Spying in High Heels (High Heels Mysteries #1)

by Gemma Halliday

  I wondered how Ramirez would look in a cop uniform.

  Duh, he'd look sexy! The man looked sexy in just about anything. I wondered how he'd look in nothing…

  Ugh! What was I thinking? I instantly felt guilty. I was possibly carrying Richard's child and here I was not only ogling half naked men, but fantasizing about Ramirez's package.

  But I realized as I took another long sip of my Virgin Mary that it was Richard's fault really. If he hadn't up and left, I never would have gone looking for him, then I never would have met Ramirez and I wouldn't be here comparing the size of his ding-dong with Officer Dan's. See, it was all Richard's fault.

  In fact, I realized, all the problems in my life lately were because of him. He'd gotten me into this whole mess, and what's more, he didn't even have the decency to tell me where he was. Even Greenway told his mistress where he was.

  And what kind of scum marries Cinderella anyway? What, does he think he's some kind of Prince Charming? Ha! I mentally snorted. More like Prince Anal. He folded his socks for crying out loud. What kind of a man does that?

  I bet Ramirez didn't fold his socks. I bet he just threw his socks in with his underwear in one big mess. Socks mixed with with…briefs? Boxers? I wondered what kind of underwear Ramirez wore. I pictured him as a briefs guy. Not those Hanes things from Kmart, but the really sexy Calvin ones. Maybe in gray or slate blue. Slate blue would be a good color on him.

  Officer Dan ripped off his break-away pants, revealing a black G-string that read L.A.P.D.

  "Woo hoo," I yelled, waving my drink in the air. A little splashed on my wrist, but I didn't care. In fact, I realized, I was feeling pretty good. Better than I had in days. "Show me your gun, officer hottie!"

  "You tell 'em, Maddie," Mrs. Rosenblatt commanded, slightly slurring her words. Then leaned in and added, "I think I'm getting just a teeny bit tipsy."

  I froze. Glass halfway to my lips. Tipsy? What did she mean, tipsy? My gaze whipped from her empty Virgin Mary glass to my own. Sure, I was feeling a little happy, but that was because of the naked men, right?

  I grabbed Mrs. Rosenblatt by the arm. "What's in a Virgin Mary?"

  "Tomato juice, lime, cayenne."

  I heaved a sigh of relief.

  "And vodka. Lots of vodka."

  I froze. "Vodka? But you said it was virgin!"

  Mrs. Rosenblatt laughed. "Bubbee, they call it a Virgin Mary, cause you drink too many, and you won't even remember the sex that night. It'll be like immaculate conception."

  Oh my God. I was the world's worst mother. And I wasn't even a mother yet! I was awful, terrible, selfish, stupid. I was going straight to hell.

  I was going to throw up.

  "Don't worry. Nothing a little aspirin in the morning won't cure."

  Right. Aspirin. I bit my lip to keep from blurting out what a horrible thing I just did. Potentially did, that is. I guess if I wasn't sure I was pregnant, I couldn't be sure I'd done something really, really awful. Damn Richard. This was all his fault.

  Dana walked up, a clothed Damien a.k.a. No Neck Guy in tow. The grin on her face said she'd have no trouble remembering the sex tonight. "Hey, we're gonna head back home. Thanks for inviting me Mrs. Springer. We'll see you tomorrow for the big day."

  Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt gave Dana hugs, Mrs. Rosenblatt all the while eyeing No Neck Guy's crotch like a dog might a big beefy Milk Bone.

  The icky warred with morning sickness, which warred with guilt, which warred with the mass amount of vodka I'd apparently consumed that night. I willed my stomach to stay put as the room swayed.

  "Can you drop me off at home first?" I begged.

  "Sure, Maddie."

  Dana, No Neck and I all piled in to her Saturn. I sat in the back, trying to avert my eyes as Dana and No Neck held hands and made kissy faces. Instead I slouched down in my seat and closed my eyes so I didn't have to watch the scenery wizz past the window in a noxious blur.

  Luckily, the drive was short and a few minutes later Dana was walking me to the door of my studio. Any other time I could have walked myself in, but have you ever tried to walk in three-inch heels under the influence of vodka?

  "Are you drunk?" Dana asked.

