High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5)

by Gemma Halliday

  "Lower, Stan!"

  Stan lowered the piñata again. This time Connor swung so hard the momentum spun him around and he knocked into the clown (who seemed to have refilled his glass yet again).

  “Lower! For heaven’s sakes, no one's going to get the candy like that. Lower Stan!”

  Stan lowered.

  I backed up as Connor went in for another shot. He took a swing that came nowhere near the piñata. (Though it almost knocked Johnny in the shins.)

  “Uh. Maybe we should take the blindfold off…” Mom said.

  Too late.

  Connor took one more Barry Bonds worthy swing and came in direct contact.

  Unfortunately, not with the piñata.

  I saw it happen in slow motion. Connor spun around, wielding the bat like a club. Faux Dad jumped back. Molly lunged for The Terror. Mom yelled, "Look out," and Ramirez turned around just in time to collide head first into Connor's wooden bat. The sound of skull on Louisville slugger action echoed through the yard and everyone did the collective groan and scrunched ouch-face.

  "Oh my God, are you okay?" I asked as Ramirez staggered backwards.

  He gave me a dazed kind of look. "What happened?"

  "Connor hit you with the bat."

  Ramirez glanced over at Connor. He was giggling and blowing more spit bubbles.

  "Let's not ever have kids," Ramirez mumbled.

  At the moment, I had to agree.

  Mom ran into the house and came back with a bag of frozen peas which she promptly stuck on Ramirez's forehead. I settled him in a deck chair next to my Irish Catholic grandmother, who was clucking disapproval about how kids in her day were lucky to get a pair of underwear for their birthday, let alone a piñata.

  "I'm so sorry," I mumbled, sitting next to Ramirez.

  He did a grunt behind the peas.

  "I had no idea Molly would give an actual bat to The Terror."

  Grandmother arched an eyebrow in my direction.

  Oops. "I mean, Connor."

  "Uh huh," Ramirez grunted again.

  "Is there anything I can do? Do you need anything?"

  Ramirez shifted the peas and peeked out at me. "Another beer would be a start."

  "Right." I popped up and crossed the yard, thinking that more booze wasn't altogether a bad idea. I grabbed another Heineken from the cooler for Ramirez and I flipped the little plastic tab on the pink box for me.

  "That one's running on empty, doll," Drunkie the Clown said, appearing at my side. "Try the other one," he slurred.

  Great. The clown had beaten me to it. I managed to squeeze a couple of drops out of the pink and half a glass from the merlot. I know, sacrilege mixing wines, but was it really going to make much of a difference? It came from a box.

  I took a big gulp… then choked on it as I felt something pinch me from behind. Ohmigod. Did that clown just grab my ass? I whipped around.

  Drunkie was grinning and swaying on his feet. He waggled his painted eyebrows up and down at me suggestively.

  I opened my mouth to give the fresh clown a piece of my mind.

  But I never got the chance.

  Before I could speak, I caught a glimpse of Ramirez out of the corner of my eye, rising from the deck chair, frozen peas in one hand, look of death on his face.

  Uh oh.

  Ramirez lunged for the clown, who, by the way, was pretty quick for a guy who'd just drained a whole box of wine. He ducked, sliding his oversized red feet to the right. But Ramirez was a trained cop. Even with a slight concussion, a guy in a red nose and squeaky shoes was no match for him. He lunged again, this time hitting his target. I watched in horror as Ramirez's fist collided with Drunkie's painted, white jaw. The clown's head whipped around, and he tripped backward, stumbling over his too-big shoes. He knocked into Connor, who fell flat on his diapered bottom, then careened to the right, straight into – you guess it – me.

  "Uhn." I reeled backward from the impact, flailing at the air for balance. But it was too late. I was a goner. I slammed, face first, into the dessert table, upending a plate of cookies, sloshing punch to the ground, and doing a ten point face plant right into the blue icing of Connor's birthday cake.

  For a second I couldn’t breath, my life flashing before my eyes as frosting went up my nose. I heard Molly scream, the clown groan, and Connor do another delighted giggle.

  Was it wrong to hate a one year old?

