A story. It’s just about the story.
“Sure,” I said.
“I was breaking things off with Jamie Lee because I realized I didn’t love her.”
“Oh?” Why my voice cracked on that word, I had no idea. I cleared my throat loudly.
He nodded. “In fact…” He took another step. Closer. So close he could almost reach out and touch me. “I realized I’m in love with someone else.”
“Oh?” I squeaked out again. The throat clearing hadn’t helped at all. My voice was total Minnie Mouse.
Again he nodded. Slowly. Not taking his eyes off my face.
I bit my lip. Swallowed hard. “With anyone I know?” I asked.
I held my breath, waiting an excruciating two seconds before he nodded again.
“Yeah.”
“Who?” I heard myself asking. Though I was amazed I could speak at all, my body feeling totally paralyzed by his eyes.
He took another step toward me, standing so close now that I could feel the heat from his body warming me in places I couldn’t speak of in polite company.
My entire body waited as he slowly answered on a whisper…
“You.”
I felt myself exhale, my head floating above me, my entire being unsure if he’d really said the word or if I’d wanted him to so badly I was hallucinating.
“Me?” Minnie Mouse squeaked out again.
He smiled, his eyes assessing me.
It wasn’t his romantic comedy face, or his hot action hero face, or his tortured hero redeemed by just the right woman face. It was just his. Trace’s. The guy behind the actor. The real man. Staring down at me, his eyes sincere, his lips close to mine. So close I could taste the peppermint gum on his breath. So close, all it would take was the merest of movements before our lips were touching. All he’d have to do was lean down the slightest bit more and he’d be kissing me.
And that’s what he did.
I sighed, my whole body going slack as his warm lips fell on mine.
At the end of You’ve Got Email, the romantic lead, Trace, and the cute, plucky, we’re-all-rooting-for-you lead actress finally, after weeks of near misses, kiss. When I saw it in the theater, the entire audience did a simultaneous “Awwwwwww” and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.
This was better. By a mile.
It was soft, sweet, warm and demanding all at the same time. I totally melted, my knees buckling so that his arms sliding around my middle was the only thing holding me up.
I have no idea how long we stood like that, but his lips were red and raw when we both finally came up for air, panting, eyes glazed over, lust an almost tangible thing hanging in the air between us.
“Wow,” I whispered.
“Ditto,” he said.
“You do know this is totally ending up on the pages of the Informer right?” I teased.
He rolled his eyes. “Of course. Why do you think I’m into you? It’s purely for the publicity.” He gave me a wink.
I punched him in the arm
“Ouch,” he said, rubbing his bandaged bicep. Then he gave me that lopsided grin that melted hearts daily on the big screen. “So, what’s your big headline to go with this story?”
“’Big shot movie star sleeps with member of the paparazzi?’”
He raised one eyebrow. “Oh does he?”
I nodded. Slowly. Unable to help the grin from spreading across my face. “Oh, yeah, he does.” And I kissed him again.
* * *
“What the hell is this?”
Felix came bellowing toward me, waving a copy of ED in his hand as he approached.
“Um. What’s what?” I asked.
“This.” He shoved the paper on my desk, pointing to a picture on the third page. Trace Brody and his new girlfriend caught kissing on the patio of Nico’s yesterday at lunch.
I bit my lip.
“Ummm…”
“Is this the late lunch you took yesterday?”
I nodded.
“The one you told me was a working lunch?”
More nodding.
“That was charged to my expense account?”
“Well, I can’t expect Trace to pay every time.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Fine. But just explain to me why I have to see photos of my staff showing up in someone else’s paper?”
I shrugged. “Hey, it’s hard to outrun the paparazzi.”
He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up on end, looking even more slept in than usual.
“When did I lose control so badly?” he muttered.
“Sorry, boss. I’ll try harder to ditch Mike and Eddie next time.”
“Great. Fine. Dandy,” he said, spinning on heel. “And next time you’ll let Trace pay!”
I grinned. Then saluted him. “Aye, aye, chief.”
He grumbled to himself as he stalked off to his office, depositing the ED’s paper firmly in the trash bin on his way.
“Ouch. Boss isn’t in a good mood today, huh?” Tina appeared at my cubicle, her hair streaked a bright violet today.
I shrugged. I had a feeling after the photos I turned in tonight, he’d forgive me.
“So, up for Chinese tonight?” Tina asked. “I’m solo for dinner.”
I raised an eyebrow. “No Cal?”
“He’s working. Body guarding some visiting dignitary. I’m all yours for egg rolls.”
I shook my head. “You know I’d love to but I can’t. I already have plans.”
She leaned her chin into her elbow on the top of my cube wall. “Do tell. These plans involve any celebrities I might know?”
I grinned. “A barbeque at Trace’s. With J Lo and Marc Anthony.”
I could see Tina mentally drooling. “Seriously? Jesus, you’re going all movie star on me, Cam.”
“You’re just jealous.”
“Dammed straight I am! Just promise me one thing?”
I raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“When you invite me to the wedding, be sure to seat me next to Paris Hilton, okay? I’ve been dying to get the goods on her for years.”
I grinned. “You got it, girl.”
She straightened up and dusted lint off her checkered mini-skirt. “All right. Well, as much as I’d love to sit around and hear every little detail of Trace’s new love life…” She trailed off, raising an eyebrow my way.
I shook my head. “My lips are sealed. What happens in the bedroom, stays in the bedroom.”
Tina stuck her tongue out at me. “Figures. Well, I’ve gotta go. Allie’s trying to scoop me again with this Barker story.”
“Chester Barker?”
Chester Barker was a producer who was famous for his train-wreck reality shows. If there was any way to exploit the human condition, Chester had found it, done it, and televised it. So, it hadn’t come as a total surprise when he’d been found dead in his multi-million dollar mansion just a week after wrapping his latest assault on the American people – Stayin’ Alive, a survival show where sixteen strangers are dropped off in the middle of nowhere and have to outsmart, out strategize, and outlast the rest, not only surviving the elements, but also a dance off for a panel of celebrity judges each week at the jungle tribunal. It was trash TV at its worst. And the ratings had been through the roof.
“Yep. That Barker,” Tina confirmed. “Allie’s like a dog with a bone on this one. If I don’t dig up some fresh dirt soon, Felix is liable to give away my front page status.”
“Good luck!” I called after her.
I looked down at my clock. 4:35. I grabbed my Nikon and bag and was just about to shut off my computer when the elevator doors slid open and Trace walked out. To say every head in the place turned his way would not be an exaggeration.
He spotted me and waved.
I grinned so big I feared I’d crack my face.
“Hey,” he said, leaning down and depositing a quick kiss on my cheek. “Our guests are on their way. You ready, babe?”
I risked c
racking, my smile growing. I loved it when he called me babe.
I grabbed his hand.
“Am I ever.”
* * * * *
About the author:
Gemma Halliday is the author of the High Heels Mysteries, the Hollywood Headlines Mysteries, and the Deadly Cool series of young adult books. 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.
To learn more about Gemma, visit her online at http://www.gemmahalliday.com
Connect with Gemma on Facebook at:
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Gemma-Halliday/285144192552
* * * * *
OTHER BOOKS BY GEMMA HALLIDAY
High Heels Mysteries:
Spying in High Heels
Killer in High Heels
Undercover in High Heels
Alibi in High Heels
Mayhem in High Heels
Fearless in High Heels
Christmas in High Heels (short story)
Sweetheart in High Heels (short story)
Hollywood Headlines Mysteries:
Hollywood Scandals
Hollywood Secrets
Hollywood Confessions
Anna Smith-Nick Dade Thrillers:
Play Nice
Young Adult Books:
Deadly Cool
Social Suicide
Other Works:
Viva Las Vegas
Haunted (novella)
Watching You (short story)
Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit (short story)
* * * * *
SNEAK PEEK
of the next
Hollywood Headlines Mystery
by Gemma Halliday:
HOLLYWOOD CONFESSIONS
Chapter One
“Well, we were all very impressed with your body of work, Miss Quick.”
Was he talking about my tits?
I wasn’t sure, but I nodded at the man sitting across from me anyway. Balding, paunchy, non-descript gray suit. Your typical managing editor.
“Thank you, Mr. Callahan,” I said, keeping my voice as even as possible, despite the anxiety that had been building throughout our interview. He and I both knew that my portfolio contained a very small body of work. So small that I almost hadn’t even bothered submitting it when I heard that the L.A. Times was looking to fill a desk. I’d only been a working reporter for just under a year, not long compared to most veteran newshounds. Then again, it was the L.A. Times. I’d have to be a moron not to at least apply for the job. And, moron was one thing I was not.
“I’ve shown your clippings to my colleagues, and they all agreed that your assets would be a wonderful addition to the paper.” He glanced down at my chest.
Yeah, he was totally talking about my tits.
I shifted in my seat, adjusting my neckline. I knew I should have gone for a higher-cut blouse, but this one matched the pink pin-stripes in my skirt so perfectly.
“Wonderful,” I said, stopping myself from glancing at my watch just in time. I’d already been sitting in his office for over an hour – way longer than my lunch break allowed.
“After consulting with my assistant editor, we’ve decided we’d like to offer you a freelance opportunity here at the L.A. Times.”
“Really?” As much as I was trying to play it cool, my voice rose an octave, sounding instead of a professional business woman more like a kid who’d just been told she could have ice cream for dinner. “Ohmigod, that would be… wow. Really?”
He nodded, a grin spreading across his paunchy cheeks. “Really. Now, I know you were hoping for a staff position, but if this opportunity goes well, there’s a chance to transition from freelance to something more permanent.”
Freelance, staff, one-shot-deal, I didn’t care. It was the L.A. Times! The holy grail of any reporter’s career. And they wanted me! I had died and gone to heaven.
“That sounds great! Amazing. Wow, thanks.”
“Wonderful! We think you’ll be perfect to write a weekly women’s interest column.”
