Alibi In High Heels

'Honey. Sweetie,' Jean Luc said, though the look on his face said he was mentally calling Gisella a whole host of less endearing names. 'That necklace is worth a lot of money. We have to find it.'

Gisella shrugged again. 'It could be anywhere.'

'Where was the last place you saw it? Retrace your steps.'

She blew a puff of air toward the ceiling, ruffling her stick straight bangs. 'Last night, I went to the party at Hotel de Crillon. Then, after, I go back to my own room. I put the necklace in my room. Then, I go to bed. I wake up, the necklace is missing.'

Jean Luc started breathing hard like he needed a paper bag. 'You wore the necklace to the party? And took it back to your own room!?'

Gisella contemplated her nails. 'Yes. It is a fancy party.'

Jean Luc looked ready to spout steam from his ears.

'You took a priceless piece of jewelry from my show to a private party?'

Gisella didn't answer, thoroughly engrossed in her cuticles.

Jean Luc pinched the bridge of his nose, struggling to compose himself. 'At least tell me you put it in you room safe?' he finally mumbled.

Gisella bit the inside of her cheek. 'I dunno.'

'What do you mean you 'dunno?''

'It was a late party. I had a lot to drink. I can't remember.'

Jean Luc took deep breath through his nose.

'Maybe it is stolen,' Gisella said.

Jean Luc visibly paled. 'No. No, no, no, no. It cannot be stolen. It's on loan from Lord Ackerman's private collection. It is not stolen. You just misplaced it, Gisella.'

Gisella shrugged. 'We'll just have to get another one.' And she stalked off, her long legs gliding with a grace that was at complete odds with her grating disposition.

Jean Luc pinched the bridge of his nose again. 'Get another one? Christ, it's worth over 300,000 euros. Get another one?! Good God, Lord Ackerman would kill me,' he mumbled to himself as he walked away.

Well, I guess life could be worse. I could be Jean Luc.

After settling in at a table in the back, I spent the rest of the day seeing one model after another, trying to match shoes to outfits. In most cases, the shoes I'd brought with me were a little on the larger size, something I'd been prepared for, bringing a whole bag of tricks to make large shoes fit a medium foot. One thing they'd taught us in design school was that it was always easier to fit a larger shoe on a small model than have her try to squeeze into a too tight one. The only one that fit perfectly was, ironically, Gisella's. It was almost as if the black stiletto had been made for her foot. A good thing too, as she wasn't the most patient of subjects, fidgeting and twisting in her seat the entire fitting.

By the end of the day, I was beat. The pain pills were wearing off, my leg was throbbing, and I was seriously wondering what the French equivalent to Starbucks was. I was relieved when Ann walked through the workroom, announcing they were packing it in for the night.

One cab ride later (during which I had my nose pressed to the glass the entire time, trying to catch a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower) I was dragging my tired self through the lobby of the Plaza Athenee. It took all the energy I had left to concentrate on keeping my crutches from slipping on the marble floor. Not an easy thing to do. And one that inevitably led to me running smack into some poor soul getting off the elevators.

'Oh, I'm terribly sorry,' I mumbled to the ground. 'Je suis… uh… muy, muy sorry.' No wait, that was Spanish. 'Uh, je suis…'

'No problem, Maddie.'

I froze. And looked up into the man's face for the first time, sucking in a breath of surprise. There, standing in front of me, was the last person I expected to see in Paris.

Felix.

Chapter Three

Two years ago I had investigated the disappearance of my former boyfriend, who, as it turned out, had been involved in an embezzlement scheme that ended in murder. I'd confronted the killer head-on, and during the resulting struggle, I'd inadvertently popped one of her saline breast implants with a nail file. And then stabbed her in the side of the neck with a stiletto heel. I know. Very girly of me. But, what can I say? Shit happens.

Unfortunately, it was just the kind of story that the L.A. Informer, Southern California's sleaziest tabloid, lived for. That was my first encounter with Felix Dunn, the only reporter in all of L.A. County who had published no less than five articles revolving around Bigfoot's secret love child with the Crocodile Woman. Felix had taken the popped implant story and run with it, even going so far as pasting a picture of my head on Pamela Anderson's body under the caption: Big Boobs Beware! I'd briefly contemplated hiring a hit man.

Since then, Felix and I had, on occasion, worked together for the greater good. Okay, I'd worked for the greater good. Felix had worked for a juicy story to land him on the front page. Felix had the moral fiber of pond scum, which came in handy when dealing with the criminal element, but I wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't eat his young to sell a few more papers.

During brief moments, Felix did, I admit, appear to have a human side. Born in England, he wore his cropped blond hair a little on the messy side, had twin dimples that appeared in his tanned cheeks quite frequently, and had the Hugh Grant charm thing down pat. And he had, at least once, expressed genuine concern over my well being. It was during one of those rare moments that I'd last seen Felix. I'd been spending the night at his house and, in a completely accidental move, kissed him. On the lips. With tongue.

The kiss had been meant for his cheek but I swear he'd turned his head at the last minute. Like I said, complete accident. But, considering we hadn't seen each other since then, I still felt heat creeping into my cheeks and the taste of his lips slipping to the forefront of my memory as I stood in the lobby of the Plaza Athenee staring up into his blue eyes.

'Maddie. How are you, love?' he asked, his voice holding the slightest hint of a British accent.

'Fine.' I cleared my throat. 'Uh, great. Wonderful.'

His gaze strayed down to Wonder Boot. 'You don't look all that great wonderful.'

'Gee, thanks. Just what every girl wants to hear.'

His eyes crinkled at the corners, those dimples making an appearance. 'That's not what I meant.' His eyes roved appreciatively over my red dress. 'And you know it,'

My cheeks went lava girl again. 'Tibial fracture,' I blurted out. 'I got hit by a Mustang. Mrs. Rosenblatt. I'm fine.'

Felix clucked his tongue. 'You've got to be more careful, love. Let me guess, stumbled over a heel? Not the most practical footwear now, are they?'

I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out at him. 'Fashion is not about practicality. And, no, I didn't stumble. I was the victim of a psychic who couldn't work a clutch.'

Felix chuckled. 'Only you, Maddie.'

I ignored his amusement at my expense. 'What are you doing here, anyway?'

Felix raised an eyebrow at me. 'It's Fashion Week, what do you think I'm doing here?'

'Hoping one of Versace's models runs off with the Loch Ness Monster?'

Again those dimples flashed. 'Actually, I'm here with my auntie. She never misses Fashion Week, but she does hate coming alone.'

I narrowed my eyes at him. Dutiful Nephew didn't fit Felix's usual M.O. any more than G.I. Jane fit mine. I could hardly see him accompanying a doddering blue hair to runway after runway.

He paused. Then added, 'And, of course, if some top model should happen to trash her hotel room or collapse from an anorexic laxative overdose while I'm here, so much the better.'

Ah. Now there was the Tabloid Boy I knew and loved.

I mean, hated.