  “Maddie, are you okay?” Mom came rushing to my side, pulling me out of the ruined cake.

  “I think so,” I said. Only since I had a mouth of full of blue icing it came out as, “I ink o.”

  "My cake! My beautiful cake!" Molly screeched. "You ruined the cake."

  "Sorry," I mumbled, wiping raspberry cream filling off my sundress.

  "This can't be happening. I planned the perfect birthday party. This was supposed to be Connor's special day! We never even got a picture of the cake. What am I going to put in the scrapbook?" Molly was started to hyperventilate.

  I looked down at Connor. He giggled and drooled.

  Then gave me the finger.

  * * *

  I did my best to wipe the majority of vanilla cake chunks from my sundress before getting into Ramirez's car, so by the time we finally pulled up in front of my studio (me looking like I'd lost a food fight with Betty Crocker and Ramirez growing a purple goose egg on the side of his head) I was relatively sure I hadn't left raspberry-cream butt prints on Ramirez's leather seats.

  "Well, that was fun," I said as he pulled into my drive and cut the engine.

  Ramirez gave me a look. "I think that kid flipped me off."

  "Yeah, he's charming like that."

  I got out of the car and started up my steps, leaving a Hansel and Gretel like trail of cake crumbs in my wake. Ramirez was one step behind me and almost plowed into my back as I paused at the top step.

  My door was opened a crack.

  Ramirez spotted it too, silently slipping his gun from its holster and pushing in front of me.

  “Go back downstairs," he whispered, his jaw tense, his body instinctively going into cop mode. I stood rooted to the spot as he slowly pushed the door open, his gun straight-armed in front of him.

  Go back downstairs. Good advice. I'd do that.

  Just as soon as I saw the asshole who'd broken into my place. I tippy-toed in behind Ramirez, trying to make myself small and unnoticeable.

  I had to stifle a gasp when I saw my studio. It looked like the big one had hit. All my kitchen cupboards were opened, plates broken, food on the floor, box of Captain Crunch tipped upside-down. My futon cushions were strewn across the room, mixed in with drawing pens, clothes, shoes and my very non-threatening hair dryer.

  I covered my mouth with my hand and bit back tears as I spied my favorite pair of silver slingbacks, both heels broken off. Who would do such a thing?

  "Shit."

  Ramirez had finished his quick walk through of the apartment and his gun now hung loosely at his side as he stared in at my bathroom.

  "What? Oh God, please don't tell me they trashed my make-up. Do you know how expensive that Lancôme moisturizer is?" I rushed to his side. Then looked up at the bathroom mirror and felt the blood drain from my face.

  Written in blood red lipstick across the vanity were the words:

  I'm going to kill you, bitch.

  Chapter Twelve

  I crumpled to the ground, my butt hitting the cold tile with a thud. I put my head between my knees to keep the room from spinning. Or at least to keep myself from revisiting my lunch as dizzying fear washed over me in waves. I took deep breaths, having to concentrate on the steady in and out.

  "You okay?" Ramirez asked.

  "Yeah. Sure. Dandy," I said. Which might have been a whole lot more convincing if I hadn't been wrapped up in a fetal position.

  "Honey, you're a terrible liar," he said, kneeling down beside me. He put one hand on the back of my neck and began gently kneading. I hated to admit how comforting the gesture wa
s.

  "I'll be fine." Just as soon as the urge to vomit passed.

  Ramirez seemed to understand, wrapping one arm around my shoulders and hunkering down beside me. I'm not sure how long we sat like that, but finally the world stopped feeling like a tilt-a-whirl and I peeked my head up.

  "Thanks," I said.

  He forced a grin. It wasn't very convincing. "Anytime. So," he gestured up to the mirror, "maybe you should tell me again about the other threats you received."

  I took in a big gulp of air, letting it out on a breath that was shakier than I would have liked. "Okay. They started with the squirrel. Then the bird and the nasty note. Then he tried to run me off the road yesterday. Now this."

  "What? Wait, back up – run you off the road?" Ramirez blinked at me.

  Oops. I bit my lip. I forgot I hadn't told him about the whole road rage thing.