I felt my face freeze mid-goofy grin. “Women’s interest… you mean like relationship stuff?”
“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “Nothing so limiting.”
“Oh, good.”
“Not just relationships. We’d love for you to write about anything important to women. Lipstick, shoes, cleaning product reviews.”
I felt that ice cream for dinner melting into a soft, mushy puddle. “Cleaning product reviews?”
He nodded, his jowls wobbling with aftershocks. “And lipstick and shoes. You know, women’s subjects.”
I felt my eyes narrowing. “Mr. Callahan, I graduated at the top of my class from UCLA. Didn’t you read my resume? I’m an investigative journalist. I write stories, hard hitting news stories. Did you see the one I wrote about the misappropriation of campaign funds last fall?”
“I did.”
“And the Catholic Church scandal?”
“Sure.”
“And the way I busted that story about middle school drug dealers in the heights wide open?”
He nodded again. “Yes, they were all very good,” he said.
“But?”
“But, Miss Quick. We are a serious paper here.”
“And I’m a serious journalist!”
He looked down at my skirt, the tiny frown between his bushy eyebrows clearly not convinced that serious reporters wore pink.
“Mr. Callahan,” I tried again the desperation in my voice clear even to my ears, “I know I may not have the experience that many of your reporters do, but I am a hard worker, I love long hours, overtime, and I will do anything to get the story.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Quick. But my assistant and I have reviewed your file and we both agree that someone with your…” He paused. “…assets would best serve us writing a woman’s column.” His eyes flickered to my chest again, then looked away so fast I could tell his mandatory corporate sensitivity training had been a success.
But not so fast that I didn’t catch the double entendre.
I narrowed my eyes. “Thirty-four D.”
Mr. Callahen blinked. “Excuse me?”
“The pair of tits you’ve been staring at for the last hour? They’re a thirty-four D.”
“I… I…” Mr. Callahan stammered, his cheeks tingeing red.
“And if you like that number, I have a few more for you,” I said, gaining steam. “One-thirty-four: my I.Q. 2300: my SAT score. Four-point-O: my grade point average at UCLA. And finally,” I said, standing and hiking my purse onto my shoulder, “Zero: the chances that I will degrade not only myself but my entire gender by writing a column that supposes having ovaries somehow limits our level of intelligence to complexities of eye shadow and sponge mops.”
Mr. Callahan stared at me, blinking his eyes beneath his bush brows, his mouth stuck open, his jowls slack on his jaw.
But I didn’t give him a chance to respond, instead, I forced one foot in front of the other as I marched back through the busy newsroom that I would not be a part of, down the hallways of my dream paper, and out into the deceptively optimistic sunshine.
I made it all the way to my VW Bug before I let my indignation and anger morph into big, fat tears. Goddamnit, I was not just a pair of headlights and a short skirt! I had a brain, a pretty damned functional one, even if I did say so myself. I was a smart, diligent reporter.
But all anyone at any of the major newspapers that I’d interviewed with since graduation had seen was Allie Quick: 36, 26, 36.
Seriously, you’d think boobs wouldn’t be such a novelty in L.A.
I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand, sliding into my car and slamming my door shut, taking my aggression out on Daisy. (Yes, I named my car. But don’t worry, I had stopped myself just short of putting big daisy decals on the side doors. I just had one small daisy d
ecal on the trunk. A pink one. To match the silk pink Gerbera daisy stuck in my dash.) I immediately slipped my polyester skirt off and threw it in the backseat. Hey, it was California. It was summer. And my air conditioning had broken three paychecks ago. Don’t worry, I had a pair of bikini bottoms on underneath.
I pulled out of the parking lot and pointed my car toward the 101 freeway.
Twenty minutes later I exited, traveling through the Hollywood streets until I pulled up to the squat stuccoed building on Hollywood Boulevard stuck between two souvenir shops. At one time the building might have been white, but years of smog and rainless winters had turned it a dingy gray. The windows were covered in cheap vertical blinds, and the distinct odor of stale take-out emanated from the place.
I looked up at the slightly askew sign above the door. The L.A. Informer, my current place of employment. A tabloid. The lowest form of journalism in the known universe. I felt familiar shame curl in my belly at the fact that I actually worked here.
At least it was a step above sponge mops.
Maybe.
A very small one.
I pulled Daisy into a space near the back of the lot with a sigh, slipping my skirt back over my hips before trudging up the one flight of stairs to the offices.
The interior was buzzing as usual, dozens of reporters hammering out the latest celebrity gossip on their keyboards to the tune of ringing telephones and beeping IM’s. My cube was in the center of the room, just outside the door to my editor’s glass-walled office. Luckily at the moment his back was turned to me, a hand to his Bluetooth, shouting at someone on the other side just loud enough that I could hear the occasional muffled expletive.
I ducked my head down, slipping into my chair before he could notice just what a long lunch I’d taken. I quickly pulled up the story I’d been working on before I left that morning: Megan Fox’s boobs – real or fake.
Yeah, CNN we were not.
Hollywood Secrets Page 24