  Duh. "I think so."

  "I thought you weren't drinking because of…" She trailed off, looking at my belly.

  "I'm not. I mean, I wasn't. It was an accident."

  "An accident?"

  "I thought the virgins were virgin."

  Dana gave me a funny look. But considering she had a hot stripper in the car, she didn't interrogate further. "Get some sleep," she commanded. "You want me to come drive you to the wedding in the morning?"

  "No. It's fine. I'll get a cab."

  "Okay, well, call me. But, uh," she glanced back at No Neck. "Just not too early, k?"

  I nodded. Not a good idea. I put a hand to my head to make the scenery stop spinning. I watched Dana pull away, then walked inside. That is, after fumbling with the key for a good five minutes first. I hated being drunk.

  But most of all, I realized as I collapsed onto my futon and stared at the ceiling, I hated Richard. Maybe it was the vodka, or maybe the full monty, or maybe the fact I'd been inside a porn studio today, but no matter what explanations he might try to conjure up, I realized I hated Richard. There was no excuse for doing this to me. Look at me! I was a mess. I was a bundle of nerves, anxiety, and I'd just possibly poisoned my maybe child. Oh God. I was an awful, awful person. Nothing in the world could make this day worse.

  And then my doorbell rang.

  I lay there, deciding if I even remembered how to move my limbs. After the third ring, I finally managed a vertical position and staggered to the door. I looked through the peephole and think I actually gasped out loud.

  "I know you're in there, I can see your light under the door. Open up."

  I bit my lip. I could let him in. But, see, here's the thing: I've been known to be a little over friendly when I've been drinking. Which is why I don't often indulge. In fact, I have a pitcher of margaritas to blame for my second date sleepover with Richard. Knowing I was past my common sense limit, coupled with, as Mom would say, the unholy thoughts I'd been having earlier at Beefcakes, I wasn't sure it was really a good idea to let him in.

  He pounded on the door again. "I can hear you breathing. Open the door."

  Then again, it's never a good idea to disobey a cop.

  I unhooked the latch, turned the deadbolt, and opened the door to find myself face to face with Ramirez. Sexy day-old stubble and all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I blinked. God he looked good. He still didn't look like he'd slept much, but the five o'clock shadow had grown into this sexy George Clooney thing that made his jaw look like it belonged in a Schick commercial. He was dressed in his usual uniform of butt hugging jeans and a black T-shirt. His eyes were hooded and dark, his hair just a little mussed. This was exactly how I imagined he'd look after a really long night of really excellent sex.

  Down girl. See what I mean about alcohol and me?

  "Where have you been?" he asked. "Didn't you get my messages?"

  I turned around. Sure enough the light on my machine was blinking like mad.

  "No, I didn't. I just got in. Why?"

  "Can I come in?"

  I bit my lip, hesitating. The rational voice in my head said, tell him to leave. Close the door. Do not talk to sexy cops when you're drunk. Only the Beefcakes patron in me said, yes, please, come in. Take your clothes off. Hop into my bed.

  And considering the amount of vodka Beefcakes Girl had consumed, she was getting really loud. So loud she was overpowering the rational voice.

  "Sure." I stood back to allow him entry.

  He stepped into the room. And I swear my eyes went straight to his leather thong region. Boxers or briefs? I just couldn't tell.

  "So," I said, clearing my throat loudly. "What did you want?"

  "I just wanted to let you know we ran an analysis on the hairs found in the motel
room. They weren't yours."

  "I told you so." Ugh. I sounded five. "I mean, I'm glad you checked. I'm glad we cleared that up."

  Ramirez looked at me kind of funny, but didn't comment. "Yeah, well I just wanted to let you know you're officially not a suspect."

  "Well, duh," I smacked my head with the palm of my hand. "I don't even own a leopard thong."

  Ramirez raised one eyebrow. "Leopard thong?"

  "And I so don't do nooners. Well, not unless it's a really special occasion. Or the guy's really hot. But I always leave with my panties on."

  Ramirez's eyes creased at the corners, twinkling with that Big Bad Wolf look again. "Good to know."

