Homicide in High Heels

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What critics
are saying
about

Gemma Halliday's 
High Heels
 series:

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

-
Chicago Tribune

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

-
Publishers' Weekly
, starred
review

"Smart, funny and snappy…the perfect beach
read!"

-
Fresh Fiction

"A roller coaster ride full of fun and
excitement!"

-
Romance Reviews Today

"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

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 by Gemma Halliday

http://www.gemmahalliday.com

http://www.facebook.com/gemmahallidayauthor

All rights reserved. Without limiting the
rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the
prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above
publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author
acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various
products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used
without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not
authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark
owners.

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respecting the author's work.

* * * * *

Babies are rough on romance. Have you ever
tried to seduce a man while wearing spit-up, mashed sweet potatoes,
and a fine dusting of baby powder? It gives sexy a whole new
meaning. Which is why, after almost a year of being the parents of
twin babies—Olivia and Max—my husband and I realized that if we
were ever going to have an adult conversation again, we had to make
some "us" time. Twice a month we vowed to leave the twins with my
mom and spend an entire day together, just the two of us.

At first it was like we were prisoners on
furlough from our teeny-tiny wardens, giddy with the freedom. We
found no shortage of adult activities to engage in. Dinner at a
restaurant with actual cloth napkins. Movies that didn't involve
animation or talking animals. Wine tastings where not a soul under
twenty-one was in sight. But once we'd exhausted the options of
alcoholic outings and R-rated movies, my husband and I realized
that we had a distinct conflict of interests.

My husband, Jack Ramirez, is an LAPD
homicide detective with a big gun, a big tattoo of a panther on his
left bicep, and a big scar running through his left eyebrow from an
altercation with a perp. Other alpha males look girly next to him.
I, on the other hand, am a 5' 1 ½" blonde who designs high heeled
shoes for a living and am never, under any circumstances, without a
tube of Raspberry Perfection lip gloss somewhere on my person. When
someone calls me girly, I take it as a compliment.

But you can see where our interests might
not always coincide.

So instead of trying in vain to find things
that we both enjoyed doing, we decided that we would trade off
picking our "us" outings. Two weeks ago we spent our "us" day
shopping—starting at the Farmer's Market on 3
^rd
street
and ending at the Beverly Center. (Which I suspect that Ramirez
secretly enjoyed when he realized the mall had a Ferrari Store.)
Today we were at the L.A. Stars baseball game, courtesy of two
tickets my step-father had scored for me at the last minute from
one of his semi-celebrity clients who was dating a player.

And if the frozen margaritas continued
flowing, I might admit that a baseball game wasn't altogether
bad.

"So, why is the thrower tossing the ball so
far away from the guy with the bat?" I asked, slipping a straw into
my mouth as I squinted down at the action, several tiers of
bleachers below us.

"The
pitcher
," Ramirez responded, "is
throwing outside the
batter
's strike zone in order to walk
him."

"Huh. And why do they want him to take a
walk?"

"It's a higher percentage play. They're
putting a man on first in order to get the opposing pitcher at the
plate."

"Ah," I responded, nodding. "And why do they
want that?"

"Because he can't hit if his life depends on
it. We have a better chance of striking him out, which we need to
do with their man on third in scoring position."

"Right. He's about to score a touch
down."

Ramirez turned to me and grinned. "Score a
run
. Wrong sport, babe."

"Hey, I had a sport."

"True. You get points for that," he
agreed.

"Thank you," I said, grinning back as I
sipped contentedly. The truth was, all I knew about baseball was
that on the reality show
Baseball Wives
, the players looked
hot shirtless, the wives were deliciously catty to one another, and
the drama peaked whenever the team was on the road.

The higher percentage play must have worked,
because the crowd cheered, my husband included, and some guys moved
around the bases. Two more hitters later, the inning ended with our
rivals, the Oakland A's, not scoring a
run
. Our team mascots
ran out onto the field: a Charlie Chaplin and Marilyn Monroe with
huge, oversized heads that looked like they might topple at any
second. They danced around, threw some T-shirts into the crowd,
then waddled back to the dugout as the A's took the field and our
team came up to bat.

The announcers called the name of our first
player over the loudspeaker, and the crowd went nuts.

"Number twenty-four, Bucky Davis!"

I'll admit, I leaned forward in my seat to
get a better look. Even a sports-illiterate gal like me knew
Bucky's name. He was the top player on the Stars, the face of the
team, and for the last two months the face of L.A., showing up
everywhere from movie premiers to toothpaste commercials. It was
his girlfriend who'd scored us the tickets, and while I didn't know
her personally, I'd seen her petite, model-thin frame hanging on
his arm in several
Fashion Police
episodes.

I watched the jumbo screen zoom in on
Bucky's face as he waved back at the crowd. He was blond, tanned,
and had a boy-next-door look about him that had both teenage girls
and baby boomer women cheering his name. I heard a group of
twenty-something girls a few rows over screaming a marriage
proposal.

"This guy's amazing," Ramirez said, looking
a little starry-eyed himself. "He was a rookie last year, but his
batting average is three-thirty with seventy-two RBIs."

