Here’s what critics are saying about
A High Heels Haunting:
"In Gemma Halliday's delightfully clever (A High Heels Haunting), office worker Kya buys a pair of killer stilettos worn by a supermodel and somehow ends up dating the woman's model boyfriend, Blake, who just might have murdered his ex… fresh, fun and fabulous."
- Chicago Tribune
"A nice love story with a suspenseful twist!"
- All About Romance
"(A High Heels Haunting) will entertain and delight!" - Romantic Times
Here’s what critics are saying about
Gemma Halliday’s books:
"A winner…fast-paced style, interesting characters and story meant for the keeper shelf. 4 1/2 stars!" - Romantic Times
" If you have not read these books, then you are really missing out on a fantastic experience, chock full of nail-biting adventure, plenty of hi-jinks, and hot, sizzling romance. Can it get any better than that?" - Romance Reviews Today
* * * * *
A HIGH HEELS HAUNTING
by
GEMMA HALLIDAY
* * * * *
ebook Edition
Copyright © 2008 by Gemma Halliday
Original title: These Books Were Made for Strutting:
"So I Dated an Axe Murderer"
http://www.gemmahalliday.com
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Gemma-Halliday/285144192552
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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.
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* * * * *
A HIGH HEELS HAUNTING
* * * * *
Chapter One
They were beautiful.
I stared down at the box in my hands, recently delivered via one UPS guy whose name I could never remember. My fingers had trembled as I’d opened it up. I never did things like this. Bought such extravagant, silly things for myself. But these – these I hadn’t been able to resist. The second I’d seen them on the website, I’d known I had to have them. They were Maddie Springer originals. And they were hot.
The site had featured a woman in a short, black cocktail dress, about fifteen vavavoom points higher than anything I’d dare to wear, standing in the middle of a crowded room. All eyes were on her, every woman wanting to be her, every man wanting to own her. But I could tell by the look in her eyes that no one owned her. Not a manager breathing down her neck from nine to five, not an ex-boyfriend who couldn’t tell her from a doormat, not a mother relentlessly pointing out a multitude of shortcomings. No, she was a woman unto herself, and she answered to no one.
On her arm was a man who made my mouth water. He personified the tall, dark and handsome look – square jaw, rich, chocolate colored eyes, broad shoulders beneath a blazer that was airbrushed onto a gym-made frame. He was like an orgasm on screen.
Yep, the woman in the ad had everything. Everything I never would. I just wasn’t destined for that kind of life. Me? I had a real person life. A cat. A cubicle. A hatchback that was nearing the hundred thousand mile mark and had certain parts held together with duct tape. But, for the most part, I was okay with that. My life wasn’t the worst, right? I mean, who really has a supermodel’s life anyway?
But as I stared at Maddie's sebsite, somehow it was like I was five years old again watching Disney’s version of Cinderella on TV and wishing I was the princess. Somehow, despite my thirty years experience telling me differently, I once again believed in fairy tales – that me, plain-Jane Kya Bader, web designer, Silicon Valley single, and Match.com subscriber, could be that woman.
Even after I got home from work, changed into my favorite pair of drawstring flannels with the little Corona bottles on them and a faded UCSC sweatshirt, ate my Lean Cuisine in front of a rerun of Seinfeld, and checked my email while Tabby the Cat tried to molest my laptop screen, I couldn’t stop thinking about the website. And somehow, the page popped up on my screen again. That woman. That man.
That life.
The site sold shoes. I know, not unique items. Hundreds of websites did. But, these were different. They were from Maddie Springer's High Heels Seduction line, and oh, baby, were they seductive. On Supermodel’s feet sat a pair of insanely high, red stilettos. Ankle straps embedded with tiny, sparkling rhinestones, toes pointy in a way real feet never were, heels ending in a dangerous silver tip. Totally impractical. Totally beautiful.
The caption beneath them read: Shoes that will change your life.
I knew it was utter crap. A pair of shoes is a pair of shoes. The only way those thing would change my life was if I broke my neck trying to walk in them.
Still…
The more I looked at them, the more I sat at my computer screen alone in my one bedroom apartment browsing Match’s online profiles of guys I’d never even have the nerve to email let alone meet in person, listening to canned laughter from the TV and still smelling the remains of my microwave dinner for one, the more I wanted to believe in the fairy tale. The more I envied her. The more I wanted to be like her. I wanted a life like that.
I wanted her life.
I don’t know what overcame me, but I found myself clicking the “add to cart” button, my fingers walking through the motions of buying the stilettos, size seven, express shipping, sent via UPS to my cube at OmniWeb the next day.
And looking at them now, they were every bit as beautiful as they’d promised to be.
