"It means, this is our wedding."
"I know. I'm just not a real wedding-y kind of guy. Can't you just taste it?"
"Alone? Come on, don't you want to have a say in the cake? Don't you want to have any input into the most memorable day of our lives? Don't you care what color the flowers are or what kind of place cards we have?"
He cocked his head to the side. "Is this a trick question?"
I threw my hands up. "This is our wedding, Jack. Not just mine. I want it to be special for you, too."
"And I'm sure the flavor of cake will make all the difference."
"Now you're just being sarcastic, aren't you?"
"A little."
I crossed my arms over my chest. "Not the way to win points, pal."
He sighed. A big, full bodied thing that said he was wondering if he shouldn't have just stayed at home and listened to the game on the radio instead.
"Okay, if it will make you happy, I'll go sample cake tomorrow."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Thank you. I'll pick you up at 12:30. But-" I held up one finger. "-you're not doing it to make me happy. You're doing it because you want to. Right?"
He shook his head at me, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "Sure. I want to spend my afternoon stuffing my face with buttercream icing."
The sarcasm was thicker than my mom's mascara, but I decided to let it go, instead nestling back into the crook of his arm.
"So..." Ramirez's fingers began kneading the nape of my neck. "If we're previewing the cake, does that mean we get to preview other things, too?"
I leaned my head back and met a pair of dark eyes, simmering with that bad boy look that had me smitten from the start.
"What did you have in mind?" I asked, as his fingers kneaded lower, slipping inside my blouse and toying with my bra strap.
"The honeymoon."
I grinned, going instantly warm in all the right places.
"What about the game?" I asked, gesturing to the TV.
A wicked smile slid across his face, his lips leaning in toward mine as his eyes went from hunger to pure lust.
"What game?"
Chapter Two
I took one step up, my thighs burning in protest, my breath coming out in short, quick puffs. Then I stepped back down. Then back up again as sweat trailed in unattractive beads down the sides of my face.
"That's it, you're doing great!" Dana shouted from the front of the room. Twenty-odd stepping, sweating, groaning people (including yours truly) filled the studio, following her lead, marching to her every command like a bunch of bootcampers. Of course, Dana's was the only sweat-free forehead. Not even a ladylike glisten, every hair on her pretty blonde head in place, her cute little red work-out tank (and I do mean little--Dana subscribes to the 'less is more' school of fashion), not the slightest bit damp under the arms even though my actress-slash- aerobics instructor best friend had been leading the Step and Burn class for the last forty-five minutes. Me - I was sweating and grunting like a linebacker as I went up, then back down the two bright orange plastic steps in front of me.
"Three more to go. You can do it!"
I glared at my cheerleader-esque friend. I'd swear that's what she said three step routines ago.
I did the up and down thing again, my Nikes squeaking on the freshly polished gym floor as I tried (in vain) to keep up.
I'm not exactly what you'd call a health nut. I'm more of a chocolate toffee-covered-macadamia nut. On top of a mound of ice cream. Served with a brownie. While Dana was the reigning Aerobics Queen of the West Side, the only times I ever actually used my membership to the Sunset Gym were on those ninety-plus-degree days of summer when the lure of the two Olympic-sized swimming pools won out over my inherent aversion to physical activity. And even then I mostly doggy paddled.
Not that I wasn't figure conscious. In fact, at one point in my life I'd had visions of being a sleek, svelte runway model, strutting the catwalks of Milan and Paris in the most haut of couture creations. However, when my last adolescent growth spurt topped me out at 5'1 1/2", those dreams faded faster than an acid-washed jean. Instead, I'd turned my passion for fashion to design. Specifically, designing shoes. After a rocky start in the business, I was finally starting to come into my own. Okay, so I wasn't Michael Kors. But, I did have my very own line being stocked in chic boutiques throughout Beverly and the West Side. And, there was even a rumor that a certain unnamed mega-actress might be considering wearing a Maddie Springer original to the Oscars this year. (Okay, it's Angelina Jolie. How cool is that, huh?!)
So, while I was about as fashion forward as a girl could hope to be, I generally left the whole kill-yourself-at-the-gym thing to Dana. My philosophy: if the heels are high enough, everyone looks like they have runner's calves, right?
But with the Big Day looming in the not too distant future, Dana had worn me down. Especially when she'd accompanied me to the last dress fitting, where my heavenly white satin corset number had clung a little more "snugly" to my hips than I might have liked. (read: squished into the dress until I looked like pale pork sausage.) While the willowy stick-figure fitter had assured me she could make a few "adjustments" to the dress, Dana's idea of making a few trips to the gym instead had sounded like a better plan. That, of course, was before I was sweating like a hog in heat and stepping endlessly to nowhere.
"That's it! Now turn to your right!"
I turned, almost colliding with a guy in short-shorts and a headband a la Richard Simmons. "Sorry," I mumbled between gasps.
"Now throw those hands up! Whoo! You're doing great!" Dana demonstrated, shooting both hands in the air and shaking them like she was at a holy revival meeting. "That's it. Feel that burn! Isn't it great?"
I could think of a few other adjective to describe it. I raised my hands almost to head level, wincing in pain as muscles I didn't know I owned protested. I glanced up at the clock. Ten more minutes. If I survived that long, I was so rewarding myself with a mocha frappuccino when this was all over. With lots of whipped cream. I was pretty sure I was burning off a gazillion calories. I swiped an arm across my brow. Hell, with sweat alone, I'd probably lost three pounds.
"And, one more time. Let's really sprint now. Double time!" If she wasn't my best friend, I might have killed her. Dana flashed her perkiest smile, bobbing up and down like an energizer bunny on wheat grass-laced speed as she quickstepped up and down her orange stairs.