  "Uh, well, he kind of ran into my Jeep. A little. But Dana and I were fine. Just a couple bumps on the head and some minor whiplash. No biggie," I said, trying to make light of the whole thing. Which, by the way, I think was very brave of me considering my apartment had just been vandalized and I was fetal on my bathroom floor.

  "And you're just telling me this now?!" Ramirez's jaw tightened and I could tell it took all he had to keep that vein in his neck under control.

  "In my defense, this did happen during the we're-not-speaking –to-each-other phase."

  "Please tell me you at least filed a police report."

  "Um, well… not really…"

  Ramirez looked at the ceiling and muttered something in Spanish. I had a feeling the words "blonde" and "last nerve" were in there somewhere.

  "You're mad again, aren't you?"

  He gritted his teeth. "No," he lied.

  "Then why is that vein bulging?"

  Ramirez looked at me. His jaw flinched. His eye twitched. Then he consulted the ceiling again, blowing out a long breath. "I'm not mad at you, Maddie. I just…" He trailed off, shaking his head. His gaze resting on the death threat via Maybelline on my bathroom mirror. "I just sometimes wish like hell I had a normal girlfriend."

  He stood up and brushed off the seat of his jeans. "Look, I'm going to go call this in. Don't touch anything!"

  I watched him walk out into my living room and pull his cell from his pocket. But I honestly couldn't have moved if I wanted to. I was staring after him, utterly stunned.

  Did he just say girlfriend?

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later my apartment was swarming with crime scene guys in SID jackets, taking photographs of my bathroom mirror, checking the window locks, and dusting my design table for fingerprints. I winced as black print dust settled on my pair of white leather Gucci boots. That stuff washed off, right?

  It was after I told one SID guy with a bugling gut and bulbous nose to please, please, please not spray any of that florescent body-fluid magnifying stuff near my two-hundred dollar Kors sandals that the police chased me downstairs and back out to Ramirez's SUV. I was instructed to wait there. Which I did. Though the longer I waited, the more anxious I felt.

  As glad as I was that Ramirez had taken this threat seriously enough to call in the big guns, the sight of said big guns turning my apartment into something out of CBS's primetime lineup was less than comforting. It was one thing to watch police gather evidence on TV. It was another when it was your trash they were pawing through for clues and your drains they were checking for hair and fibers. The fact that the place I'd always associated with safety and home was now being treated as a crime scene was a little unnerving. Okay. It was a lot unnerving. So much that I was back to doing the head between the legs thing by the time Ramirez finally came down the stairs to check on me.

  "You sure you're okay?"

  "Uh huh," I lied.

  Ramirez lifted my chin with his finger, forcing me to look at him. He raised one eyebrow.

  "I know, I know. I'm a terrible liar."

  Ramirez grinned and pulled me toward him. He wrapped both arms around me and planted a kiss on the top of my head. "Come, on," he said, "let's go home."

  I gestured up the stairs. "Home's currently being invaded by the LAPD."

  "I meant my home."

  I blinked. "Oh." More blinking. "Okay."

  So, here's the thing. I'd only ever been to Ramirez's place once before and, even then, I hadn't actually made it inside. His pager had gone off while we were necking in the car and he'd had to turn around and drop me off at my place on the way to a murder-suicide in the Hollywood Hills. Ramirez lived in a two bedroom bungalow in West L.A. It was an older neighborhood that might have been advertised as “family friendly” back in the fifties when the little stucco structures had been built, but fifty years later it was bordering the fringes of neighborhoods where you didn't walk alone unless you were carrying an industrial sized can of mace. For a guy like Ramirez, this wasn't a problem. He fit the neighborhood perfectly, just a little on the fringes of dangerous himself. But, for a barely-tall-enough to make the height requirements at Six Flags blonde wearing a pink sundress and matching rhinestone studded pumps, it was the kind of neighborhood where I wouldn't want to loiter on the front porch.

  But it wasn't his shady neighbors that had me biting the traces of frosting off my lip.

  First he showed up to take me to a family function, then he used the “G” word, now he wanted to take me home? This was more attention than I'd gotten from Ramirez in weeks. Months. Maybe ever. The neurotic side of me started to wonder if it was because he liked me, or because I'd suddenly turned into a case.

