele they represented (the Chanel and Rolex crowd) it fit like an imported, calfskin glove.

Beyond the frosted front doors maroon carpeting yawned across the reception area, muffling the sound of my heels as I made my way to the front desk. The large oval of dark woods stretched along the back wall of the spacious room, flanked on either side by more frosted doors leading to the conference rooms and offices beyond. The faint clicking of keyboards and muffled conversations billed at three hundred dollars an hour filled the background.

“May I help you?” asked the Barbie doll behind the desk. Jasmine. Or as I liked to call her, Miss PP. As in plastic parts. Jasmine spent two thirds of her salary every month on cosmetic procedures. This week her lips were collagen swollen to Angelina Jolie standards. Last month it was new boobs, double D of course. As usual, her bleached blond hair was moussed within an inch of its life, giving her an extra two inches on her already annoying height of 5’6”. I’m what could be referred to as a petite person, topping out at an impressive 5’1 ½” on a good day. I was lucky if I made the height requirement on half the rides at Six Flags.

“I’m here to see Richard,” I informed Miss PP.

“Do you have an appointment with Mr. Howe?” Her blue eyes blinked (with difficulty due to the brow lift two months ago) in an innocent gesture that I knew was anything but. Jasmine’s sole entertainment here at Dewy, Cheatum and Howe was wielding the power of entry to the sacred offices beyond the frosted doors.

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Yes. As a matter of fact I do.”

“And you are?”

I tried not to roll my eyes. I’d met Richard here for lunch every Friday afternoon for the past five months. She knew who I was and by the tiny smile at the corner of her Angelina lips, she was enjoying this all too much.

“Maddie Springer. His girlfriend. I’m here for a lunch date.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Springer, but you’ll have to wait. He’s with someone in the conference room right now.”

“Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?” I mumbled as I sat in one of the tan, leather chairs punctuating the waiting area. Jasmine didn’t answer, smirking instead (which looked a lot like an Elvis lip curl in her new super-sized lips) as she opened what I’d guess was a game of solitaire on her computer and pretended to look busy. I picked up a copy of Cosmo from the end table and began flipping through the pages of drool worthy designer clothes I could never afford. Or fit into if I was actually pregnant. Oh God. What a depressing thought.

After what seemed like an eternity of listening to Jasmine’s acrylic nails click against her keyboard, Richard walked into the reception area. Despite the anxiety building in my stomach, I couldn’t help a little yummy sigh at the sight of him. Richard was six foot one and all lean muscle. He was a religious runner, doing 10k’s for all the charities in his spare time. Muscular dystrophy, autism, even the breast cancer run last April. When we first started dating he tried to get me to run with him once. Just once. My idea of a cardio workout was elbowing my way through Nordstrom during the half-yearly super sale. Running was something I didn’t do. Besides, I figured if the heels were high enough, walking the two blocks from my apartment to the corner Starbucks burned almost as many calories as running, right?

Today Richard’s blonde hair was perfectly gelled into place in a casual wave, a la early Robert Redford. He was wearing a dark gray suit, paired with a white shirt and tasteful paisley printed tie. He looked downright delish and I resisted the urge to throw myself into his arms, unloading all my worries onto the shoulder of his wool suit.

Another man exited the offices with him, the two of them deep in conversation. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but whatever it was had Richard’s sandy brows drawn together in a look of concern.

The other guy was dressed in Levis, worn with faded patches along the thighs and seat, and a navy blazer over a form fitting black T-shirt. His shoulders were broad and he had the sort of compact build that made you instantly think prizefighter. A white scar cut into his eyebrow, breaking up his tanned complexion. Dark hair, dark eyes and the sort of hard look about him that usually went along with prison tattoos. I hoped Richard wasn’t branching out into criminal defense.

I waited until they’d shook hands and the other guy had walked out of the lobby before approaching Richard.

“Hi honey,” I said, standing on tiptoe to place a kiss on his cheek.

“Hi.” He was still staring after the felon, his tone distracted as if I’d just interrupted him during football season.

“Who was that?”

“Nobody.”

The way Richard was still staring after Mr. Nobody led me to believe that wasn’t exactly true. However, I had bigger things to think about than Richard’s latest client. Like being late.

“You’re late.”

“Huh?” I whirled around, panic rising like bile in my throat. Good God, could he tell already? Insanely I looked down to my abdomen as if it might have grown six inches in the last thirty seconds.

“We had reservations for one.”

Oh. That late.

“Sorry, there was traffic on the 405. We’ll just go somewhere else. How about the Cabo Cantina?”

Richard was still staring at the closed glass doors where Mr. Nobody had exited. I wondered again who the man was. He didn’t look like Richard’s typical clients and he certainly didn’t give off that new car scent of another lawyer.

