High-Heeler Wonder

by Avery Flynn

  “I need to reclaim my life, get it back again. I’ve had enough of crazy stalkers, lousy men, and being afraid of what others will think about me.”

  Drea settled in on her other side, making a chicks-stick-together sandwich with Sylvie in the middle. “Are you sure about Tony—”

  Her heart lurched. “Please don’t remind me what an idiot I am when it comes to that man. I’m thinking of growing bangs to cover up the Assholes Wanted sign that must be tattooed on my forehead.”

  Drea elbowed her in the ribs. “No way, you have the wrong face shape for bangs. Plus, what would I do every dateless Saturday night if I couldn’t say, ‘At least I’m not a douche magnet like Sylvie’?”

  “Hey!” She laughed, despite the sting. “You’re the one who told me I needed to get laid.”

  “Next time I’ll tell you to load up on batteries, instead.”

  “Don’t worry, I already bought stock.” She covered her head with a pillow and groaned. “Tell me again why I can’t wear yoga pants to this thing?”

  “Because, sister dear, you need high-end armor.” Anya rolled off the bed and yanked her into a sitting position. “Come on, let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Drea jumped up. “Yes! Great idea.”

  Sylvie shuffled behind her sister and best friend to the large, walk-in closet like a woman on her way to the gallows. All the clothes hung neatly grouped by color. She went immediately to the dark section. Drea and Anya, of course, went to the other end.

  “We have a winner.” Anya held up a burgundy ball gown. The taffeta skirt, supported by several layers of navy tulle, fell to the floor. Illusion netting made up sixty percent of the bodice, its sheerness mitigated only by burgundy lace roses.

  No doubt, it was just the kind of big-impact dress the situation called for. But she didn’t have enough confidence in the reserve tank to pull it off.

  She shook her head firmly. “No way. People are going to be talking about me enough as it is. I was thinking something along the lines of this.” She plucked her go-to, floor-length little black dress from its hanger.

  “Gone With the Wind.” Anya held up the burgundy dress like a battle flag, shaking it so the taffeta crinkled.

  Drea nodded her head in agreement. “That’s the one.”

  “Anya. Drea…” Her pulse picked up and, despite her reservations, she straightened her shoulders.

  “You know we’re right. Remember the scene where Rhett Butler dresses Scarlett O’Hara in that racy red dress to teach her a lesson, but then she walks into that party, tilts her chin up, and dares someone to fuck with her? That is exactly what you need to do tonight.” Anya held out the ball gown. “Not to become a narcissistic husband stealer, of course, but you know what I mean.”

  Sylvie wobbled on the pointed fence post of a decision.

  “You won’t find better armor than this.” Anya smirked, shook the dress again, and drawled in a faux southern accent, “Come on, Miss Scarlett, it’s time to dress for the ball.”

  An hour later, Sylvie snapped her gold clutch closed in annoyance as the taxi pulled into the museum’s entrance. “I can’t believe I left my cell phone at home.”

  “There’s champagne here.” Drea’s tone was as dry as Dom Perignon. “Think of it as a blessing—you’ll be less likely to drunk dial him-whose-name-shall-not-be-spoken and curse out his lying ass.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  A valet opened the car door and she slid out, Drea and Anya following behind.

  “Jeff Ashford.”

  She cringed. “That was in college.” They all started giggling like they’d already been guzzling the bubbly on the way over. She hugged her friend. “God, I’m so glad you’re back from L.A.”

  “Fingers crossed, I’m never going back again.” Drea paused before crossing the threshold into the museum. “You ready for this?”

  Sylvie’s lungs pinched. Great. Having a stress-related asthma attack would just be the icing on the cake. Reflexively she patted her clutch until she felt the hard cylinder of her inhaler and then took in a deep breath. “Hell no, but let’s go anyway.”

  The jewel-bedecked glitterati of the fashion set filled the museum’s massive white marble foyer. The low rumble of chatter paused for a collective breath when Sylvie, Anya, and Drea walked in the room.

  “Gone With the Wind,” Anya murmured.

  Right. Sylvie straightened her shoulders, raised her chin, and gave the crowd her best Scarlett O’Hara smile.

