High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5)

by Gemma Halliday

  “Yeah, you shoulda put a sock on the doorknob or somethin’,” Mrs. R said as she crossed the room and dug into her suitcase. “Then we’d know you had some lovin’ going on in here.”

  “Duly noted,” I muttered.

  Mom cleared her throat, looking from my askew bra to Ramirez, standing awkwardly in the corner.

  “Oh, Mom, this is Jack Ramirez.”

  “Oh, so you’re that detective,” Mom cooed, grabbing his hand and pumping it up and down. “Maddie’s told me so much about you. And, between you and me, I’m relieved she’s dating again. It’s been too long. It’s not good for a girl to go that long. I know. Once Ralphie had to go away to this wig convention in Sarasota and I was all alone for the whole week, and well, I saw this commercial for this little thing they called a pocket rocket-”

  “I got em’!” Mrs. Rosenblatt said, raising a pill bottle above her head.

  Ramirez and I did a simultaneous sigh of relief. Nothing like visions of your mother with a vibrator to kill the mood.

  “Come on, Betty,” Mrs. Rosenblatt said. “We got a good hour of Keno left before our flight leaves.”

  “Okay. Nice to have met you,” Mom called as the door closed behind her.

  I flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

  Ramirez laid down beside me and let out a big sigh. “You do realize that I’m going to have to shoot the next person who walks through that door.”

  I nodded. “I think you could probably claim self-defense at this point.”

  He sighed again, wiping a hand across his face.

  “So, I guess you’re not in the mood anymore, huh?” I asked.

  “Honey, I’m male. I’m always in the mood. I’m just waiting for the next crazy to walk through the door before I go through the trouble of doing my fly up again.”

  “Okay, here’s a thought,” I said, rolling over to face him. “What do you say we go away somewhere?”

  “Go away?” He raised one eyebrow.

  “Yeah,” I said, sitting up. “I know, it’s a bold move seeing as we’re not even really… I mean I’m not officially your… I mean it’s not like we’ve ever even…” I paused. I took a deep breath. Then I went for it. “I hear Palm Springs is lovely this time of year.”

  “Oh yeah?” Ramirez propped himself up on his elbow.

  I nodded. “Very romantic.”

  “Oh so you want romance, do you?” he said, grinning until that dimple dropped into his cheek again.

  “I wouldn’t mind a little romance,” I answered coyly. “Besides, think of it, you and me alone. No work, no nosey friends,” I added with emphasis, pointing to the door. “Just the two of us. What do you think?”

  “Sounds won-der-ful,” he said, drawing out the word.

  I felt myself go giddy.

  “There’s just one problem.”

  I frowned. “What?”

  Ramirez got up and crossed the room to Mrs. Rosenblatt’s open suitcase. He grabbed one of Mrs. R’s purple and pink polka dotted socks and handed it to me.

  “I don’t think I can wait that long,” he said. He leaned in close, his eyes doing that dark and dangerous thing, his voice going middle of the night husky. “Lock the door.”

  * * * * *

  UNDERCOVER IN HIGH HEELS

  by

  GEMMA HALLIDAY

  * * * * *

  ebook Edition

  Copyright © 2010 by Gemma Halliday

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  * * * * *

  UNDERCOVER IN HIGH HEELS

  * * * * *

  Chapter One

  “Wait, Chad, don’t leave. I… I have something to tell you.”

  “After all your lies and deception, there’s nothing you can possibly say to make me stay now, Ashley.”

  “Chad, please! You know I love you. I only did what I had to to keep us together. Besides, you can’t go now… I’m carrying your baby!”

  I gasped, grabbing another handful of popcorn as the TV switched to a commercial for deodorant.

  “Oh my freaking God, the baby is the gardener’s?” my best friend Dana shouted from the sofa beside me. “Her husband is gonna freaking flip.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, taking a sip of Diet Coke. “He’s still in that coma, remember? He’ll never know.”

  “Oh, right. I missed that episode. So, does that mean the lady that hit him with the car went to jail?”

  I shook my head. “No, her husband blackmailed the D.A. to get the charges dropped, but only if she checked herself into rehab. But instead of going to rehab, she shacked up with her sister’s husband at his place on the lake.”

  “Oooooooh,” Dana said, drawing out the word. “So that’s why the sister is poisoning the husband.”

  I nodded. “Shhh, it’s back on.”

  Dana and I went silent, our eyes glued to the screen as Chad and Ashley fell into a passionate embrace. I’m not ashamed to admit it. I was seriously hooked on this show. Magnolia Lane was the hottest prime time soap to hit the air waves since Brandon and Brenda moved to the 90210, and I was powerless against its junk TV spell.

  My cell rang from my purse.

  “You're ringing,” Dana said.

  I waved it off. "Commercial," I mumbled around a bite of popcorn, my eyes glued to the screen as Chad asked Ashley just how sure she was the baby was his and not her comatose husband's. While, of course, Ashley's nosey neighbor listened at the bedroom door, catching the whole conversation.

  Just as they switched to a shot of Ashley's husband in the coma ward, my purse rang again.