“I, uh, don’t think I’m going to make lunch today after all. Something’s kind of come up.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” Am I a totally bad person that I was actually a little relieved? At least we didn’t have to have that conversation now. At least now I had a little time to come up with a better way of dropping the bombshell than, “Richard, we’ve got to buy stronger condoms.” Hmm… I wondered if I could sue Trojan over this?

“Sorry, Maddie. I’ll call you later, I promise.”

“That’s okay. I understand. I’ll talk to you tonight then?”

“Sure. Tonight.” He gave me a quick peck on the cheek before disappearing back through the frosted doors and into the bowels of Dewy, Cheatum and Howe. Jasmine looked up just long enough to give me an Elvis smirk before going back to her solitaire game.

* * *

I walked the two blocks back to my Jeep and left another message on Dana’s answering machine. If she didn’t pick up soon I was going to have to start taking résumés for a new girlfriend. I started my Jeep with a roar that echoed in the parking structure and instead of getting back on the freeway, made my way up Grand to Beverly Boulevard. I hit a drive-thru Mc Donald’s and ordered a decadent Big Mac, large fries and a strawberry shake. This was not a day to be counting carbs.

I parked in the lot, enjoying my comfort food in the privacy and full blast air-conditioning of my Jeep. As I slurped the last of my shake, I wondered what to do now. I should go back to work, something I’d neglected ever since staring in horror at my calendar this morning. However, the thought of being creative right now didn’t seem quite realistic.

As a little girl I’d always dreamed of being a fashion model, parading down a Milan runway in the latest designer creations as the world ooh’ed and ahh’ed. But by the eighth grade it was abundantly clear I was not going to achieve fashion model height. So, I settled for the next best thing, being a fashion designer. After four years at the Academy of Art College in San Francisco, I was ready to make my mark on the fashion scene. Only I hadn’t counted on it being almost as hard to break into fashion as it was to break into modeling. After begging, pleading and promising to wash every fashion exec’s car in the greater Los Angeles area, I finally landed a job. Designing children’s shoes for Tot Trots. Okay, so it wasn’t Milan, but it paid the bills. Most of the time.

The perks were I set my own hours, I worked from home and I was happy to say that my work had been featured on the feet of fashionable tots everywhere, including the Barbie Jellies last spring and the SpongeBob slippers in the fall collection. Currently I was working on the Strawberry Shortcake high-tops – available in both iridescent pink and sparkling purple, thank you very much.

However, at the moment the idea of spending a day with tiny tot fashions didn’t hold enormous appeal. Kiddie shoes made me think of kids, which made me think of babies, which led to thoughts about condoms that for no good reason at all sometimes broke and led to women being in my current position.

I looked down at my dash clock. One forty-five. Dana was probably getting to the gym right about now for her step-and-sculpt class. In addition to being my best friend, Dana was an aerobics instructor at the Sunset Gym. That is, in between auditions and bit movie roles. Like 90% of Los Angelinos, Dana wanted to be an actress. Though she swore as long as she didn’t moonlight as a waitress, she could keep from becoming a cliché. I figured if I took the 101, I might be able to catch her between classes.

I set my shake down and put the car in gear, pulling up in front of the huge concrete and glass structure of the Sunset Gym in record time. I parked in the lot, declining the valet parking. Yes, in L.A. people actually avoided walking the two yards from the parking lot to the gym before doing their three-mile run. Go figure.

As I entered the gym, a tall guy with a buzz cut and Popeye arms stopped me at the front desk. He looked me up and down, taking in the two-inch boots, Ann Taylor skirt and lack of Nike bag slung over my shoulder. I wasn’t fooling him. We both knew I only used my membership for a swim in the pool on those hundred degree plus days.

After whipping out my ID card and satisfying the steroid gatekeeper, I entered the main floor, scanning past rows of exercycles for any sign of Dana. I spotted her at the front of a class by the windows, stepping and sculpting their little hearts out. I had a brief moment of guilt over my gazillion calorie lunch, but it didn’t last long. Certainly not long enough for me to actually suit up and jump on a stepper.

Instead I grabbed a dog-eared copy of Elle, settling onto a bench along the wall to wait. It didn’t take long for the gyrating steppers to finish, breaking into a self-congratulatory round of applause. The teacher of the step class came jogging toward me, her strawberry blonde ponytail swishing back and forth. A perfect size two, she looked like she’d just stepped off the pages of Sports Illustrated. And not the swimsuit edition, but the women-who-lift-and-the-men-who-love-them edition. I would hate her, except for the fact that Dana, a.k.a. aerobics queen, was my best friend.

“What’s up?” she asked, looking down at my high heeled boots with a frown.

“I just ate,” I said by way of defense.

Dana shot me a dubious look but let it go. Instead she began doing a little jogging in place thing as she talked. “So, I got your message. What’s the big emergency?”

“I, uh…” I looked over my shoulder as if I almost shouldn't be saying it out loud. “I’m late.”

“Okay, we’ll talk fast. What’s up?”

“No, no. Not late. Late.”

