I was late.

   And I don’t mean the kind of late where I spent too much time doing my hair and now I was 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 a little pink pouch in 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 week old dust, before continuing my desperate pleas into my best friend’s answering machine.

   “Dana, please, please, please pick up? Please?” I paused. Stony silence. “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, than had the audacity to give me the finger. Welcome to L.A.

   I hit the end button on my flip phone, breaking a French tipped nail in the process. Which did nothing to lighten my mood as I’d just had them done at Faux Dad’s salon. (Mom’s soon-to-be husband number two was the owner Fernando’s, the chichiest place on Rodeo. I’m still not 110% convinced Faux Dad is straight, but I love the discounted manicures.)

   I merged onto the 10, 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 one thirteen. 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 I’d already racked up four six speeding tickets this year, I wasn’t taking any chances. I was already on a first name basis with nine out of ten of the Los Angeles County traffic court judges. We didn’t need to get any friendlier.

   As I checked for motorcycle cops, I also did a quick makeup check. Nothing like the stress of being late (in more ways than one) to run a girl’s makeup. Luckily I’d piled on Dior Ultimate Lash before leaving my apartment this morning and was still looking relatively presentable. My ash blond hair was still tucked into a flattering half twist. A few flyaways, but the messy look was in, right? Lipstick, just slightly smeared. I pulled out a tube of Raspberry Perfection 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. Twenty-two 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 Calvin 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 twenty-four minutes behind schedule, I walked into the law offices of Dewy, Cheatem 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, the maroon printed carpeting yawned across the reception area, muffling the sound of my heels as I made my way to the front desk. It was a large oval of dark woods, stretching along the back wall of the spacious room. Flanking the desk were more frosted doors leading to the conference rooms and offices where clerks were faintly typing away in the background.

   “May I help you?” asked the Barbie doll behind the desk. Jasmine. 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). Today her bleach 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 a petite person, toping 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?” Jasmine’s helium perky voice was not my favorite even on a good day, and today it was downright nerve grating. I knew she’d seen me come to lunch with Richard every other day since we’d begun dating five months ago. 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.”

   “Fine, I’ll just wait in his office.”

   “I really think it would be better if you waited here.”

   I narrowed my eyes again. I could see she wasn’t going to let me past without a fight and, in all honesty, I just didn’t have it in me today.

   “Fine.” Instead I settled back into one of the tan, leather chairs and picked up a copy of People from the oak side table. I flipped to an article about Justin Timberlake’s newest fling, but my heart wasn’t really in it. I watched as Jasmine opened a game of solitaire on her computer and pursed her forehead in concentration.

   After what seemed like an eternity of listening to Jasmine’s nails click against the keyboard in agonizing slowness, Richard came through the frosted doors. Despite the anxiety building in my stomach, I couldn’t help doing a little romance heroine sigh at the sight of him. Richard is six foot one and all lean muscle. He is 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 is 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 blond hair was perfectly gelled into place in a casual wave, al la early Robert Redford. He was wearing a dark gray suit, matched with a white shirt and the Jerry Garcia designed tie I gave him for Christmas. He looked downright yummy 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 perfect brow knitted together in look of concern.

   The other guy was dressed in Levis, worn in 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 firm build that made you instantly think prize fighter. He had a white scar over his eyebrow, cutting into his tanned complexion. Dark hair, dark eyes and the sort of hard look to his face that usually went along with prison tattoos. I hoped Richard wasn’t branching out into criminal defense.

   I waited until they 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?”

   “Uh, actually, something’s come up.”

   The way he looked after the closed glass door where Mr. Nobody had just exited, had me again wondering who he 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.”

   “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 wonder 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 smirk at me before going back to her amazingly difficult solitaire game.

                     

"Stylish... nonstop action...guaranteed to keep chick lit and mystery fans happy!"

   - Publishers Weekly, starred review


"A saucy combination of romance and suspense that is simply irresistible."

   - The Chicago Tribune


"Halliday's debut is a winner, with its breezy, fast-paced style, interesting characters and story meant for the keeper shelf."
"4 1/2 stars!"

   - Romantic Times Book Reviews


"Fresh and witty little number that will appeal if you like sparkling, good stories with a splash of mystery. Full marks go to Ms. Halliday on what promises to be a very successful debut to a fabulous career."

   - Deborah Kimpton, Romance Junkies


"Gemma Halliday writes like a seasoned author leaving the reader hanging on to every word, every clue, every delicious scene of the book. It’s a fun and intriguing mystery full of laughs and suspense."

   - Once Upon A Romance


"SPYING IN HIGH HEELS is a roller coaster ride full of fun and excitement!"

   - Diana Risso, Romance Reviews Today


"This charming debut novel by Gemma Halliday delightfully combines the best parts of chick lit with light mystery in the same vein as Janet Evanovich and Meg Cabot. Smart, funny and snappy, SPYING IN HIGH HEELS is the perfect beach read!"

   - Meghan Fryett, Fresh Fiction


"Brava to Ms. Halliday in introducing a delightful new series. As one of the funniest books I’ve read all summer, I highly recommend SPYING IN HIGH HEELS."

   - Kendra Patterson, A Romance Reader At Heart


"Gemma Halliday's sparkling debut will give fans of Janet Evanovich and Linda Howard a wonderful new reason to celebrate! Spying In High Heels is pure entertainment!"

   - Kyra Davis, author of Sex, Murder And A Double Latte


"A hilariously intelligent story that will keep you laughing out loud. This is a must read for all you chick lit fans. Mark my words readers, Gemma’s one to watch!"
"5 kisses!"

   - Jacqueline Crane, Romance Divas


"If you enjoy your suspense with a generous helping of humor, you definitely will want to get in line to read Halliday's debut novel. I'm happy to recommend this one."
"4 stars!"

   - Books For A Buck


"The action is fast, fun, and furious, and you'll be rooting for fearless Maddie every stiletto-heeled step of the way!"

   - Alesia Holliday, award winning author of Blondes Have More Felons


"A fast-paced, flirty mystery that's as fun as it is suspenseful. Kick off your Jimmy Choos, pour yourself a martini and curl up with this stylish and sassy debut!"

   - Laura Durham, author of Better off Wed and For Better or Hearse


"Spying in High Heels is a sparkling cocktail of California culture, cool wit, and hot romance, stirred and shaken by the irrepressible Maddie Springer."

   - Ellen Byerrum, author of the Lacey Smithsonian Crime of Fashion mysteries


"Murder, mystery, and Manolos - what more could a girl want!"

   - Marianne Mancusi, author of A Connecticut Fashionista in King Arthur’s Court


"Engaging characters, fast-paced action, and enough sexual tension to knock your socks off make this a riotous romp!"

   - Nancy J. Cohen, author of the Bad Hair Day mystery series


"If clothes make the man, then Gemma Halliday proves that heels make the woman in her delightful caper, Spying in High Heels.”

   - Lori Avocato, Award-winning author of The Pauline Sokol Mystery Series


"A little fashionista, a little klutz, readers will fall in love with Maddie Springer, the heroine in this hilarious tale. Add in a smokin’ hot cop, a murder or two, a disappearing boyfriend, and a fabulous pair of shoes, and you have a truly stellar read! Gemma Halliday writes with great wit throughout, and weaves the story with powerful sexual tension. The murder mystery takes twists and turns that will keep you turning the page. You won’t want to put this one down!"

   - Eden Bradley, author of The Dark Garden






© Gemma Halliday 2002-2008. All rights reserved.