  "You sure you shouldn't get that?" Dana asked.

  I shook my head. “Are you kidding? Ashley’s husband is about to wake up.”

  I ignored the William Tell Overture trilling from the region of my Kate Spade, instead grabbing another handful of popcorn as Nurse Nan leaned over the comatose Preston Francis Barton the third. Considering she was his wife’s secret evil twin sister, I figured we were in for two options: she was either going to smother him or pull the plug.

  She leaned in closer. Her hands reached for the plug.

  Dana and I did a collective gasp.

  Then the screen went to a life insurance commercial featuring a baby boomer in leather pants air-guitaring a Jimmy Hendricks song.

  “I hate it when they do that!” Dana said, throwing a piece of popcorn at the screen. Hers, of course, was minus the butter, oil, fat, salt, and flavor. Dana was an aerobics instructor slash wanna-be actress with the kind of curves that caused car crashes on the PCH. Her body was a temple. Mine, on the other hand, required regular sacrifices from the natives of double stuffed Oreos, cheeseburgers, and popcorn with lots of bright yellow butter flavoring mad
e of things I couldn't pronounce. My theory? As long as my favorite Cavalli jeans still fit, I was doing okay. (Fine, so they were a little snug around the waist lately, but I could still zip them up!)

  While Dana tossed another kernel of popcorn at the television, I reached into my purse and checked my cell readout. Two missed calls. Both from the same number, one that had me doing a little happy squirm in my seat. Ramirez.

  Detective Jack Ramirez was not only the LAPD's hottest cop, but as of last fall he was also mine. All mine.

  Okay, so he hadn’t exactly officially said that I was his girlfriend yet, but I’m pretty sure that just last week he used the words “girl” and “friend” in the same sentence. Which was a start. Ramirez wasn’t exactly your typical Happily Ever After material. He was a homicide detective with a very large gun, a very large tattoo and some very dangerous moves in the bedroom. More of a bad-boy Russell Crow than a home-and-hearth Ward Cleaver. Not, mind you, that I was complaining. (See bedroom reference above.)

  We were supposed to meet for “drinks or something” later after he got off shift. Me, I was wearing a black lace Vicky’s Secret thong under my Capris in hopes of the “or something.”

  I keyed in my pin number and waited for my messages while the Magnolia Lane theme song played and credits rolled over a backdrop of manicured lawns and a picture-perfect neighborhood.

  “Hey, Maddie, it’s me,” came Ramirez’s voice. “Listen, something came up. I’ve got to meet someone at the Cabana Club so I can't get together later after all. Sorry. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Great.

  Ramirez's fatal flaw, as you may have noticed, was his tendency to make and break plans. Or, worse yet, not make them at all. Even though I was seconds away from actual girlfriend status, I hadn't seen Ramirez since last Friday night when a dinner and movie at City Walk had turned into appetizers and me in a cab when he got a call about a gang shooting in Compton. And now, true to form, he was blowing off our “or something” again. I narrowed my eyes at my cell, wondering what kind of someone he was meeting instead?

  “What’s up?" Dana asked, watching my face fall.

  “Ramirez. He’s canceling on me.” Again.

  “What, again?” Dana asked, voicing my thoughts.

  "I know! He said he has to meet someone. What does that mean?”

  Dana shrugged. “I dunno.” She popped another piece of popcorn into her mouth.

  “I mean, are we talking a work-related-someone or a personal-someone? 'Cause if it's a personal someone, why not just ask them to join us for drinks? Why cancel on me? What, is he ashamed of me? He doesn’t want his friends to meet me? That’s bad, isn’t it? It means something really bad. He’s having second thoughts about this whole relationship thing isn’t he? I knew it. I knew it wouldn’t last. I knew he'd never settle down. I mean, not that I'm asking him to settle down. Oh God, do you think he thinks I want him to settle down? Is that it? Am I smothering him? Am I too needy? I'm not too needy, am I?”

  “Whoa. Take a breath, Gilmore Girl. No wonder he needs a night off.”

  Dana was right, I was beginning to hyperventilate.

  “Look, he’s probably just out with the guys or something tonight. You know how those cops are. It's a total boy's club.”

  “You’re right." I took a deep breath. "Right. He probably just needs a night out with the guys. It's not that he doesn’t want to be with me. I mean, of course he wants to be with me. Why wouldn't he want to be with me? I'm so not smothery." I paused. "But, just in case, how about we go on a double date this weekend?"

  Dana shot me a look. "Double date?"

  "It's way harder to smother someone on a double date. Beside, it'll be fun. Me and Ramirez, you and…” I paused, unsure which flavor of the month Dana was presently working her way through. As much as I loved my best friend, even I had to admit she had an uncanny ability to pick men destined for short term romances. Case in point, her last boyfriend, Rico, a self-proclaimed Urban Soldier who'd ended up joining a group of mercenaries in Afghanistan searching for the last remnants of the Taliban. Dana was still nursing a sore ego at being dumped for a bunch of dusty caves halfway around the world.

  She bit her lip as a little frown settled between her strawberry blonde brows. “Sorry, Maddie, I can’t do a double date.”