I carefully unwrapped the layers of tissues covering the red shoes. Patent leather, so they shone even under the dull florescent lights that hovered above my desk. I ran one finger over the surface. A sort of tingle shot through me, and for a moment I almost believed they did posses some magical powers. They were certainly the polar opposite of anything that was me. I looked down at my jeans, brown loafers and black sweater. Did I even own anything red? I ran another finger down the length of the heel. God, how did anyone walk in these? How did she? I was pretty sure I’d stare at them for a day and send them back. I mean, they were ridiculous. Where would I even wear them? And with what? It wasn’t like I had a tall, dark and handsome model just dying to take me out to some expensive dinner on the town.
“Hey, Kya.”
My head snapped up, my hands immediately covering the shoe box as if to obliterate my dirty little secret. I bought fairy tales off the Internet. How pathetic was that?
“Yeah?”
My co-worker, Danielle, cocked her head of brown, corkscrew curls at me. “You okay?”
I bit my lip. A terrible habit that Ex-Boyfriend had nagged me about to no end. If I wanted to kiss raw hamburger, I’d go to Mc Donald’s.
“Ye
ah, fine.” I quickly shoved the box onto the floor, kicking it under my desk next to my humming pc tower. “What’s up?”
Danielle locked one finger in her thick hair and started twirling. “We’re having an all hands meeting. Peterman wants to ‘interface,’” she said, letting go of her hair long enough to do a pair of air quotes with her fingers, “about the new ‘team building strategies’ (more air quotes) laid out by the ‘interpersonal accessibility consultant.’” She finished by rolling her eyes. Big brown ones lined in heavy black make-up that never smudged, never ran, never looked like it was applied in a hurry while juggling a coffee and rush hour traffic.
“Yeah. K. I’ll be right there,” I responded.
“Good. ‘Cause we need all the solidarity we can get against management on this one. Whoa, who’s he?” Danielle pointed to my computer screen.
I’d forgotten I’d left Maddie's site open. Ms. Supermodel and her Orgasm-on-Sight boyfriend were still suspended there, his adoring eyes still firmly rooted on her. I felt myself go warm as if she could read my ridiculous thoughts about the man.
“No one.” I quickly closed the window.
“Damn, he was hawt! Can you make me a screensaver of that guy?”
“Sure, maybe,” I mumbled, ducking my head to cover my embarrassment.
“Cool. Hey, listen, I wanted to ask if you were busy tonight?”
“Why?” I narrowed my eyes at her. Danielle was fine as co-workers went, but she had an annoying habit of scheduling hot dates on nights when major projects were due. Leaving yours truly to pick up the slack. Which, of course, I always did. It’s not like I had anything else to do, my steady date being twelve inches tall and covered in orange fur.
“Maxie and I are trying out this new club in the City tonight. You know Maxine in accounting, right? Tall, redhead, total crackup.”
I nodded. I’d run into her once or twice in the break room.
“Anyway, I need to leave a little early, ‘cause I’ve got nothing to wear and need to hit the mall. So, I was hoping you could cover for me. Pretty please?” Danielle clasped her hands in front of her in a begging motion.
“Yeah, sure,” I agreed. As if either one of us thought I wouldn’t.
“Thanks, Kya!” She leaned in and gave my shoulders a little squeeze. “You’re the best. I heard this club is off the hook.”
I’m not sure why, but my eyes strayed down to the shoebox tucked at my feet. A nightclub. That was the place you wore a pair of heels like those. A hot new nightclub in the City. If I had someplace like that to go… I mean, not that I was thinking about keeping them.
But would it be terrible to wear them just once?
“Um, Danielle?”
“Yeah?”
“What if… I mean, I could still cover and all this afternoon… but, you know, it’s Friday night and… well…” My heart suddenly hammered in my chest, my cheeks growing hot, my palms sweating. Was I really going to do this? This was so far outside of my comfort zone. I felt my lips moving but almost couldn’t believe the words pouring out. “Maybe I could go with you?”
Danielle froze. Then cocked her curls to the side again, picking at that errant strand. “You?”
I should have been offended by the shocked tone in her voice, but, honestly, I couldn’t blame her. It wasn’t that Danielle hadn’t ever invited me out. She had. In fact, when I first started working here last year, she’d always included me in her Friday night plans. I’d just always declined. I don’t know why. Somehow an evening with Tabby always seemed… safer. I guess I just never saw myself as the partying-until-dawn type.
I stole a glance at the box by my feet.
But she was.
“Yes. Me.”
“Um, yeah, sure,” Danielle said. “Yeah, if you want to come, that would be great.” She perked up and almost looked like she meant it. “We’re meeting at my place at seven. You need directions?”
I nodded, too shocked by my own behavior to say anything.
Danielle plucked a bright pink Post-It from the pad on my desk and proceeded to write down her address.
I’d wear them just once, I promised myself. Then I’d return them.
Just once.
* * *
I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Wondering if, in fact, it was my reflection. Same ash blonde hair, a little too long to be stylish, a little too short to be sexy. Same stick straight frame, legs too long, arms too thin, chest way too flat. But that was where the Kya I knew ended.
