Honeymoon in High Heels (8 page)

And, unlike my cohorts and I, Ramirez
had
suspected that the brother was the killer after all. Of course, he’d also had the advantage of having seen Ahlia’s will that afternoon, so he knew that in the event that Ahlia's husband filed for divorce, Tamaheretanero'onuiaatadon stood to inherit everything.  The police had been able to track the brother down to a resort employee, so Ramirez had immediately called the police, and they’d begun scouring the resort for any sign of me.  Luckily, Don hadn’t been the only one to heard my yelling, and Ramirez had found the storeroom just in time.

If I had to say one thing for my husband, he had excellent timing.

Once I'd gotten the all clear from the hospital, I'd been able to go back to the resort, where Dana, Marco and Ramirez had taken turns watching over me for the last two days, trading off on the pampering thing.  Which, while not altogether unpleasant, had left little alone time with my husband.   

“Well, I’m sorry to have to say this, Maddie, but our flight leaves in just a few hours,” Dana said beside me.  "We need to go pack and start heading to the airport."

I opened my eyes, sitting up in my chaise.  “Really?  You’re leaving so soon?”

Marco nodded, pouting beside me.  “I’m out of vacation days.”

“Maybe I could push back my commercial shoot a few days if you need me…” Dana trailed off, a frown of concern between her strawberry blond brows.

“No!” I said.  Maybe just a little too loudly.  “I mean, no, I’m fine.  The head hardly even hurts anymore.  You go on home.  I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” Dana asked, concern still wrinkling her brow.

I looked across the pool to where a tanned, toned, shirtless guy had just walked though the gate.  He was wearing board shorts, flip flops, and a lopsided grin that showed off one dimple in his stubbled cheeks.  Ramirez.

“Oh, yeah.  I’m sure,” I said, fully meaning it.

"Okay, well, we’ll call you when we get in,” Dana promised, she and Marco gathering their sunscreen, floppy hats, and sandals.

“Have a safe flight,” I told them, as we exchanged hugs and air-kisses.

“Leaving so soon?” Ramirez asked as he approached our group.

"Parting is such sweet sorrow,” Marco said, eyeing Ramirez's bare chest.  Then he gave Ramirez a hug.  A long one. 

Ramirez looked slightly pained, but patted Marco on the back anyway. 

Then Ramirez sank down into the chaise beside me as we watched the two girls go.

“Sorry your posse is leaving so soon,” he said.

“I’m not.”

He turned to me, raising one eyebrow.  “Oh?”

“I mean, of course it’s nice to spend time with my friends.  But, this is my honeymoon.  I’d rather be spending time with my new husband.”

“Oh, really?” he said, a wicked gleam settling in his eyes as he leaned back in his chaise. 

“Really.”  I leaned forward.  "And, by the way, we're both well rested, there are no dead bodies around, no murders to solve, no well-meaning best friends hovering, and no more concussion pounding in my head."

Ramirez grinned his Big Bad Wolf grin, the one that said he was fantasizing about eating me right up.  "Oh really?" he repeated, crossing his arms behind his head in a way that made all five hundred of his pectoral muscles stand at mouth watering attention. 

“Really.  So, I think we should take full advantage of what honeymoon we have left today.  What are you in the mood for?  Sightseeing?  Hiking?  Or we could go for a swim?" I asked, indicating the pool.

Ramirez shook his head, that wicked gleam twinkling in a way that made his eyes dark and dangerous.  “Actually," he answered, his voice low, deep, and sexy enough to make my skin tingle.  "I was thinking maybe we should try out that hot tub in our room.”

I felt a grin spread across my face that I couldn't have suppressed if I'd tried.   

Days left of our honeymoon: 5

Intimate moments I planned to spend with my husband, locked up in our private suite:  every last one of them.   

* * * * *

Gemma Halliday is the
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author of the
High Heels Mysteries
, the
Hollywood Headlines
Mysteries,
and the
Deadly Cool
series of young adult books, as well as several other works
.  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 Francisco Bay 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/gemmahallidayauthor

* * * * *

High Heels Mysteries:

Spying in High Heels

Killer in High Heels

Undercover in High Heels

Christmas in High Heels
(short story)

Alibi in High Heels

Mayhem in High Heels

Sweetheart in High Heels
(short story)

Fearless in High Heels

Honeymoon in High Heels (novella)

Danger in High Heels -
coming
Christmas
2012!

Hollywood Headlines Mysteries:

Hollywood Scandals

Hollywood Secrets

Hollywood Confessions

Jamie Bond Mysteries
:

(with Jennifer Fischetto)

Unbreakable Bond

Secret Bond -
coming soon!

Young Adult Books:

Deadly Cool

Social Suicide

Other Works:

Play Nice

Viva Las Vegas

A High Heels Haunting
(novella)

Watching You
(short story)

Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit
(short story)

* * * * *

SNEAK PEEK

of the first

Hollywood Headlines Mystery

by Gemma Halliday:

HOLLYWOOD SCANDALS

* * * * *

C
HAPTER ONE

TEEN SENSATION ON MORAL VACATION

LAST NIGHT THE
INFORMER
CAUGHT EVERYONE’S FAVORITE TEEN ACTRESS, JENNIFER WOOD, AT THE HOLLYWOOD MARTINI ROOM WITH A MEMBER OF A BOY BAND IN ONE HAND AND MARY JANE IN THE OTHER -

“Shit!”  

