I heard the wooden door slide on its tracks and eased one eye open, saying a silent thank you that he’d opened the other side of the closet and I was still in shadows. I held my breath, certain that my every inhale was as loud as a jackhammer in the silence.
Mr. Nobody looked at the clothes hanging in the closet. He squinted his dark eyes at them almost as if he were mentally counting.
“Shit.” He breathed the word on an exhale, then turned around and stalked out of the room. His boots continued to echo all the way down the hall and out the door, which he shut behind him with a crash that sent my teeth chattering. Or maybe they were doing that all on their own. I realized I was shaking and wrapped a wool sweater around myself as I sat in the dark closet for a full two minutes before venturing back out into the room.
I don’t know what Mr. Nobody would have done had he seen me there, but the gun poking out of his Levi’s was not reassuring.
I slowly ducked my head out the bedroom door. No sign of the bad man. I tiptoed as quickly as I could down the hall, slinked out the front door and sprinted across the street to my car as if I were dodging gunfire. Once inside I locked the doors, removed the club and revved up the engine, my hands still shaking as I adjusted the air conditioning controls.
I closed my eyes, taking deep breaths as I took stock. I was in one piece. Mr. Nobody hadn’t seen me. No bullet holes and I hadn’t wet myself. All was well.
Okay not all was well. Richard had obviously packed for a trip. That much was plain to both Mr. Nobody and me. A trip where? And why? Richard hadn’t mentioned a trip, and by the way an armed man had broken into his place, I didn’t envision it was a planned Club Med getaway. Was he hiding somewhere? Was he in trouble? Considering Richard thought claiming lunch with me as a deduction was unethical, I found it hard to believe
I wondered if I should call the police. But I wasn’t entirely sure Mr. Nobody had actually committed a crime. Breaking into a man’s house and going through his underwear drawer. In fact, I wasn’t even entirely sure he did break in. Had I locked the door behind me? I’d been a little preoccupied to notice.
God, I hoped Richard was all right. What would I do if he wasn’t? What about our potential unborn child? Again I felt that bout of possible morning sickness swell over me. I swear to God if Richard was just in the Bahamas, I was going to kill him.
Just then my purse rang. I jumped so far into the air I almost hit the roof of my car, adrenalin pumping through every limb of my body. I reached into my bag and flipped open my Motorola. My mother’s number popped up on the caller ID. If it was anyone else, I would have ignored it. But knowing Mom, she’d send the National Guard looking for me if I didn’t pick up by the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
“Maddie, you haven’t forgotten have you?”
“Of course not.” I racked my brain. Forgotten what?
“Good. Because we made reservations for five and Ralph’s canceling his last appointment so he can join us.”
Right. Ralph, a.k.a. Faux Dad, the owner of Fernando’s, the hottest place on Rodeo, and my soon to be step-daddy. I still wasn’t 110% convinced Faux Dad was straight, but I loved the discounted manicures.
Mom had hooked up with Ralph when, after twenty-five years as a single parent, Mom had discovered the wonders of internet dating and signed up for Match.com. Desperate to make a big re-entry into the dating scene, she’d gone to Fernando’s for a full make-over, where Ralph chopped, styled and colored her hair into a near masterpiece. After three months of flirtatious cut and colors, Mom was surprised to learn that not only was Ralph straight (allegedly), but his interest in her went way beyond her curly locks. Five months later they were planning a beautiful ceremony in Malibu, overlooking the ocean cliffs for a week from Saturday. I was to be the maid of honor and tonight Mom was laying official duty number three thousand on me. Planning her bachelorette party.
I debated fabricating an excuse to skip dinner. My hands were still shaking and, though my heart had slowed from NASCAR to L.A. freeway, I still had that jittery feeling in my chest like I was ready to fight or take flight any minute. However, knowing Mom (see National Guard reference) canceling dinner would lead to more questions than I currently had answers for. So I gave in.
“Right. No, I’ll be there. Five thirty, right?”
“Five!” my mother yelled into the phone.