  “There you are.” Ivy floated over in a teal, strapless, floor-length column dress with a slit from ankle to midthigh. “I’ve been stalking the front door hoping to catch you before the gossips descend. I can’t stop thinking about our conversation at the restaurant—especially after what happened with that awful Anders Bloom. I just—” She glanced up. Pippa Worthington was bearing down on them like a battleship. “Damn. Do you mind if we sneak off for a second so we can talk?”

  “Oh. Um, sure. We’d—”

  Ivy turned a cold, blue-eyed gaze on Drea and Anya. “In private?”

  Sylvie swallowed a groan and ignored the unease tickling her skin. Talking about Anders was the last thing she wanted, but she had a giant suspension bridge to repair with Ivy. If a five-minute conversation would help, then that’s what she would do.

  “We can slip into the architecture and design wing, where it’s quieter,” Ivy suggested.

  Sylvie glanced inquiringly at her friend and sister.

  “Go ahead,” Anya said, nodding toward the crowd. “We have tons of people to catch up with.”

  “If you see our dads, tell them I’ll be back soon.” Sylvie linked an arm through Ivy’s.

  The other woman smiled. “I promise I’ll be done with you in just a few minutes.”

  Tony’s right glove whammed into his sparing partner’s abs. He followed with an uppercut and hook combination. Raul was his third sparring partner of the day, and since the gym would close for the night in half an hour, Raul would have to be his last. Sweat drenched Tony’s shirt. His arms, heavy as fifty-pound punching bags, ached like hell. Every pivot sent shockwaves of agony up from his bad knee.

  And still it wasn’t enough to block out the reality of what he’d done. How he’d hurt Sylvie with his stupid actions and clumsy confession.

  He ground his teeth. After the hell he’d caught for most of his life over being an OCD-level planner in everything from work to making dinner, he’d blurted out the truth like some thirteen-year-old kid with diarrhea of the mouth. What a fucking moron.

  Raul’s gloved fist caught Tony in the jaw, snapping his head back.

  Everything went fuzzy, and a buzz sounded in his head. For one blessed moment, he couldn’t think. Then the ringing stopped and the guilt slammed back into him harder than Raul’s punch. He pushed it away with a trio of jabs that left his knuckles throbbing and Raul stumbling backward.

  “Break!” Paulie, the gym’s manager, leaned over the ropes. “Tony, you got a call.”

  He pushed the rubber mouth guard out far enough to speak. “Tell them I’m not here.”

  “It’s Cam.”

  No doubt wanting the Anders’s debrief. He’d shoved his cell phone—with the recording he’d made of Anders confessing—along with the USB drive he’d pocketed at his number two this morning and blasted out of the office.

  “I’m still not here.” He popped his mouth guard back in and raised his fists. In another twenty-five minutes he wouldn’t have a sparring partner to help beat the memory of Sylvie’s hurt and fury out of his head. He’d be left to do it himself with a bottle of Jack Daniels, saving the ice for a pack on his knee.

  “He says it’s an emergency.” The old man looked to the ceiling and clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth. “Something about a Sophie… Sherry…”

  Tony’s arms dropped. Praying he was wrong, he spun around to face the grizzled gym manager. “Sylvie?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Sylvie.”

  Ton
y vaulted over the ropes, yanking off the protective headgear and spitting out his mouth guard on the way to the phone at the check-in desk. Unable to pick it up with his gloved hands, he began tearing away at the laces with his teeth.

  “Hey, shit for brains, how about I hand it to you before you ruin those gloves?” Paulie lifted the cordless receiver, holding it out so Tony could capture it between his shoulder and ear.

  “Talk to me, Cam.” He yelled the words over the panic alarm screaming in his head.

  “That’s some weird shit on the USB drive you gave me.”

  Irritation surged through Tony. “You called me for weird shit?”

  “Just listen. It’s not a list of dates and names like the other stuff you found in Anders’s office. It’s poetry.”

  He scowled. “I don’t have time to hear some psycho’s rhymes.” The clock was ticking closer to the gym’s closing time, and he had more damage to inflict on himself.

  “But this shit doesn’t sound like Anders. Here’s the first one: ‘Like the wild canids, I’ll tear you down. Expose your secrets to all the town. Leave you bloody, crying out in pain. My vengeance will pour down like the heaviest of rains.’”