Dana cocked her head to one side, taking this in before the meaning hit her. “Oh my God. You mean you missed your period?”

“No. I didn’t miss anything yet. I’m just a little late.”

“No wonder you’re freaking out.”

“I’m not freaking out. I’m… just a little late.”

Dana shot me the yeah-right look she’d been using on me ever since we bonded over our love of New Kids On the Block in seventh grade. “Right. And that’s why you left four messages on my machine this morning.”

I cringed. Did I really leave four? “Okay fine. I’m freaking out. But just a little.”

“Did you take a test yet?” she asked, switching to a jumping jacks routine.

“Like a pregnancy test?”

“No, an algebra test. Geez, anyone would think you’ve never been late before.”

Truth was, I hadn’t. And that’s what was scaring me even more about my predicament. Ever since my monthly visitor began arriving, I’d been twenty-eight days like clockwork. Which is why I’d panicked and left a near stalker amount of messages on my best friend’s machine. Hey, wait a minute, if she got my messages, how come she didn’t call me back?

“Why didn’t you call me back?”

Dana got that wicked smile on her face that said she was either dating someone new or about to give someone twenty push-ups.

“I wasn’t exactly alone.”

“Do I want to know who?”

“Sasha Aleksandrov,” she said, switching to a little two-step footwork in place.

“Excuse me?”

Dana giggled. Yes, grown women with 1% body fat still giggle like middle schoolers with braces when it comes to men. “He’s a Russian body contortionist. Sasha’s the bottom of the human pyramid in the Cirqué Fantastique.”

I tried not to roll my eyes. Dana had an uncanny ability to pick guys who were destined for short-term relationships. “So where did you meet Mr. Pyramid Bottom?”

“Here. He came in with the Spanish trapeze artist to work out last week. I offered to show him how to use the Cybex machine. He doesn’t have them in Russia.”

“Of course not.”

“And, we hit it off. He asked if I wanted to see him perform.”

Considering the many meanings behind that statement, I’m betting Dana said yes. She never passed up an opportunity to see a muscular man “perform.”

“That’s it. I don’t want to hear any more,” I said, covering my ears. Dana giggled again.

“Okay, so how late are you?” she asked instead.

“Three days.”

“And you called me before noon for that? Honey, three days is nothing.”

“Dana, I’ve never been three days late before.”

“Lucky for you, I’ve got an emergency preggers test at home. I have one more class then we’ll go to my place and make a pitcher of margaritas while you pee on a stick. It’ll be fun, okay?”

“No. No margaritas, Dana. I can’t drink that stuff, I might be pregnant.”

At this, Dana actually abandoned her aerobics, standing perfectly still. She stared at me, her pert little mouth hanging open. “You’re not actually thinking of having a baby are you?”

Was I?

“No. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t know what I’ll do if I… if… you know.”

“We see a pink line?”

“Yeah.”

“Fine. No margaritas for now. But you are so peeing tonight.”

* * *

Luckily I convinced Dana that peeing on a stick was a solo mission and left her to her Kickboxing for Seniors class. I did stop by the drugstore and picked up a test, the most embarrassing purchase of my entire life including the first time I ever bought condoms and accidentally grabbed super ribbed for her pleasure. I also purchased a Big Gulp, so by the time I pulled into the driveway of my second-story studio in Santa Monica, I was ready to pee. Physically that was. Mentally, I was a wreck.

I locked my Jeep, climbed the wooden stairs to my apartment, and let myself in, dropping the drugstore package on the kitchen counter. Despite the fact I had to pee like a racehorse, I couldn’t quite get up the courage to take the pregnancy test into the bathroom with me. Somehow now that I was faced with an entire array of IF’s, that test had become scarier than a Wes Craven movie. I mean, what if it did turn pink? Did I really want a baby? I looked around my cozy (translation: dinky) studio apartment, filled to max capacity with a fold out-futon and my sketch table. Where the hell would I even put a baby?

I guessed I’d always assumed I’d have kids someday. But even though I was closing in on thirty (and I refuse to say just how closely) someday still seemed far, far into the future. When I was more settled, domestic. Married. Oh God, would Richard think I wanted him to marry me? Did I?

I think I was hyperventilating again.

I went to the bathroom, sans stick, then checked my answering machine. No messages. Namely, no Richard. I picked up the receiver and dialed his number, waiting as it rang on the other end. His machine kicked in and I left what I thought was a relatively breezy message, considering the circumstances.

I plopped myself down on the sofa and clicked on the TV, settling for Seinfeld reruns while I waited for Richard to return my call. By Letterman, I still hadn’t heard from him. Which was annoying and also a little worrisome. He had said he’d call me tonight. And it wasn’t like Richard to ignore my messages. I tried not to freak out, instead promising myself I’d take the pregnancy test just as soon as I heard from Richard.

A promise that would soon come back to haunt me.

SPYING IN HIGH HEELS

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Table of Contents

Chapter One