“Right.” I looked down at my watch. Four forty-seven. Considering traffic on the 134 at this hour, I’d be cutting it close. “I was just getting in the car, Mom. I’ll meet you there.”
“Good. And don’t be late.”
I pretended not to hear that last comment. “You’re breaking up, Mom. Sorry, gotta go.”
* * *
At exactly five twenty-nine I pulled up to Garibaldi’s restaurant in Studio City. I might have been on time had I not spent the entire drive over looking in my rearview mirror for any sign of Mr. Nobody lurking behind me. Thankfully, I saw none. But, paranoia lesson number one, that didn’t mean he wasn’t there.
I found a spot on the street and parallel parked between a Jag and a Dodge Dart on its last leg. Luckily I was wearing my ready-for-anything Spiga slingbacks, so the block and a half hardly even hurt my feet at the near sprint. Faux Dad was outside talking on his cell phone, a frown of concentration on his tanned face. Faux tan of course. When he hit Beverly Hills Ralph transformed himself from mid-western farm boy into Fernando, the European hair sculptor. He figured the chances of 90210’s elite frequenting a salon called “Ralph’s” were slim to none. Unfortunately, Ralph’s family was Swiss German, so to keep up with faux Spanish roots he indulged in magic tan sprays twice a week.
Ralph’s face broke into a smile when he saw me and he lifted a hand in greeting, gesturing inside.
The hostess, dressed in all black right down to her black eyeliner and gothic chic black lipstick, directed me to a linen sheathed table in the middle of the room where my mother sat, looking down at her watch and pursing her thin lips.
“Maddie, you’re late.”
I wished people would stop pointing that out.
I leaned down and gave her an air-kiss. “Sorry, Mom, there was traffic.”
Mom rolled her eyes. While they were the same hazelish green as mine, hers were framed in that familiar pale blue eye-shadow she’d been wearing since before it became fashionable again. She had on a pair of black stirrup pants straight from 1986 and a sweater tank embroidered with a calico kitten on the front. I silently thanked the gods I hadn’t inherited her fashion sense.
“You completely forgot, didn’t you?” she said.
“I would have remembered.”
“Right.” Neither of us was truly convinced. “Anyway,” she continued as I sat down, “I have a preliminary seating chart I want you to take a look at. And,” she added, her eyes taking on an evil twinkle, “I found the perfect place for my bachelorette party.”
Uh oh.
“Where?” I asked, truly fearing the answer.
“Beefcakes.”
The fear was justified.
“Beefcakes?”
“It’s full of…” Mom leaned in close, whispering. “Male strippers.” She wiggled her eyebrows up and down in a way that made me queasy again.
“You sure you don’t want to have a spa day with the girls instead?” I pleaded.
“Oh come on, Maddie. Lighten up. It’ll be fun. Besides, I’m getting married, I’m not dead. I can still appreciate the male form in all its glory.”
Yep. I was going to throw up.
“Oh, and we need a final count for the reception. I only ordered one tent for the buffet so I only pray it doesn’t rain.” Mom made a little sign of the cross.
“This is L.A., Mom. It never rains.” Slight exaggeration on my part, but since Los Angelinos considered three inches a monsoon, we were probably pretty safe. Not to mention this was July. The weather gods wouldn’t dare dump rain in the middle of tourist season. Charlton Heston would be after them w
ith his shotgun.
“So,” Mom asked, scanning the patrons behind me, “where’s Richard.”
That’s what I’d like to know.
“He couldn’t make it tonight,” I answered instead. Hoping she’d leave it at that. I still wasn’t sure what to think about Mr. Armed and Dangerous in Richard’s apartment, but I knew I didn’t yet have an edited-for-Mom version.
“Oh that’s too bad,” she said.
Luckily I was saved further comment on my boyfriend’s dubious whereabouts as an aproned waiter brought three plates of salad to the table.
“What’s this?” I asked, realizing I hadn’t eaten since this morning and was suddenly famished.