  His toes itched inside his sweat-soaked boxing shoes. Canids? Where had he heard that before? The answer hovered just out of reach.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Cam’s voice disrupted Tony’s train of thought.

  “What? No.” The tension in his shoulders wound tighter.

  “Carlos never checked back in yesterday.”

  Tony’s scowl deepened. “He was supposed to be running that proxy search at Ivy’s apartment.” Suddenly, he remembered. That’s where he’d heard “canids.” When ’Los and Ivy were talking about Magic Battledome.

  “Which is exactly where we found him an hour ago—drugged and out cold on the floor. I don’t know what the doc shot him full of in the ER, but it had an immediate effect. It was enough to make a bull stand up and tango. He’s raring to go.”

  “Where was Ivy when this went down?” Tony shoved both gloved hands at Paulie, who immediately went to work unlacing them.

  “According to ’Los, she’s gone. He thinks someone took her. Of course, he could be hallucinating from the meds.”

  All at once, the pieces slid neatly together in Tony’s mind.

  Ivy had started Killer Style Blogging with Drea and Sylvie. She knew the ins and outs of the system. She could have hacked in without a sweat. After being friends for years, she’d be familiar with Sylvie’s habits and haunts. Anders had been her dealer, so she’d have access to his secret office. She must have dropped the USB and planted Sylvie’s laptop there after she’d gotten what she needed from it. She’d told ’Los that Magic Battledome helped her think one step ahead of her enemies.

  Damn it to hell!

  Tony had suspected her from the beginning, but hadn’t taken his own advice to always follow his gut. And now Sylvie was in danger.

  “No one took Ivy,” Tony told Cam. “She’s the damn stalker.” He slid his hands free of the wraps and sprinted to the locker room, phone still glued to his ear. “Please, Cam. Tell me you’re with Sylvie now.”

  “No one’s been able to get ahold of her. I’m on my way to her apartment.”

  “Get her dads on the phone. They’ll know where she is.” His sweaty gym clothes were off as soon as he hit the locker room. He kicked them aside and flung open his locker.

  “Already did that. They’re at some fancy shindig that she’s supposed to be at, too, but she’s not there. They can’t get ahold of her, either.”

  “Hang on,” he said. He jumped into the shower and blasted off the sweat for ten seconds and then picked up the phone again, shaking off the water. “Where’s she supposed to be?”

  Without taking the time to dry off, he tugged up his boxers and cargo pants, shoved his feet in his tennis shoes, and grabbed a clean T-shirt.

  “Harbor City Museum of Modern Art.”

  He ran out of the locker room. “I’ll take the museum. You take the apartment. I need everyone in on this.”

  “Already done. Figured you’d want the big guns.” Cam paused. “Don’t worry. We’ll find her.”

  “Damn straight.” If they didn’t, a day’s punishment at the gym wouldn’t even put a dent in Tony’s guilt-induced misery. He ended the call, tugged on his T-shirt at warp speed, and tossed the phone to Paulie on his way out the door. “Thanks, man.”

  The setting sun nearly blinded him as he hustled down the rickety outside steps from the second-floor gym to the parking lot. He gritted his teeth and hobbled to his car like an old man, battling to ignore his fatigued, aching muscles and the wrenching pain in his knee. He’d hurt like a sonofabitch tomorrow, but if he didn’t get to Sylvie now, she wouldn’t have a tomorrow—and he wouldn’t give a fuck about his.

  He’d deluded himself long enough. Sylvie wasn’t just another client. She was the dangerous woman who made him want to be more than just the sum of his mistakes. The woman he loved.

  She’d believed in him. Believed he could keep her safe. And, damn it, he would.

  Tonight and forever.

  Or he’d die trying.

  Tony swerved around a Lincoln Town Car and slid into a parking spot reserved for the museum’s employee of the month. Thank God for ’Los’s hacking skills. It had taken him about five seconds to get into Sylvie’s condo’s security system. The surveillance footage from the condo lobby had shown her getting into a limo with Anya and another woman half an hour ago. A call into the limo company revealed she had, indeed, gone to the museum. A few calls later, he’d confirmed that Ivy had hired a car to drive her to the same fund-raiser.