"Uh-huh." I stared at the guy on the field,
watching him approach the plate. "And is that good?"

Ramirez grinned at me again. "It's great.
He's looking at MVP this year." He paused. "Most valuable
player."

"I know what MVP stands for," I said,
punching him in the shoulder. "I'm not a total ditz."

"Of course you're not," he wisely
agreed.

"Hey, you didn't know the difference between
a slingback and a wedge at Nordstrom last month. Cut me some slack.
You have your lingo. I have mine."

"Fair enough," he agreed, flinging an arm
around my shoulders and kissing the top of my head.

I snuggled into the crook of his arm, as
much as I could in the confines of the plastic seats, as I watched
the action down below.

Bucky swung at a pitch and missed, causing
the crowd to let out a groan of disappointment. He did a repeat of
the miss. Then a couple of balls went foul, flying into the
grateful hands of the crowd on the second tier. Then finally Bucky
connected with a ball, the crack echoing in the bowl-shaped
stadium, followed by a roar from the crowd as it sailed high over
the field, landing in the stands on the other side of the wall.

Ramirez jumped to his feet, throwing both
hands in the air and yelling. As did ninety percent of the people
around me. I followed suit. I was pretty sure that was a home run,
but I didn't say anything until I saw the jumbo screen confirm it
in huge, animated letters.

"Damn, Davis is on fire," Ramirez remarked,
sitting back down in his seat.

"Who's next?" I asked, getting into the
excitement of the game.

"Ratski," Ramirez informed me.

I watched a tall, broad-shouldered guy take
the plate. He had a week's worth of stubble covering his chin, a
small beer belly straining against his uniform, and he spit on the
ground before taking his batting stance.

"Is he good?" I asked.

Ramirez shrugged. "He's hit-and-miss. Last
year he had a decent hitting average, but he's faltering this
season."

Ratski hit the tip of the ball, sending it
flying wild into the stands. The next pitch went past him
completely. Ramirez made some disgusted sounds, taking a long swig
of his beer.

"You're killing me, Ratski," he mumbled.

I'll admit I didn't really get the
difference between fouls, strikes, and fair balls. But I tried my
best to follow the pitch count as the player swung again. This time
he caught the end of the ball, sending it high up in the air behind
him. I watched the catcher throw his mask to the ground, trying to
position himself under the ball.

But instead of coming down on the well
padded catcher, I watched as the ball came hurtling into the
stands.

Right toward me.

"Eep!" On instinct, I ducked, throwing both
hands up to cover my head. I felt something hard crack against my
right hand, then a frenzy of movement in the seats around me as
people dove for the ball.

"Got it!" I heard my husband yell.

I opened my eyes to find him grinning like a
kid on Christmas morning, holding a smudged baseball high above his
head in a victory pose.

"Ahem," I said, still in my crouched
position.

To his credit, he quickly turned to me, his
expression morphing to concern. "You okay, babe?" He held out a
hand, pulling me from the cement floor.

I nodded, looking down at my hand. The ball
had snapped a nail, but as I flexed my fingers I could tell that my
manicure had taken the brunt of the damage. "Maybe a bruise, but
I'll be fine."

Ramirez grabbed my hand and kissed it.
"Better?"

I couldn't help grinning back. "Getting
there."

He leaned in and kissed me just below the
ear. "Tell you what? When we get home, I'll
really
kiss that
boo-boo away."

I felt my cheeks heat as I snuggled into the
crook of his arm again. Apparently being lucky enough to get
smacked by a foul ball just might get me
lucky
later,
too.

* * *

In deference to my hurt manicure, my first
move the next morning was to call up Fernando's Salon. "Fernando"
was actually my stepfather, Ralph, who, upon hitting Beverly Hills
via the Midwest, indulged in faux tans, a European-sounding faux
name, and a faux Spanish ancestry to go along with it. The real
housewives of Beverly Hills had eaten it up, flocking to Faux Dad's
salon to soak up his manufactured exotic flair ever since.

Luckily, they'd had a cancelation that
morning and said they could fit me in ASAP. I dropped the kids at
my cousin, Molly's, place, then hightailed it to Rodeo and
Wilshire.

The first thing I saw when I pushed through
the glass doors was Faux Dad's receptionist Marco.

"No, no, no. I asked for daffodils, not
dahlias," he said into a Bluetooth while pacing behind a large,
chrome and glass desk. Marco was slim, Hispanic, and wore enough
dark eyeliner to single-handedly keep Sephora in business. His
complexion was flawless, his lashes enviously long, and his accent
much more San Francisco than south of the border. He was dressed
today in metallic silver pleather pants, a skin-tight baby-doll
T-shirt in hot pink, and a pair of white loafers sans socks. He
looked up just long enough to give me a little wave, before
continuing his conversation. "That's right. Two dozen. One dozen
wrapped in pink ribbon and one in blue." He paused. "This is going
to run how much?" Another pause. "Ouch. Maybe make it half a dozen
of each. But keep the calla lilies! They
make
the
centerpieces, am I right?" He paused again, listening to someone on
the other end. "Perfect. I'll have someone pick them up this
weekend. Ta!"