  Though, I didn't have time to wonder long.

  "Ready?" he asked, his voice so close that his hot breath tickled my ear. My body responded immediately, sending a quiver through my belly that ended somewhere slightly lower.

  I told Neurotic Chick to give it a rest. Haven't-gotten-any-in-longer-than-Dana Chick needed a night out.

  "Ready."

  * * *

  Half an hour later I was standing in Ramirez's living room wondering if everyone in L.A. had a nicer place than mine.

  Heavy, wood furnishing filled the room, along with overstuffed chairs and a dark, leather sofa. A copy of the L.A. Times, opened to the sports section, littered the top of a dark, maple coffee table, along with a remote control that looked like it could land the space shuttle. A big screen TV took up one wall, while a fireplace with a thick wood mantel spanned the other. The walls were painted a warm coffee color and decorated with family photos, dozens of smiling, framed faces staring back at me. Overall, the room was cozy, yet completely guy. I'd never really pictured Ramirez as having a home, but now that I was standing in it, I realized it fit him perfectly.

  "Nice place," I said, peeking down the small hallway to the right. I could see a couple of bedrooms and what I assumed was a bath at the end.

  Ramirez took off his jacket, throwing it casually over the back of a Lay-Z-Boy pointed at the TV. "Well, it's old, needs a little work still. But it's a nice place to come home to."

  "Well, it certainly beats my place at the moment."

  At the mention of my apartment slash crime scene, he got a slightly pained look, his eyebrows pinching together in concern. "Look, Maddie, I need you to promise me something."

  I licked my lower lip. "Okay…"

  "Promise me that if you ever see this guy again, see his car, or see any more boxes on your doorstep, promise that you'll call me first."

  I opened my mouth to respond, but Ramirez talked right over me.

  "Not call Dana to pull another Lucy and Ethel act. Not call your mother to borrow a can of pepper spray…"

  "She forced that stuff on me!" I protested, "I didn't even want it!"

  Ramirez crossed the room in one quick stride, standing just inches from me. "Please, Maddie, just promise me you're going to keep me in the loop from now on. No more half-cocked, harebrained schemes, okay?"

  I nodded. "I promise." Honestly, his concern was touching. Even if the whole “harebrain
ed” thing was a little uncalled for.

  "Thank you," he said, his voice softer. And lower. His eyes roved my face, the pleading look fading into something darker and a whole lot more inviting.

  He leaned in, his breath hovering over my lips, his body pressing tightly against mine.

  Yowza.

  I felt my breath catch in my throat as evidence of Ramirez's Mr. Haven't-gotten-any-in-a-while pressed against me.

  He reached one hand out and slid it around my middle, the scents of aftershave and leather warring together as he nibbled at my lower lip. He smelled good. Really good. Almost good enough to overpower the lingering smell of icing on my dress.

  And then he really kissed me. Covering my mouth with his in a slow, sensual movement. Trailing his hand up my waist and inside my sundress.

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

  “But I'm covered in cake,” I protested. (Feebly, I might add.)

  He got that big bad wolf look in his eyes.

  “I like cake.”

  He leaned in and nipped at my ear. I shivered as his lips glided over my skin, licking a stray smudge of frosting from my cheek.

  I sighed. Yes, actually out loud. He was that good.

  He slipped one strap off my shoulder… then the other. And suddenly he was nibbling a whole lot lower. I groaned and refrained from pointing out that there wasn’t any cake there.

  "So, does this mean all is forgiven?" I asked, going slightly light-headed as his hands slid up my thigh, taking my hemline with them.

  He chuckled, his hot breath tickling the hollow of my throat. "Maybe."

  His mouth dipped lower, leaving a shuddering trail down the V of my top. "Maybe? Anything I can do to convince you?"

  He paused. Then did a big wicked grin that was all teeth.

  "Oh, yeah."

  In one fluid movement he wrapped his arm around my waist and lifted me off the ground, carrying me down the little hallway were I got the close, personal tour of his bedroom.

  All night long.