Summer Spying with Gemma Halliday
Gemma Halliday is a talent to be reckoned with. After leaving Dorchester Publishing she went indie with her High Heels mystery series and has become a NYT Bestselling author. Not only is she talented, and very generous in sharing her time and knowledge with other authors, she’s a sweetheart.
Spying in High Heels Is her first donation to the Summer Heat Giveaway. If you think mysteries aren’t for you, I dare you to give this series a try, because it will hook you!
Excerpt:
I was late.
And I don’t mean the kind of late where I spent too much time doing my
hair and was now stuck in traffic. I mean I was late late. The kind
of late where the 99% effective warnings on the side of condom boxes
flashed before my eyes as I white knuckled my way down the 405,
silently screaming, why me? Why, oh why me? I’m a new millennium
girl. I took copious notes in 6th grade Sex Ed. I carry just-in-case
condoms in the zippered section of my purse. And, after that first
singularly awkward experience in the back of Todd Hanson’s ‘82 Chevy
after junior prom, I have been meticulously careful. Me. I was late.
And I was not taking it well.
“Dana?” Silence. “Dana, I need to talk to you.” Silence. “I swear
to God if you are screening me I am never speaking to you again.”
I switched my cell phone to the other hand as I changed lanes,
narrowly avoiding a collision with a pick-up that had “wash me” carved
in opaque dust, before continuing my desperate pleas into my best
friend’s answering machine.
“Dana, please, please, please pick up? Please?” I paused. Nothing.
“All right, I guess you really aren’t there. But please, please,
please call me back as soon as you get this message. I mean pronto.
This is a serious code red, 911 emergency. I need to talk to you
now!” I punctuated this last word by laying on my horn as a bald guy
in a convertible cut me off then had the audacity to give me the
finger. Welcome to L.A.
I flipped my phone shut, breaking a French tipped nail in the process,
and counted to ten, trying to remember some of that calming yoga
breathing from the one class Dana had dragged me to last month.
Unfortunately, at the time I’d had my full attention focused on not
falling flat on my face during a downward facing dog, and I think I
was beginning to hyperventilate.
I merged onto the 10 freeway, glancing down at the digital readout on
my dashboard clock, and realized with a twist of irony that I was now
not only late, but late. As in not on time to meet my boyfriend,
Richard Howe, for lunch. He’d made one o’clock reservations at
Giani’s and it was now twelve fifty-eight. I eased my suede ankle
boot (which had maxed out my Macy’s card, but was so worth it!) down
just a little harder on the accelerator, after checking the rearview
mirror to make sure the highway patrol was nowhere in sight. Not that
I was speeding. Much. But considering the day I’d had so far, an
encounter with the CHP was not on my list of to-do’s.
As I checked for motorcycle cops, I also gave myself a quick once over
in the mirror. Not bad considering I was having the freak out of my
life. My ash blond hair was still tucked into a flattering half
twist, a few flyaways but the messy look was in, right? I pulled out
a tube of Raspberry Perfection lip-gloss and applied a thin swipe
across my lips, ignoring the obscene gestures from the guy behind me.
Hey, if a girl in a crisis doesn’t have her lipstick, what does she
have?
I’m proud to say I only got flipped off two more times before pulling
my little red Jeep (top up today as a concession to my hair) into the
parking garage on the corner of 7th and Grand. I fastened The Club
securely on my steering wheel and prepared to hoof it the two blocks
to my boyfriend’s firm where I was supposed to meet him… I looked down
at my watch… damn. Twelve minutes ago. Well, on the up side, as soon
as I told him about being late, I had a feeling he’d forget all about
my being late.
A conversation I was seriously dreading. In my mind it went something
like this: Hi Richard, sorry I’m late, by the way I may be having your
child. Insert cartoon sound of Richard hitting the door at
roadrunner-like speeds. Ugh. There was just no good way to ease into
information like that. We’d only been dating for a few months. We
hadn’t even made it to the shopping at Bed, Bath and Beyond stage yet,
and suddenly we had to have this conversation? I adjusted my bra
strap as I walked, tucking it back under my tank top, trying like
anything to present the appearance of a woman with it all together.
And not a woman trying to remember which pregnancy test commercial
touted early results with digital readouts.
Exactly fourteen minutes behind schedule I walked into the law offices
of Dewy, Cheatum and Howe. In reality the firm was called Donaldson,
Chesterton, and Howe. But I couldn’t resist the nickname.
Considering the type of clientele they represented (the Chanel and
Rolex crowd) it fit like an imported, calfskin glove.
Beyond the frosted front doors maroon carpeting yawned across the
reception area, muffling the sound of my heels as I made my way to the
front desk. The large oval of dark woods stretched along the back
wall of the spacious room, flanked on either side by more frosted
doors leading to the conference rooms and offices beyond. The faint
clicking of keyboards and muffled conversations billed at three
hundred dollars an hour filled the background.