  I took a deep breath. Yes, I was aware I sounded frighteningly like Bunny Hoffenmeyer and I wasn't making a whole lot of sense. But somehow the connection between my brain and my mouth seemed to have shorted out. I grabbed onto the kitchen counter for support, as the room was starting to look like a Tilt-awhirl again.

  "What I mean to say is, I'm glad I didn't kill him. I mean, I'm glad you know I didn't kill him. I know I didn't kill him. But now you know that I know I didn't kill him. Even though he's dead."

  The corner of Ramirez's mouth quivered. "Uh huh."

  "I know that you know that I know that I didn't kill him." I paused. Hmmm… that didn't sound quite right. Let me try again. "I mean, I wasn't there. No, I was there, but not there there, as in not in his room, there." There. That sounded better. Kind of.

  The quiver turned into a full fledged grin. "Are you drunk?"

  "No!" I rolled my eyes and did my best as-if face. "I'm so not drunk. I'm the opposite of drunk. I'm…" I paused trying to come up with the word. "…the other thing."

  "Sober?" Ramirez supplied, still grinning.

  "Right. That's me. Sober Maddie." It might have been more convincing if my hand hadn't slipped off the counter just then, throwing me so off balance I tripped on one of my heels and nearly fell.

  Nearly, because Ramirez reached out with quick cop-like reflexes and caught me in his arms. Strong arms. I put my hands up to balance and came up against a chest like a brick wall. I felt his heart beating beneath his six-day-a-week-at-the-gym muscles. I think I sighed.

  "You okay?" His face was inches from mine. His eyes still twinkling with amusement.

  "Uh huh," I managed. Even though my limbs felt like Jell-o and I could swear visions of Damien's package were swimming through my head. I suddenly had a burning desire to know for sure whether Ramirez was a boxers or briefs guy.

  "Love the outfit," he said, still holding me around the waist. His eyes dipped down to my Librarian wear.

  "You're mocking me again aren't you?"

  "Just a little."

  "It went over big at the porn studio too."

  Ramirez's eyebrow shot up again. "Porn Studio?" His grin widened, showing off a row of white teeth. The better to eat you right up with my dear.

  "See, I knew there was a little bad girl in you." His voice was low and deep in a way that made me warm in all the right places.

  I was still pressed against his chest and his hooded eyes looked wide awake now, intent on me. Making me think serious bad girl thoughts. Thoughts of bad cops in boxers.

  Or better yet, nothing at all.

  Try as I might to reign in Beefcakes Girl, her eyes strayed downward. Past his brick wall chest, beyond six-pack territory, until they zeroed in on that denim covered package.

  "Are you staring at my crotch?"

  At least I had the decency to blush. At least, I think it was a blush. Or maybe just one of Mom's hot flashes at the totally X-rated thoughts racing through my mind.

  "I was just wondering if you're a boxers or briefs guy." Did I say that out loud? Oh lord, I must be really drunk.

  Before I had time to take back my Sluts-R-Us statement, Ramirez tightened his grip on my waist, pulling my body flush with his.

  I think I had an on-the-spot orgasm.

  His head dipped down, his lips grazing my ear. "Briefs," he whispered.

  And then he kissed me.

  And not one of those nippy, soft, kissy things. This was a kiss. A serious lust-inspiring, picturing-you-naked-all-day, you're-so-going-to-remember-the-sex-no-matter-how-many-Virgin-Marys-you-accidentally-drank kind of kiss. One that left no question in my mind whether Ramirez was a Damien or a Richard beneath all those clothes. I knew for a fact that Richards didn't kiss like this. He was a Damien through and through.

  His hands slid up my shirt and I did a quick mental inventory. Legs shaved? No granny panties? Just in case condom still in my purse? Check, check, and check. Beefcakes Girl did a mental woohoo! as I kissed him back.

  His tongue touched mine and I suddenly felt like Ramirez was wearing way too many clothes. I slid my hands down his chest, fumbling like a nervous teenager at his belt buckle until his T-shirt came untucked. He didn't protest in the least as I slid the fabric up and over his head. Though he did groan a little as I trailed my hands down his abdomen. Good lord, this guy was built. I bet he worked out more than Dana.

  Ramirez picked me up like I weighed less than nothing and sat me on the kitchen counter. My skirt hiked up as his hands slid up my thighs, past my knees, past the oh-that-tickles spot, and on into where's-that-freaking-condom territory.

