Sweetheart In High Heels Part 5

"Look at my shoe," she said, lifting her right foot. "You broke my heel! How am I supposed to present the award for best comedy actress with a broken heel?" She scowled at me, narrowing her eyes.

Was it wrong that a little part of me was giggling inside at the thought that Betty White scowled at me?

I am so sorry," I repeated again. "Here, let me see if I can fix it," I offered, getting down on my hands and knees as I inspected Betty's foot. "I'm a professional."

"A professional what?" Betty scoffed.

"Shoe designer." I stood up. "And, unfortunately, my professional opinion is that this shoe is toast."

"Well, I could have told you that," she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"What size are you?" I asked.

"What size shoe? Seven," Betty said. "Why?"

I took a deep breath and made the ultimate sacrifice for my comedy idol. "Take my shoes."

"What?"

I slipped the crystal t-straps off, losing four inches of height instantly. "Take these. They're sevens, and they're designer originals. They don't match your dress exactly," I said, taking in her bright turquoise outfit, "but they're better than going barefoot."

Betty took a shoe in one hand, turned it over, inspected all sides. "Nice," she finally said. "Okay, I'll trade." She slipped her broken shoe off, along with the matching pump on the other foot, and swapped with me.

"I have to say, I'm not used to heels this high," she said, suddenly towering over me in my stilettos. "Between these and the suffocating unitard I've got on under this dress, I'll be lucky if I can make it onto the stage."

I nodded. "I hear ya. The Spanx are horrible, aren't they?"

Betty laughed. "Oh, honey, I'm about twenty years past Spanx. I've got industrial grade latex holding this body in. I tell you, I'm suffocating under here."

I paused, staring at her. "Wait - what did you just say?'

Betty blinked. "What? What did I say?"

"Latex," I repeated. And then I knew just how Peach had died.

"It was the latex suits she made," I told Dana three hours later as we rode in Ricky's limo to the post-awards party.

It had been all I could do to contain my theory to myself as I watched one star after another thank everyone they'd ever met from their agent to their third grade music teacher all through the show. Never had an awards show crawled by so slowly. But by the time I finally met up with Dana again in the lobby, I was sure I knew exactly what had happened that morning at the Pleasure Den.

"What about the latex suits?" Dana asked, leaning in.

"Gage said Peach was creating an original line of latex wear. Well, suppose she was making something new that day, something that wasn't quite finished, and, when she went to try it on, it got stuck on her. The latex is so tight and unforgiving, all it would take would be a few seconds of it covering her face and she wouldn't be able to breathe. She'd pa.s.s out and suffocate with the latex costume on."

"But the police didn't find her wearing any latex," Dana pointed out.

I nodded. "I know. Someone must have come in and seen her dead like that. They took the suit off and stabbed her, making it look like she'd died from stab wounds instead of suffocation."

"But why would anyone do that?" Ricky asked. "I mean, dead is dead. What's the difference how it happened?"

"None, to Peach. But it made a difference to the suit."

Dana raised an eyebrow at me. "The suit?"

"Remember how Gage told us the latex was a huge seller? Chances were if someone died in one of their latex suits, it would affect business. Big time. If it got out that the suits weren't safe, the shop was finished."

"So, Gage did it! Wow, how did you figure that out?"

"Well, I had a little help," I admitted. "I called Ramirez during the musical number and told him about the latex. He did some digging through the evidence CSU collected from the shop and found a latex suit in the trash that had Peach's DNA all over it. It also had Gage's fingerprints. When they confronted him with the evidence, he broke down and confessed."

"So he found her in the suit?"

I nodded. "He immediately realized what it would mean for the shop, so he ditched the latex and stabbed her with a box cutter from the store room to make it look like she'd died that way."

Dana bit her lip. "But he didn't really kill her. I guess the s.e.x Shop Murder was really just the s.e.x Shop Tragedy."

"That's right." I nodded. "Peach's death was purely an accident. Everyone was right. She really was too sweet for anyone to have wanted to hurt her."

"Poor Peach," Dana said, looking down at her hands. "What a way to go."

"And her partner. Gage?" Ricky asked. "What's going to happen with him?"

"Ramirez said they charged him with obstruction, but he thought the DA would go lightly on him."

"And Ramirez?" Dana asked. "Now that the case is closeda." she said, trailing off.

I grinned. "Ramirez has tomorrow night off."