“Tina!”

I swiveled in my chair to face my boss, Felix Dunn, standing in the doorway to his office, hands on hips. 

“What?”

“Swear Pig.”

I pursed my lips.  “That doesn’t count.”

“I just heard you say ‘shit.’”

“It was computer related.  Everyone knows computer-related swearing doesn’t count.”

He narrowed his eyes.  Clearly my argument wasn’t cutting it.

“It’s your own fault, you know,” I protested, changing tactics.  I’d been typing up a juicy tidbit about
the
It teen actress, who’d been caught with a joint in her hand at last night’s after-party, when my backspace button stuck, taking out one very cleverly worded line, even if I did say so myself.  “I mean, how many centuries old are these things anyway?” I went on.  “Would it kill you to buy some new hardware once in a awhile?”

He shook his head.  “Swear Pig, Bender,” he repeated, then disappeared back into his office.

“Shit.”

“I heard that!”

I stuck my tongue out at his door and dropped two quarters into the purple piggy bank on my desk.  Somehow our newly appointed editor in chief was under the impression that yours truly swore too much.  I have no fucking idea where he got that impression.  But he’d set up the Swear Pig as a way to break my bad habit.  Personally, I was fine with my bad habit.  It’s not like I was shooting heroin or anything.

Which brought me back to my story.

I swiveled around, pushing my glasses back up onto my nose and put my fingers to keyboard, recreating my perfect line.

IT MAY BE ONE JOINT TODAY FOR OUR FAVORITE FAIR-HAIRED TEENY-BOPPER, BUT WITH THE WAY HER LIFE IS SPIRALING OUT OF CONTROL, CAN COCAINE, METH, OR EVEN HEROIN BE FAR BEHIND?  HOW MANY BLONDES DOES IT TAKE TO SPELL “REHAB?”

I sat back in my chair, surveying my work.  Okay, so it was a little mean.  And the truth was Wood claimed someone had thrust the “stinky cigarette” into her hand just before the paparazzi flashbulbs went off, after which she’d promptly threw it out.  But, seriously, she played the perky “Pippi Mississippi” in a tween cable show.  This was tabloid gold. 

I hit “send” letting my daily gossip column zip through the
L.A. Infomer
’s network to Felix’s inbox, then gave my knuckles a satisfying crack.

I glanced at the clock.  Quitting time.  And somewhere there was a big beefy burrito dinner with my name on it.  I grabbed my Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox that doubled as my purse and made for the exit.

Unfortunately, not before Eagle Eyes Dunn could catch me.

“Bender?”

I thought a dirty word and turned around to find him leaning against his office doorframe.  “Did you want something, chief?”

“You finish up that Wood piece yet?” he asked. 

“Just emailed it to you.”  I loved it when I was one step ahead of the boss.

“What about Pines?”

“Pines?” 

Edward Pines was the director who’d recently been arrested when police found a stack of pornography under the seat of his car during a routine traffic stop.  Not that naked bodies were a novelty in Hollywood, but these particular magazines had included photos of thirteen-year-old boys in the buff.  I don’t care how much his last action pic grossed, that guy was total Hollywood roadkill now. 

“What about him?” I asked.

“Being arraigned today.  It’s your story, right?”

Damned straight.  My headline the morning after Pine’s arrest had read: PINES PINES AFTER PINT-SIZED PRE-TEENS.  What can I say?  I have a thing for alliteration.

But as much as I was relishing the story, I wasn’t thrilled with the timing.

“He’s being arraigned
now
?”  My stomach growled.  “It’s dinner time.”

“The news waits for no one, love.  Cam’s meeting you at the courthouse,” he said, ducking back into his office. 

So much for my burrito.  “Shit.”

“Bender…”

“I know, I know.”  I reached into Strawberry Shortcake, pulled out another quarter, and dropped it into the ceramic pig on my way out. 

At this rate, I’d be broke by Christmas.

*   *   *

The Beverly Hills courthouse was located on Burton, just a block south of Santa Monica.  An unimpressive building, it had a sixties glass-and-concrete esthetic going on that made me think of a Doris Day movie.  Totally outdated, totally utilitarian, totally at odds with the rows of Jags and Beemers in the parking lot. 

I slipped my Honda Rebel into a space near the entrance.  Yep, that’s right, I ride a motorcycle.  A bitchin’ hot pink motorcycle.  With yellow flames.  I’ll admit, it was no Harley, but for a gal my size, 5’3” on a good day, it fit just right.  And with L.A. gas prices shooting through the roof, it was the only way I could afford my rent and my regular Swear Pig deposits. 

I pulled off my helmet, locked it to the handlebars with a metal chain, and shook out my hair.  Luckily when your hair is as stick straight as mine helmet head isn’t much of a problem.  I gave it a good fluff and felt the shag cut fall back into place.  Currently it was auburn with deep purple highlights.  Though, I’ve been through so many shades in my lifetime, I’m not even really sure what my natural color is anymore.         

I grabbed Strawberry Shortcake and made my way inside, the cool air-conditioning a sharp contrast to the heat outside.  Even in fall, the temp in So. Cal never goes much below 70, and this week we seemed to be hitting Indian summer in spades.  After sending my purse through the conveyor belt and stepping through a pair of metal detectors, I made my way up to the second floor where Pines was scheduled to be arraigned.