  I went back to fumbling with his belt buckle again. We were suddenly in a race. Who could get their clothes off fastest and the winner received the orgasm of their life. Ramirez's shoes went flying across the room. My silk blouse was ripped off so fast one of the buttons popped off, pinging against my microwave. My bra was down around my waist and I heard the unmistakable sound of Ramirez's zipper sliding open.

  And then he froze. Okay, through my vodka-hormone cocktail it took me a second to realize he wasn't kissing me back anymore. But when I did, I saw he was staring at a spot behind me.

  "What?" I asked. "What's wrong?"

  "What is that?"

  I turned around to see what he was staring at. My heart sank.

  The EPT.

  "Uh, it's nothing. Just, um, a little pregnancy test."

  It was as if I'd said, "Just a little nuclear bomb." Ramirez instantly put two feet between us, still staring at the bomb like it might go off any second. "Why do you have a pregnancy test on your kitchen counter? Are you pregnant?" He stared at my belly. Thankfully, I was still flat as a board. But I could see him mentally putting a basketball there.

  "No! I mean, I don't know. I don't think so. Well…maybe."

  His gaze whipped wildly from the test to me. Then he muttered a, "Jesus," and sat down on my futon, scrubbing a hand over his face.

  I slid off the counter, shrugging back into my bra as I sat down beside him.

  "Richard's?" he asked.

  I nodded.

  "Jesus," he said again. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I didn't know if there was anything to tell. And, well, I don't know, you're a cop and you thought I was in Greenway's room. And then you came here and you looked so nice and you kissed me, and that was really nice, and well, I just kind of forgot to mention it."

  "You forgot?" He stared at me.

  "Uh huh." In my defense, Ramirez shirtless was enough to make a woman forget her own name.

  "Hell, this is…this was…" He waved his arms from me to the EPT, seemingly searching for the right words.

  My heart bottomed out when he found them.

  "A mistake," he finally said. "This was a huge mistake coming here."

  A mistake. My bottom lip quivered. Okay, so maybe it was a mistake. In fact, I'm sure had we actually had sex, I would have been thinking the same thing as soon as the Virgin Marys wore off. But did he have to say it like that?

  I wrapped my arms around my middle, suddenly very conscious of the fact my shirt was on the other side of the room.

  "Maybe you should just go then," I said. Then bit my lower lip to stop that damn quivering.

  "You're right. I should go." Ramirez got up and retrieved his shirt from the floor.r />
  "Fine," I spat back. I'm not sure why I was so mad at him, but it beat being mad at myself. "Go then."

  "Hey, look, I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't come here for this," he said, gesturing the counter where we'd been this close to being the stars of our very own porno flick.

  "Oh, so you're saying this is my fault? That I threw myself at you? That I'm some kind of drunken hussy?" The closer the words hit to home the louder I said them. Damn. I had thrown myself a little hadn't I? But he'd been more than willing to catch me.

  "I didn't say that. You're not a drunken—" He paused. "Wait, you're pregnant and you went out and got drunk?" He stared at me as if I'd just confessed to shooting my grandmother.

  That did it. The quivering lip shook out of control and big fat tears rolled out of my eyes. Did I mention I also tend to get a little emotional when I'm drunk?

  "I-I-I'm a horrible p-p-person," I wailed.

  "Oh, Jesus."

  "I'll be a horrible m-m-mother."

  Ramirez sat down beside me. "No, you won't. I'm sure you'll be a fine mother."

  "I didn't mean to get drunk. I was tricked. I would n-n-never hurt a baby." My words were coming out in big slobbery sobs and I was pretty sure my nose was running too. This was about as unsexy as you could get.

  "Hey, it's okay. I'm sure the baby is okay."

  "If there is a baby," I reminded him between sniffles.

  "Right. If there is one." He put his arm around me.

  "I'm sorry." I sniffed again. "I'm a mess."

  Ramirez looked at me. He pushed one stray strand of hair behind my ear. Oddly enough it was an even more intimate gesture than having his hands up my shirt. More…touching. Wow. Who knew Bad Cop had a soft side?

  "You're not a mess. You'll make a beautiful mother."