I turned onto my side on the bed, showing off the ruffles along the bodice of the pink lingerie I'd bought just before heading to our romantic rendezvous at the Beverly Hilton. Yes, I'd taken Dana's advice after all and bought lingerie for Ramirez. However, I'd done so in the intimates section at Macy's and not at the Pleasure Den. I think we'd both had enough of that place to last us awhile.

Ramirez had gone in to the station early to finish up the paperwork on the case, but he'd promised on a stack of jelly donuts (not made by me) that he'd be here by 7 PM.

It was 6:58. And I was poised to be perfect when he made his entrance.

I tried out a pouty look in the mirror across from the bed, abandoned that idea (I looked more p.i.s.sed than s.e.xy), then went for a coy smile, instead. Much better.

I pasted the coy look on my face and stared at the door, careful not to move as I had the ruffled bottom of the baby doll slip strategically placed on my thigh to cover all the good stuffa for now. (wink, wink) 6:59. 7:01. 7:05.

By ten after, my right hand was falling asleep from being propped under me, and the smile was starting to make my cheeks ache. I took a deep breath and gave up, abandoning my pose for the moment. I shook out my legs and arms, grabbing for my cell on the night table to make sure I hadn't missed a call telling me someone else had had the nerve to get murdered in his jurisdiction on our Valentine's anniversary. I reached for my phonea but instead of connecting, my still-asleep arm collapsed under me and I fell right off the bed.

"Uhn." I landed on my face, my baby doll hiked up over my b.u.t.t, my lace bodice twisted under me.

And, of course, that's when I heard my husband's voice.

"Maddie?"

I squinted my eyes shut, embarra.s.sment was.h.i.+ng over me. "Uh, hi."

"Hi. Watcha doing down there?" he asked, a grin lacing his voice.

I cleared my throat, pulling myself up off the floor with as much dignity as I could. "Waiting for you," I said, tugging the hem of my lingerie down. "You're late."

Ramirez glanced at the clock on the nightstand. "A little," he admitted. "But, I'm here."

"Huh." I crossed my arms over my chest, not yet ready to let this one go. Especially since he'd caught me on the floor and not in my perfect s.e.xy-coy pose.

"I think you should forgive me," Ramirez said, taking a step toward me. "Because I brought you something."

He held out a box to me. It was pink, about a foot long, and wide.

"Shoes?' I squealed, all immediately forgiven as I grabbed it from him and tore the top off.

"Not just any shoes," he said as I pulled them from the tissue.

He was right. They were the shoes I'd had specially made for the Viewer's Choice Awards and given to Betty White.

"OhmiG.o.d, where did you get these?"

Ramirez grinned. "I have a friend on the force who knows Betty's personal a.s.sistant. She got them back for you."

"You are the best!" I said, wrapping my arms around his neck.

"Check inside the strap," he instructed.

I did, turning the shoes over. Along the interior of the leather T-strap, in permanent sharpie marker, was Betty White's autograph. I think I squealed again.

"These are now officially the best pair of shoes I own." I smiled at him. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Happy Valentine's anniversary, Maddie," he said, coming in for a kiss.

A very warm, soft kiss that made me tingle in all the right places.

"So," he said when we finally came up for air. "Remember when I said I'd make all those missed dinners up to you?"

"Yes?" I said.

Ramirez grinned, his eyes going dark and wicked. "Lock the door."

About the author: Gemma Halliday is the author of the High Heels Mysteries, the Hollywood Headlines Mysteries, and the Deadly Cool series of young adult books. Gemma's books have received numerous awards, including a Golden Heart, a National Reader's Choice award and three RITA nominations. She currently lives in the San Francis...o...b..y Area where she is hard at work on several new projects.

To learn more about Gemma, visit her online at http://www.gemmahalliday.com Connect with Gemma on Facebook at: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Gemma-Halliday/285144192552 * * * * *

OTHER BOOKS BY GEMMA HALLIDAY.

High Heels Mysteries: Spying in High Heels 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) Hollywood Headlines Mysteries: Hollywood Scandals Hollywood Secrets Hollywood Confessions Anna Smith-Nick Dade Thrillers: Play Nice Young Adult Books: Deadly Cool Social Suicide Other Works: Viva Las Vegas Haunted (novella) Watching You (short story) Confessions of a Bombsh.e.l.l Bandit (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 s.h.i.+mmed 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. .h.i.tting 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 s.h.i.+vered 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.