“Ripe summer pears and crumbled gorgonzola over fresh baby greens,” Mom quoted.
I took a bite. Delicious. Okay, so maybe I had to hear about the dreaded bachelorette party, but at least this beat the Hamburger Helper sitting in my kitchen cupboard.
I was stabbing a second pear and making little yummy sounds when Ralph finally joined us. He stooped down and deposited a kiss on my cheek before taking the seat beside me. “Sorry ladies, I had to take that. Perm emergency.”
“Perm emergency?” Mom asked.
“I told Francine not to re-color her hair for forty-eight hours after her set, but did she listen to me? No. Now she looks like an auburn haired French Poodle. She’s coming in tomorrow morning for damage control.”
Mom and I both nodded appropriately.
“So,” Mom said, folding her hands in front of her and sitting up straighter in her chair. “Now that you’re both here, I have an announcement.” She looked pointedly at me. “Guess who’s pregnant?”
A ripe summer pear stuck in my throat.
There was no way she could possibly know, could she? Was I showing a belly already? Were my boobs swelling? Did I have that rosy pregnant glow? I knew I should have powdered in the car before coming in.
Luckily before I could blurt out that I was just a little late, Mom ended the guessing game. “Molly!”
I swallowed the pear, relief washing over me. Of course. My cousin, Molly. Or as she was known in our family, The Breeder. She’d already popped out three rug rats in four years. I think she was going for some sort of record. Which of course made my grandmother very happy. There’s nothing an Irish Catholic family loves more than a prolific breeder.
“That’s really great,” I said with about as much enthusiasm as a lithium addict.
“Great? It’s fabu!” Faux Dad shouted.
Okay, so I was 80% sure he was straight.
“Oh,” he said, waving his hands in the air, “One of my clients does the most darling little baby baskets. She takes a bassinet and fills it with organic teddy bears and hand knitted little booties. Stuff so sweet it makes your teeth rot.”
“Oh, that sounds perfect! We have to get her one of those,” Mom gushed. “What do you say, Maddie. Want to go baby shopping with me?”
Actually I didn’t. In fact this whole conversation was making me break out in hives. The more I thought about Molly and her three and a half little munchkins, hand knitted baby booties, and most of all the unopened pregnancy kit sitting on my kitchen counter I wanted to bolt out of the room and scream some choice obstinacies at my boyfriend for buying defective condoms. Only I couldn’t. Because I had no idea where Richard was and more likely than not I’d just be leaving more messages on his answering machine that Mr. Nobody would later play for his own personal amusement.
“Hey, aren’t we missing someone?” Faux Dad asked, looking across the table at the empty seat. “Where’s Richard?”
That, as I was about to find out, was the million dollar question.
SPYING IN HIGH HEELS
Buy now for Amazon Kindle!
Also available:
Killer in High Heels
Undercover in High Heels
Alibi in High Heels
Mayhem in High Heels
Fearless in High Heels
Christmas in High Heels (short story)
Sweetheart in High Heels (short story)
* * * * *
SNEAK PEEK
of the brand new
Anna Smith-Nick Dade Thriller
by Gemma Halliday:
PLAY NICE
Prologue
“Take it off.”
Anya looked across the over-furnished room at the man who’d issued the command. General Fedorov. Fifties, salt and pepper hair, eyes as dark as two bottomless pits. He took a deceptively casual position, leaning back in a plush, velvet armchair, one leg crossed over the other. But Anya wasn’t fooled. She could see the tension still present in his limbs, as if he were ready to pounce at the slightest provocation. He held a lit cigar in one hand, the cloyingly sweet scent tickling her nostrils as she complied, slipping the strap of her dress down her right shoulder, then the left. She shimmed her hips until it fell to the floor, leaving her bare beneath his gaze but for the red, patent leather heels on her feet.
“Like this?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Fedorov nodded, looked her up and down. A flicker of appreciation crossed his sharp features. He took another long drag from the cigar, as if dragging in the sight of her, then slowly blew it up toward the ceiling.
