Alibi In High Heels

Gemma Halliday Alibi In High Heels

The fourth book in the Maddie Springer series, 2008

Chapter One

I love shoes.

I mean, I really really love them. If my tiny studio apartment in Santa Monica were, heaven forbid, to go up in a blazing inferno, the one thing I would rush back inside to save would be my favorite pair of strappy silver slingbacks. Granted, I'm single, live alone, and have never been able to keep a houseplant alive, let alone a pet. But still. It's bordering on obsession.

So, it came as no surprise that when an incident of minor Internet fame resulted in a trendy Beverly Hills boutique asking me to design a line of shoes for them, I squealed, squeaked and generally jumped around like a six year old minus her Ritalin. Thus far in my illustrious design career the biggest break I'd had was working for Tot Trots children's shoes where my SpongeBob slippers had been the top sellers at Payless last season. (Something to brag about or bury in a deep, dark corner of my resume? I still wasn't sure.)

But then things got even better when the first pair of Maddie Springer originals was sold to an up-and-coming young actress who just happened to be wearing them when she got arrested outside the Twilight Club on Sunset Boulevard for drug possession. Suddenly my shoes were all over Entertainment Tonight, Access Hollywood, and even CNN. I got calls from the hippest boutiques in L.A. and Orange County, all clamoring to stock my line – aptly named High Heels Seduction.

And then the impossible happened. (Oh yeah, it gets better.) The utterly amazing best thing to enter my life since DSW started carrying Prada. Jean Luc Le Croix, the hottest new European fashion designer, asked me, little 'ol me, to come show my shoes in his fall runway collection at Paris Fashion Week.

Paris!

I had died and gone to heaven.

Not surprisingly, I first had a mild heart attack, then did a repeat of the six-year-old-Ritalin-addict thing.

What was surprising, however, was my boyfriend, Ramirez's, reaction to my news of the century.

'You're going where?' he asked.

'Paris.' I sighed the word, visions of the Eiffel Tower dancing in my head.

Ramirez rolled over in bed to face me, his dark eyebrows drawn together. 'What do you want to go to Paris for?'

'Are you kidding?' I sat up, covering my bare self with a sheet. Even though we'd been dating off and on for over a year now, I still had my modest moments around Ramirez. Probably due to the fact that I never quite knew what was going on behind those hooded eyes of his.

Detective Jack Ramirez was a homicide detective with a very big gun, a very big attitude, and a very big… well, let's just say that certain parts of his anatomy weren't entirely lacking in the size department either. He was tall, with a compact build that was all tight muscles and hard angles. Dark hair, dark brown eyes, and a dark intense look about him that made men wary and women drool. One white scar cut through his left eyebrow and he had a black panther tattooed on his bicep, the sleek, powerful lines of its back rippling along Ramirez's arm as he propped his head up on one hand, waiting for my answer.

'Why wouldn't I want to go to Paris? It's the fashion capital of the world! The home of haute couture, Chanel, Dior. The Eiffel Tower!'

'Where will you be staying?'

'Jean Luc has set up rooms for all of us involved with the show. We'll be at the Plaza Athenee. It's all taken care of.'

'Do you even speak French?'

I waved him off. 'I know how to ask where the bathroom is and, 'How much do those shoes cost?' I'll be fine.'

'I've heard the French can be pretty rude to American tourists.'

I pinned him with a look. 'Trust me. For Paris Fashion Week, I can handle a little rude.'

'Hmph.' Ramirez grunted, then shifted his weight, his half of the bed sheet slipping down his bare torso, exposing a six pack to make Budweiser jealous.

For a moment I completely forgot what we were talking about.

'How long?'

'What?' I snapped my eyes back up to meet his.

'How long will you be gone?'

'Oh. Uh, a couple of weeks. Three at the most. Jean Luc wants me there to help set up, and then of course I'll be there for the full Fashion Week. Maybe a few days after to help him pack up.'

Ramirez shook his head. 'I'm not thrilled about this.'

'Come on, Jack. Why not?' Had he not heard the Paris part?

'Maddie, I don't like the idea of a woman being in a foreign country all by herself.'

If the statement hadn't been so blatantly chauvinistic, I might have been touched by his concern.

'I won't be all by myself. There are tons of people involved with the show. Models, producers, designers. Besides, most of the time I'll be with Jean Luc.'

'Jean Luc.' Ramirez mulled over the name. 'I'm not sure that makes me feel any better.'

'Don't tell me you're jealous?' I asked coyly, reaching one finger out and tracing a line down Ramirez's granite chest.

He grinned. 'Of a guy named Jean Luc? You're kidding, right?'

I gave him a playful swat. 'Well, don't be. You have no idea what kind of work goes into Fashion Week. I'll be lucky if I have time to sleep, let alone ogle the male models.'

Ramirez narrowed his eyes at me. 'Male models? Now you are trying to make me jealous.'

I swatted him again. 'Don't worry, I'll be fine.'

'And, what about me?' He gave my sheet a teasing tug.

'What about you?'

'I'm not sure I'll be fine. Two weeks is a long time for a guy like me to be alone.'

'I'm sure you'll manage.'

'I don't know.' He traced a finger down my bare arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps. 'I'm getting kind of lonely just thinking about it.'

'You're a big baby, you know that?'

His grin widened.

'Besides, may I remind you that this is the first time I've even seen you in two weeks anyway?'

His smile faltered a little. 'Can't be.'

'Oh, yes.' I nodded my head for emphasis, my blonde hair bobbing up and down. 'Last weekend you had to cancel because of a shooting in South Central, then Wednesday it was the three car pile-up on the PCH, and Friday there was that stripper's body they found in the hills.'

Ramirez's one flaw in the boyfriend department was his devotion to his job. Not that I blamed him, he was damned good at it. In fact, it had been the way we'd originally met, when I'd stumbled onto a case of his involving my ex-boyfriend, $20 million in embezzled funds, and a string of dead bodies. But since then it had only served as a wedge between us, keeping Ramirez wrapped up at crime scenes and me at home watching Sex and