  The bitch’s shitty poetry said she wanted to expose Sylvie’s secrets to everyone. Well, she’d done that. Which only left leaving Sylvie bloody.

  That would not happen.

  Tony barely made it out of the car before a valet in a white jacket trotted over.

  “Sir, you can’t park there.” The twenty-something model type gave Tony’s damp outfit of khaki cargo pants and black T-shirt the once-over. “This is a private event.”

  Off in the distance a police cruiser wailed. His family had called in every favor anyone on the force owed them—and then some, judging by the conga line of cherry tops heading his way.

  But he wasn’t waiting for them to arrive. “There’s my invitation.”

  He pushed past the valet, popped open the car’s trunk, and yanked up the false bottom to reveal his weapons go-bag. The Kel-Tec P-32 went in his ankle holster and got strapped on. A semiautomatic with a seven-round magazine, it was the perfect backup. He buckled on a shoulder holster and tucked his Beretta 9 millimeter into it, then pulled on a Kevlar vest and finally a Windbreaker ready-packed with a lock pick and extra rounds. He tossed the bag back into the trunk and slammed it shut.

  The valet stared at him with round eyes.

  Tony flipped him the car keys and rushed to a wide staircase leading up to the museum doors. Breaks squealed behind him, followed by slamming doors. He whirled, his fingers curled around his still-holstered gun.

  Carlos and Ryder sprinted to his side. Both were outfitted in Maltese Security’s tactical uniforms, also with Kevlar. Dark shadows circled the tech guy’s eyes, but judging by his straight, aggressive stance, he wouldn’t have gone home even if Tony ordered it.

  “So what’s the plan, boss?” Carlos asked, tossing him a com device.

  “Beyond saving Sylvie?” Tony stuck the com in his ear, turned, and rushed up the steps two at a time, ignoring the sledgehammer pounding his knee into pulp. “Not a damn thing.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Just around the corner in every woman’s mind is a lovely dress, a wonderful suit, or entire costume which will make an enchanting new creature of her.”

  —Wilhela Cushman

  Low-level strip lights along the baseboards provided a shadowy illumination to the museum’s architecture and design displays, much like a flashl
ight held under someone’s face as they told a camp-side ghost story. A shiver snaked its way up Sylvie’s spine.

  “Why don’t we talk here?” Her taffeta skirt rustled as she sat down on the bench near a collection of handblown glass.

  Ivy remained standing. Something in the tilt of her head and tension in her jaw made Sylvie’s unease bloom into anxiety. She glanced back at the foyer packed with elegantly dressed guests, and the urge to return to the safety of the crowd turned her palms clammy.

  “Say, how about we go grab a drink first?” She stood and took a few steps back.

  Ivy shook her head. “There’s a new installation I really want to show you. It’s pretty amazing and just a little bit farther in.” She laced her fingers together and brought her joined hands to her lips as if in prayer, gripping them so tightly her pale knuckles turned white. Crisscrossing red marks covered her hands. “Please.”

  Something predatory glimmered in Ivy’s eyes. Sylvie’s anxiety grew as she realized the marks were nearly healed scratches, the kind of damage a cat might have inflicted. But Ivy was allergic to cats. She’d always said if she was going to get a pet it would be a rat. Oh, God. Sylvie’s heart skipped a beat as the image of the dead rat the troll had sent her flashed in her mind. What if Tony had been right about Ivy? Anders had never confessed to being the stalker, but he had admitted to everything else. Why leave out something as trivial as hacking a Web site?

  He wouldn’t.

  And Tony had said he sent only a few emails, early on, before the threats got serious.

  Which left…

  Ivy?

  But before Sylvie could take her suspicions to the cops, she had to get the other woman to talk. “Okay. Lead on, Macduff.”

  As they walked farther down the hall, Sylvie made sure to stay out of arm’s reach.

  “You know the quote is actually ‘Lay on, Macduff’? It’s been misquoted for nearly a hundred fifty years. Crazy, right? It’s from Macbeth’s speech when he’s ordering Macduff to launch a vigorous attack.” Ivy chuckled as she turned a corner. “How appropriate.”

  The tall redhead stopped suddenly and Sylvie had to pull up short so she wouldn’t ram into her.