Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit

by Gemma Halliday

  I looked over. A man in an Anaheim Angels baseball cap, carrying a bulging duffel bag, stood up. Then trained a pair of California sky blue eyes on me.

  "You!" I turned the gun on him. "What the hell are you doing back here?"

  He took a tentative step forward. He blinked, taking in my mask, then honed in on my eyes, recognition dawning in his own. "Hi there," he answered. "I guess I just enjoyed myself so much last time, I thought I'd stop by again."

  I shook my head. "You're hitting the same bank twice in a row?

  He shrugged. "That's genius. No one's expecting it."

  I narrowed my eyes at him. Damn. Nice logic.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked.

  "What does it look like I'm doing?"

  He looked down at my outfit. Or lack thereof. His gaze lingered a healthy amount of time in all the right places. Despite the fact that our best laid plans were falling down around me, my body responded with gusto, my stomach clenching and going all fluttery.

  "It looks like you're causing a scene," he finally responded. "And what's with the gun?"

  "You use a gun."

  "I 'say' I have a gun. That's different."

  I narrowed my eyes at him. "You mean to tell me you didn't even have a gun?"

  He shrugged.

  Figures. "Look, let's speed this up. I'm here for the money." I gestured to his duffel bag.

  A grin spread across his face. "Looks like I beat you to it, huh?"

  "Yay. Goody for you. Now hand it over."

  "Carrie," Lynette yelled. She held up her matching flowered beach tote. "All full. Let's go."

  Quinn took the signal and started backing toward the glass doors.

  I turned back to Mr. Beat-you-to-it. "I have to go now. Give me the bag."

  "Nu uh."

  "What do you mean, 'nu uh?'"

  "Hey, I got here first. Fair's fair."

  I had never shot someone before but I was seriously contemplating it now. "Give me the bag!" I yelled, straight-arming the gun at him.

  "Okay, okay. Take it easy." He held up a hand up in surrender. "I'll hand it over. Or…" He paused. Then took a step toward me, giving me a long, deep stare that I swore could see right through my bikini, right through my mask, right down to my core. "Or… we could share it." He flashed me that boyish half smile. "The Bahamas are always more fun with two."

  I admit, I thought about it for half a second. "You want to share?"

  "Picture it," he said, taking another step closer. "You, me, a white sandy beach, big tropical drinks." He reached out a hand toward me. "What have you got to lose?"

  I opened my mouth to respond. But I didn't get to. A sound in the distance suddenly paralyzed us both.

  Sirens.

  Quinn heard them, too, because she instinctively started shooting. She took out the entire loan brochure stack in one swoop.

  "Sweet, Jesus." Leeman dropped to his knees and covered his head. I took immense satisfaction in the fact that a tiny dribble of wetness soaked through the crotch of his crumpled slacks.

  "The cow must have called the cops!" Lynette screamed. She bolted for the front door, almost crashing into Quinn.

  "Carrie?" she yelled.

  But for some reason I was rooted to the spot. Still holding Mr. Bank Robber's blue-eyed gaze.

  Suddenly I wasn't in the middle of the worst botched bank robbery of all time about to go to prison because a cow ratted me out. I was on a beach, in one of those Corona ads. Palm trees swaying, lazy sun on my face, warm salty air filling my lungs. The repo man, Mr. Chen, Leeman – none of them existed. I was sipping a drink with an umbrella in it. I didn't have a car, didn't have a home, didn't have a job… and I didn't have a care in the world.

  "Carrie?" Lynette called again, the sirens getting closer.

  I took a deep breath. "Go," I yelled back. I took the cute bank robber's outstretched hand. "I'll catch up."

  * * *

  We'd put at least 50 miles between us and the city. Another hundred and we'd be across the border, and on a plane to an anonymous island full of mai tais and who knows what.

  "You know," he said, turning to face me, one hand lazily caressing the steering wheel, "you're quite a girl."

  I grinned. "I know."

  "You think your friends are worried?"

  I shook my head. I'd called them when we'd stopped for gas an hour ago. They'd pulled the mini van away from the bank seconds before the police had arrived. They'd ditched the guns in a dumpster in North Hollywood, then driven straight to Lynnie's house where they'd disposed of the bikinis and masks in Lynnie's Diaper Genie. Quinn promised me she'd experienced enough adrenalin to last her the rest of her life. The Bombshell Bandits were retiring. Lynnie on the other hand, said she'd never felt more alive. Apparently she'd jumped her husband the second she'd gotten home and finally had her booty in the right hands.

  I promised them I'd call again soon.

  The wind whipped through my hair, sending it flying behind me and I stretched my arms above my head, loving the feel of the hot sun on my skin.

  "So," I asked lazily, pulling a stack of twenties from the navy blue duffel bag at my feet and inhaling deeply. "I have to know. Contacts?" I gestured to his blue eyes.

  He shook his head. "Nope." He glanced at my C's, still barely contained in my bikini top. "Implants?"

  I laughed. "Nope."

  "What are you doing?" he asked as I pulled out another stack.