“Come closer.”
Her stomach clenched. But she did. Her long legs crossing the distance between them until she was standing directly in front of him, so close she could feel the heat emanating from his body.
“And now?” she asked.
“Kneel down.”
Again, Anya did as she was told, her bare knees hitting the cool marble floor. She swallowed a shot of apprehension, noticing the growing bulge beneath his tailored slacks.
You’ve done this a thousand times before. You can do it again.
One last time.
“And now?” she asked. Even though she knew full well what “and now” would be. They’d been watching him for weeks. They knew his habits, his mannerisms, what kind of soap he washed with in the morning and what color socks he wore at night. What kind of cigars he smoked and what kind of recreation he indulged in. Blondes. Expensive ones. If they were lucky, he let them leave in the morning. Others became just another casualty of war.
Fedorov reached out, trailing a finger down Anya’s cheek. His hands were rough, calloused, like him. She shivered but leaned into his touch all the same, doing a kitten-like mew deep in her throat. He gave an answering groan, telling her she’d done her research well. He liked.
His hand left her face, and Anya could swear she felt her skin sigh in relief. Fedorov moved to set his cigar down, his free hand reaching for his zipper.
“No. Let me,” Anya purred, sliding her hands up the expensive wool fabric that covered his thighs. “Please,” she begged.
A smirk crossed his features before he picked up his cigar again.
He liked it when they begged.
She smiled up at him, holding his eyes as she slowly lowered his zipper. She did another feminine coo, letting her eyes flicker to him as she licked her lips.
He chuckled, leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes in anticipation.
Anya’s heart pounded in her chest, her hands shook. No matter how many times she did this, nerves always hit her. She supposed some small part of her was glad. At least it was a sign she was still human, still had some notion of right and wrong. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath.
Then quickly thrust the zipper back upward, jamming Fedorov’s scrotum in the sharp teeth.
He howled, hands going to his crotch as he jumped to his feet.
But not quickly enough. Anya’s right hand shot out and grabbed the double action revolver he always kept strapped to his right ankle. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t think, didn’t feel.
Just aimed and pulled the trigger.
The first shot took out his right knee, sending him to the ground just long enough for Anya to put some distance between them. She backed up, quickly firing off another
to his temple. He hit the ground with a sickening thud, and the room was plunged into eerie silence.
Two deep breaths, in and out. Anya’s heart pounded in her ears, her hands steady now as they held the revolver straight-armed in front of her. Mission accomplished. It was done.
And done well.
She could almost hear the praise of her handler’s voice echoing in her head.
Perfect shot, my dragi, my darling. Now get out.
Three seconds. She knew in three seconds his bodyguards would be at the door. A quiet syringe to the neck would have made escape easier, but in the skimpy dress Fedorov had wanted her to wear there’d been nowhere to hide it. She’d had to work with what she had on hand. Noisy as it was.
Two seconds.
Anya grabbed her dress, slipping it back over her head as she dove for the pair of French doors leading onto the balcony. She quickly pushed one open. But instead of jumping toward freedom she slipped behind the heavy, velvet curtain at its side, holding her breath.
She heard the doors to the general’s bedroom burst open, a cacophony of shouting voices drowning each other out as bodyguards swarmed the room. Anya closed her eyes, trying to make out how many. Three. Maybe four? Heavy footsteps hit the polished floor, running to the body, down the hall, toward the French doors. She was sure her heart was pounding loudly enough to match the stomping rhythm of their boots.
The scent of cheap cologne warned her one of the Russians was approaching her hiding spot. She closed her eyes, letting her knuckles go white as they tightened around the revolver.
He shouted something to his pals, so close that his voice made her jump. He’d noticed the open door. More footsteps, leading out onto the balcony. More shouting. A thin line of sweat trickled down Anya’s back as she clutched the gun to her thigh. If they found her, she was done. She was good, but three to one were odds no one could escape from. Especially when the three were trained killers.
Hollywood Confessions Page 24