I’d put the heels on as soon as I’d gotten home. And somehow, they’d spurred me to rummage through my closet until I’d hit the back, pulling out all the things I never wore. Because tonight I didn’t want to be me. I wanted to be her.
I found a black skirt that ended just below my knee. Plain, stretchy material, but it hugged my hips in a way that almost made curves. I found a white blouse with ruffles down the front that my mother had bought me for Christmas. I’d never worn it. Too frilly, too clingy, too… noticeable. I slipped it on and buttoned it up the front. Then undid the top two buttons. Then the third. My black bra showed through beneath, but for some reason, I didn’t mind.
Once I’d dressed, I dug out the only make-up I owned, a tube of black mascara left over from my cousin’s wedding, black eyeliner I’d used to draw a mustache on myself last Halloween when I’d gone to the office party as a pirate, and a tube of red lipstick I’d gotten free with a bottle of shampoo. Unfortunately I had no idea what to do with any of it. I did a quick Google search on applying make-up and came up with enough not to poke myself in the eye while applying the stuff. The effect wasn’t the totally polished look Danielle achieved each day, but it wasn’t bad. In fact, the red lipstick was pretty nice. It made my lips look more plump, full. Almost… sexy.
“What do you think, Tabby?”
My cat stared at me and meowed. No doubt asking where his Fancy Feast was. A whole lot of help he was.
I studied my reflection. The look was almost there. But it didn’t quite do the heels justice.
I leaned down and fingered the hem of my skirt. She wouldn’t wear something this long. Before I could stop myself, I felt my fingers taking hold of the hem, grabbing tight on either side of the seam, and ripping until a slit ran up the length of my thigh, ending a good six inches above my knee.
I should have been mortified. I should have been embarrassed beyond belief to go out in public in something this revealing.
Instead, for some reason, my reflection just smirked back at me.
* * *
Club Ecstasy in San Francisco was packed by the time we got there. Not that I knew a packed club from a non-packed one. I’d honestly never been out to a real nightclub before. I’d seen them. On TV. But never actually set foot in a real one. It was a lot warmer than I’d thought. Wall to wall bodies, all packed up against each other like refugees on CNN. All sweating, gyrating, moving en mass like some giant orgy. I admit, I wasn’t totally getting the appeal.
“Isn’t this place fab?” Maxine yelled over the sounds of the techno music pulsing through hidden speakers.
I nodded. Liar.
“Here we go, three cosmos,” Danielle shouted, returning from the bar with three wide-brimmed glasses of pink stuff. She handed one to Maxine, then the other to me.
“Oh, no, I don’t…” I paused. Maybe I didn’t drink. But she would. “Uh, thanks,” I said instead. I took the glass and sipped gingerly from the side. Then coughed. It was sweet yet like drinking liquid fire all at the same time. I forced myself to take another sip. This one went down a little smoother.
A very little.
“You okay, Kya?” Danielle asked.
“Yeah.” I covered my mouth with my hand, coughing again. “Dandy. Just fine.”
“Cool. Then let’s go dance!” Danielle yelled over her shoulder, not waiting for an answer before threading her way through the mob.
Maxine followed, bobbing her head in time to the eardrum-busting beat.
&nb
sp; I was left with no choice but to do the same, holding my glass above my head to keep from spilling on the strangers that kept rubbing up against me.
The club was separated into different levels – the main floor where the bar sat and a loft section up a pair of spiraling, chrome staircases. We were on the main floor where strobing lights and pink and green lasers cut through the air, overloading my senses. A DJ sat in the center of the room on an elevated platform, suspended just above the dancing crowd. Flanking him were four more elevated platforms where scantily clad women danced go-go style, moving their hips in a way I’d only seen on late night Showtime specials. I couldn’t help staring as I followed Maxine and Danielle.
“You guys do this every Friday?” I asked, in awe.
Only I got no response. I turned from the dancers. I’d been so engrossed in watching the go-go girls I’d totally lost my friends.
Oh. Shit.
“Danielle?” I called out. But my voice was lost in the sea of noise. I whipped my head around, suddenly feeling like a little kid lost at the mall.
Okay, stay calm. I was a grown woman. I was fine. I could handle this. I looked at the pink drink in my hand. Then downed half of the liquid courage in one horrifying sip.
“Hey, darling, you wanna dance?”
I lowered my glass to find a forty-ish guy with salt-and-pepper hair, wearing a black shirt and chinos, gyrating in front of me.
I bit my lip. And shook my head violently from side to side. Oh, bad idea. The cosmo shot straight to my brain, making the room sway.
“Come on, sugar, with legs like those, I’d bet you’re a natural.” The guy turned and did some sort of weird hand signal to the crowd behind him.
“No, actually, I’m just looking for my friends. They-”
5.25 A High Heels Haunting Page 1