  "Counting the price of my freedom. God, it better be more than thirty-two sixty-one."

  He gave me a quizzical look, but didn't ask.

  "So, you know my story now," I said, flipping through the bundles of green. "What's yours, Big Bad Bank Robber? Let's hear your confession."

  He did that wicked grin again, his eyes twinkling at me beneath his wind tussled hair. "How much time have you got?"

  I leaned back in my seat, watching the landscape fly past us on our way to anywhere-we-wanted. I thought of mai tais, rustling palms, tropical breezes, and those endless white sand beaches.

  And Mr. Blue Eyes.

  I smiled. "All the time in the world."

  * * * * *

  About the author:

  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. 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

  * * * * *

  OTHER BOOKS BY GEMMA HALLIDAY

  High Heels Mysteries:

  Spying in High Heels

  Killer in High Heels

  Undercover in High Heels

  Alibi in High Heels

  Mayhem in High Heels

  Fearless in High Heels

  Christmas in High Heels (short story)

  Sweetheart in High Heels (short story)

  Hollywood Headlines Mysteries:

  Hollywood Scandals

  Hollywood Secrets

  Hollywood Confessions

  Anna Smith-Nick Dade Thrillers:

  Play Nice

  Young Adult Books:

  Deadly Cool

  Social Suicide

  Other Works:

  Viva Las Vegas

  A High Heels Haunting (novella)

  Watching You (short story)

  Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit (short story)

  * * * * *

  SNEAK PEEK

  of the first

  High Heels Mystery

  by Gemma Halliday:

  SPYING IN HIGH HEELS

  * * * * *

  Chapter One

  I was late.

  And
I don’t mean the kind of late where I spent too much time doing my hair and was now 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 the zippered section of 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 opaque dust, before continuing my desperate pleas into my best friend’s answering machine.

  “Dana, please, please, please pick up? Please?” I paused. Nothing. “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 then had the audacity to give me the finger. Welcome to L.A.

  I flipped my phone shut, breaking a French tipped nail in the process, and counted to ten, trying to remember some of that calming yoga breathing from the one class Dana had dragged me to last month. Unfortunately, at the time I’d had my full attention focused on not falling flat on my face during a downward facing dog, and I think I was beginning to hyperventilate.

  I merged onto the 10 freeway, 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 twelve fifty-eight. 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 the day I’d had so far, an encounter with the CHP was not on my list of to-do’s.

  As I checked for motorcycle cops, I also gave myself a quick once over in the mirror. Not bad considering I was having the freak out of my life. My ash blond hair was still tucked into a flattering half twist, a few flyaways but the messy look was in, right? I pulled out a tube of Raspberry Perfection lip-gloss 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. Twelve 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 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 fourteen minutes behind schedule I walked into the law offices of Dewy, Cheatum 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 maroon carpeting yawned across the reception area, muffling the sound of my heels as I made my way to the front desk. The large oval of dark woods stretched along the back wall of the spacious room, flanked on either side by more frosted doors leading to the conference rooms and offices beyond. The faint clicking of keyboards and muffled conversations billed at three hundred dollars an hour filled the background.

  “May I help you?” asked the Barbie doll behind the desk. Jasmine. Or as I liked to call her, 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. As usual, her bleached 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 as a petite person, topping 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?”

  I tried not to roll my eyes. I’d met Richard here for lunch every Friday afternoon for the past five months. 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.”

  “Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?” I mumbled as I sat in one of the tan, leather chairs punctuating the waiting area. Jasmine didn’t answer, smirking instead (which looked a lot like an Elvis lip curl in her new super-sized lips) as she opened what I’d guess was a game of solitaire on her computer and pretended to look busy. I picked up a copy of Cosmo from the end table and began flipping through the pages of drool worthy designer clothes I could never afford. Or fit into if I was actually pregnant. Oh God. What a depressing thought.

  After what seemed like an eternity of listening to Jasmine’s acrylic nails click against her keyboard, Richard walked into the reception area. Despite the anxiety building in my stomach, I couldn’t help a little yummy sigh at the sight of him. Richard was six foot one and all lean muscle. He was 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 was 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 blonde hair was perfectly gelled into place in a casual wave, a la early Robert Redford. He was wearing a dark gray suit, paired with a white shirt and tasteful paisley printed tie. He looked downright delish 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 sandy brows drawn together in a look of concern.

  The other guy was dressed in Levis, worn with faded patches along the thighs and seat, and a navy blazer over a fo
rm fitting black T-shirt. His shoulders were broad and he had the sort of compact build that made you instantly think prizefighter. A white scar cut into his eyebrow, breaking up his tanned complexion. Dark hair, dark eyes and the sort of hard look about him that usually went along with prison tattoos. I hoped Richard wasn’t branching out into criminal defense.

  I waited until they’d 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?”

  Richard was still staring at the closed glass doors where Mr. Nobody had exited. I wondered again who the man 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. Something’s kind of come up.”

  “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 wondered if I could sue Trojan over this?