“May I help you?” asked the Barbie doll behind the desk. Jasmine. Or
as I liked to call her, Miss PP. As in plastic parts. Jasmine spent
two thirds of her salary every month on cosmetic procedures. This
week her lips were collagen swollen to Angelina Jolie standards. Last
month it was new boobs, double D of course. As usual, her bleached
blond hair was moussed within an inch of its life, giving her an extra
two inches on her already annoying height of 5’6”. I’m what could be
referred to as a petite person, topping out at an impressive 5’1 ½” on
a good day. I was lucky if I made the height requirement on half the
rides at Six Flags.
“I’m here to see Richard,” I informed Miss PP.
“Do you have an appointment with Mr. Howe?” Her blue eyes blinked
(with difficulty due to the brow lift two months ago) in an innocent
gesture that I knew was anything but. Jasmine’s sole entertainment
here at Dewy, Cheatum and Howe was wielding the power of entry to the
sacred offices beyond the frosted doors.
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Yes. As a matter of fact I do.”
“And you are?”
I tried not to roll my eyes. I’d met Richard here for lunch every
Friday afternoon for the past five months. She knew who I was and by
the tiny smile at the corner of her Angelina lips, she was enjoying
this all too much.
“Maddie Springer. His girlfriend. I’m here for a lunch date.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Springer, but you’ll have to wait. He’s with someone
in the conference room right now.”
“Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?” I mumbled as I sat
in one of the tan, leather chairs punctuating the waiting area.
Jasmine didn’t answer, smirking instead (which looked a lot like an
Elvis lip curl in her new super-sized lips) as she opened what I’d
guess was a game of solitaire on her computer and pretended to look
busy. I picked up a copy of Cosmo from the end table and began
flipping through the pages of drool worthy designer clothes I could
never afford. Or fit into if I was actually pregnant. Oh God. What
a depressing thought.
After what seemed like an eternity of listening to Jasmine’s acrylic
nails click against her keyboard, Richard walked into the reception
area. Despite the anxiety building in my stomach, I couldn’t help a
little yummy sigh at the sight of him. Richard was six foot one and
all lean muscle. He was a religious runner, doing 10k’s for all the
charities in his spare time. Muscular dystrophy, autism, even the
breast cancer run last April. When we first started dating he tried
to get me to run with him once. Just once. My idea of a cardio
workout was elbowing my way through Nordstrom during the half-yearly
super sale. Running was something I didn’t do. Besides, I figured if
the heels were high enough, walking the two blocks from my apartment
to the corner Starbucks burned almost as many calories as running,
right?
Today Richard’s blonde hair was perfectly gelled into place in a
casual wave, a la early Robert Redford. He was wearing a dark gray
suit, paired with a white shirt and tasteful paisley printed tie. He
looked downright delish and I resisted the urge to throw myself into
his arms, unloading all my worries onto the shoulder of his wool suit.
Another man exited the offices with him, the two of them deep in
conversation. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but whatever
it was had Richard’s sandy brows drawn together in a look of concern.
The other guy was dressed in Levis, worn with faded patches along the
thighs and seat, and a navy blazer over a form fitting black T-shirt.
His shoulders were broad and he had the sort of compact build that
made you instantly think prizefighter. A white scar cut into his
eyebrow, breaking up his tanned complexion. Dark hair, dark eyes and
the sort of hard look about him that usually went along with prison
tattoos. I hoped Richard wasn’t branching out into criminal defense.
I waited until they’d shook hands and the other guy had walked out of
the lobby before approaching Richard.
“Hi honey,” I said, standing on tiptoe to place a kiss on his cheek.
“Hi.” He was still staring after the felon, his tone distracted as if
I’d just interrupted him during football season.
“Who was that?”
“Nobody.”
The way Richard was still staring after Mr. Nobody led me to believe
that wasn’t exactly true. However, I had bigger things to think about
than Richard’s latest client. Like being late.
“You’re late.”
“Huh?” I whirled around, panic rising like bile in my throat. Good
God, could he tell already? Insanely I looked down to my abdomen as
if it might have grown six inches in the last thirty seconds.
“We had reservations for one.”
Oh. That late.
“Sorry, there was traffic on the 405. We’ll just go somewhere else.
How about the Cabo Cantina?”
Richard was still staring at the closed glass doors where Mr. Nobody
had exited. I wondered again who the man was. He didn’t look like
Richard’s typical clients and he certainly didn’t give off that new
car scent of another lawyer.
“I, uh, don’t think I’m going to make lunch today after all.
Something’s kind of come up.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.” Am I a totally bad person that I was actually a
little relieved? At least we didn’t have to have that conversation
now. At least now I had a little time to come up with a better way of
dropping the bombshell than, “Richard, we’ve got to buy stronger
condoms.” Hmm… I wondered if I could sue Trojan over this?
“Sorry, Maddie. I’ll call you later, I promise.”
“That’s okay. I understand. I’ll talk to you tonight then?”
“Sure. Tonight.” He gave me a quick peck on the cheek before
disappearing back through the frosted doors and into the bowels of
Dewy, Cheatum and Howe. Jasmine looked up just long enough to give me
an Elvis smirk before going back to her solitaire game.
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