  “Please! It’s not like I’m asking you to actually have this relationship for me, I just need a buffer.”

  Dana shook her head. “No, no. It’s not that. I can't date. I’m off men.”

  “Oh no. Please don't tell me you’re trying that lesbian thing again,” I said, sipping my Diet Coke.

  Dana shook here head. “No, it’s not like that. It’s… well… I can’t have sex.” She put her hands on my shoulders, turning me to face her as she put on her serious look. “I have a problem.”

  “A problem? What, like an STD?”

  She shook her head again. “No, Mads. This is worse.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Okay, I’ll bite, what’s worse than an STD?”

  “I’m addicted to sex.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Oh good. I thought this was something serious.” I laid on the sarcasm double stuffed as I grabbed another handful of popcorn.

  “This is serious!” she protested.

  “Dana, you are hot. Men like you. Since when is that a problem?”

  “That’s not true, Maddie. I’m sick.”

  “You’re lucky is what you are. You know how many push-up bras I own just to have half your cleavage?” A lot. I was pretty sure that Jack Black and I were the only people left in L.A. that still wore B cups.

  Dana ignored me. “Sex can be like any other addiction. It’s a disease. One I have to accept and learn to manage one day at a time. I’m practicing positive sexual sobriety.”

  I crunched down hard on a popcorn kernel to keep from laughing. “Positive sexual sobriety?”

  Dana nodded. “Uh huh. Therapist Max says it’s the only way to break the cycle of addiction.”

  I blinked. “Therapist Max? You’re seriously taking advice from a guy named 'Therapist Max?'”

  Dana nodded again. “Yes, Maddie. We're all first names at SA. Even the therapists.”

  I knew I was going to regret asking. “SA?”

  “Sexaholics Anonymous.”

  Mental forehead smack. "And I thought Magnolia Lane was over the top."

  “Oh, Maddie,” Dana said, her eyes lighting up, “you should totally come with me to a meeting. There are tons of hot guys there and they're always super nice to new girls.”

  I'll bet. “Thanks, but no thanks. Besides, I have a boyfriend. Sort of," I added ruefully, thinking of my Vicky's thong going to waste tonight. “You sure Ramirez isn't blowing me off?”

  Dana opened a bottled water and took a long drink. “Positive.”

  “All right. Then I promise not to freak out about it anymore tonight. I mean, if he wants to go with the boys to the Cabana Club, I'm not going to be one of those whiny kind of girlfriends about it.”

  Dana's head snapped up and she did a little cough/choke thing with her water. “The Cabana Club?!”

  Uh oh. “Yeah… why?”

  “Maddie, have you ever been there?”

  I shook my head. To be honest my idea of a night on the town started with dinner on Ventura and ended with a turn around the Beverly Center and a new pair of pumps. I wasn't exactly a regular on the club circuit.

  “Ohmigod, Maddie. It’s a total hook-up place. You didn’t tell me Ramirez was going there!”

  Oh shit. I felt my stomach bottom out, fizzy Diet Coke mixing with fake buttered popcorn mixing with pure dread. “Oh God. This is it. He’s totally dumping me, isn't he? It was all about the chase, wasn't it? Now that he's got me where he wants me, he doesn't want me anymore! I’m stale, Dana. I’m like that day-old bagel no one wants. Oh God, what am I going to do?"

  "I'm sorry, hon." Dana laid a hand on my arm and sent me the same pity look she'd been giving me ever since my mother insisted
on giving me a bob with bangs in seventh grade. "Look, I'm sure it's nothing. I'm sure he's just…" She trailed off, unable to come up with an adequate lie.

  "Right." I took a big gulp of my Diet Coke, the carbonation burning all the way down my throat. "But just in case, you feel like grabbing a drink?"

  * * *

  The Cabana Club was a large, brick building on the corner of La Brea and Sunset, painted pink and flanked by flashing neon flamingos. Since it was Friday night there was a line to get in, but luckily Dana knew every bouncer in town (most on a more intimate basis than I knew my gynecologist) and we were inside before you could say "Lindsay Lohan."

  As my eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior, punctuated by pink and green flashing lasers, I realized Dana was right. The placed reeked of hook-up. A crowded dance floor to our right held L.A.'s hottest bodies – actress-slash-waitresses, model-slash-waitresses, a bunch of CW actors, and that girl from Survivor that everyone hated – all gyrating together in a way that couldn’t even air on HBO. Tables to the left were filled with groupings of men and women doing the heads-bent-together thing and drinking tall cocktails while grabbing each other under the table. The bar straight ahead was two people thick with singles looking to score a martini and a phone number. I squinted through the darkness, praying my boyfriend wasn't one of them.

  "This is so not a boys night out," I shouted over the techno beat pulsating off the walls.

  "This is so not the place a recovering sex addict should be spending her Friday night." Dana eyed a guy at the bar wearing leather pants, an unbuttoned shirt and a "how you doin'" smile.

  He winked at her.

  Dana bit her lip.

  "Let's find Ramirez and get out of here fast before I do something I'm going to regret," she said.