I tried to keep up, willing my feet to move as fast as they could. Up, down, left, right. I was almost in a rhythm when I slipped (probably on a drop of my own perspiration) and tipped to the right, knocking into Richard Simmons. Who was midstep and was thrown so off balance his arms flailed wildly in the air, swatting a woman in purple stretch pants in the face. Stretch Pants let out a yelp louder than a Lakers fan watching a free throw.
"That's it! Let it out. Wooo!" Dana encouraged.
I rolled my eyes, mumbling apologies to Richard Simmons as I scooted my stairs to the back of the room and ducked out the door. One midstep collision a day was enough for me.
* * *
After ten minutes in the sauna and a long, hot shower, I was beginning to feel human again. I was just stepping out of the shower, towel drying my hair in the ladies' locker room, when my cell chirped to life, displaying Ramirez's number. I flipped it open.
"Hey, you," I said.
"Hey. Listen, I've got a ton of stuff to do today."
I narrowed my eyes at the phone. "Stuff?"
"Yeah. I had to hit the shooting range this morning, and a buddy of mine called and asked if I'd help him paint his rec room."
"Paint a rec room?"
"Yeah." I heard traffic sounds in the background, cars honking and the tell-tale rumble of eighteen-wheelers.
"Where are you right now?" I asked, frowning into the phone.
"I'm on the 60. Running that guestbook for the reception out to my mom's."
I looked up at the utilitarian clock hanging
on the tiled wall. 12:15. Uh oh.
"You better not be trying to bail on me, mister."
There was a short pause. Then, "Wouldn't dream of it."
"Hmmm." I made a noncommittal sound in the back of my throat.
"But, I am running a few minutes late," he said. "Why don't we just meet at the studio?"
"You are going to show up, right?"
"Of course!"
Only the way his voice rose half an octave didn't reassure me any. "Jack..."
"I'll be there. I promise. I'm looking forward to it. I want to be involved in our wedding and I can't wait to sample the cake."
"You're so full of shit."
"Yeah, I know. But I'm showing up anyway. See you at one."
And with that, he disconnected.
I stared down at the phone, still feeling my forehead do a Botox-worthy wrinkle between my brows.
As much as I got Ramirez's whole guy-aversion to white lace and buttercream, it left me with a distinctly unsettled feeling somewhere in the pit of my stomach. I know, I know, it's normal, right? I mean, he's a guy, and a cop guy at that. Weddings are about as girly as things come. But the fact that I had to nearly twist his arm into a pretzel to get him to even taste cake (seriously, it's cake, how bad did he think it would be?) made a small part of me worry that maybe the aversion wasn't solely wedding related. That maybe it carried over into being married related. I mean, he had proposed kind of suddenly. It wasn't like we'd ever discussed marriage, we'd just sort of jumped into it. Headfirst. In the shallow end. And I wondered if maybe now that the rosy glow of Paris and stolen cafe au lait-flavored kisses had turned into the reality of mile-long guest lists, meeting wedding planners, and running a guestbook out to his mother's in midday traffic, maybe he was regretting that leap.
"Hey, got time for lunch?" Dana asked, jogging into the locker room, still fresh faced as ever.
I'm woman enough to admit it. I hated her just a tiny bit.
"I do now." I shoved my phone back in my purse, trying to shove doubts about Ramirez and wedding bells to the back of my mind.
"Great. I've got a reading at one for that new DreamWorks cartoon, but I'm free till then. And there's this new vegan cafe down the street I've been dying to try. They've got a whole menu full of negative-calorie foods."
I threw on a black sweater tank and pair of dark denim jeans, visions of my mocha frappuccino fading like a mirage. "Negative-calorie foods?"
"Ohmigod, they're so cool. Like, they contain less calories than your body uses to digest them. You can eat them all day and actually be losing weight."
Hey, that didn't sound so bad. "Are cheese doodles by any chance negative calorie?"
Dana scrunched her ski-jump nose at me. "Get real. Anyway, what do you say? You game for vegan today? My treat?"
I thought about begging off, but, thanks to Ramirez's "running behind," it wasn't like I had anything better to do. And besides, who was I to turn down free food?
* * *
After making my way through a bowl full of lawn (Sure, Dana had said it was exotic sauteed greens, but it smelled like the grass in Griffith Park to me.), a cold puree of squash soup (Cold. Squash. Two words that should never be thrown together in the same recipe.), and a platter of seared kelp (I'm sorry, anything that washes up onto the beach is not considered food in my world.), I pulled up in front of L'Amore, tired, sore, and still hungry. I parked at the curb, feeding the meter a handful of quarters and scanned the street for Ramirez's black SUV. Not surprisingly, it was absent.
I narrowed my eyes, looking down at the readout on my cell. 1:03. He was late. I did a silent curse, swearing that if he didn't show, I was going to disconnect the cable through all of March Madness.
I contemplated going in alone, but facing Gigi minus backup was like going into a military zone with only a pop-gun for protection. I was liable to be assaulted with centerpieces, wedding singers, and four-foot ice sculptures of nuzzling swans before Ramirez even showed up.
If he showed up.
I tried to shake that disconcerting thought, instead leaning against my Jeep and letting the wisps of winter sun warm my face as I counted off the seconds, tapping one suede boot-clad foot anxiously against the pavement.
He'd show. I had faith. I mean, he had promised. I'd never known him to break a promise to me.
Well, except if his captain called.
Or if he was on an important case.
Or if some new homicide cropped up that needed his attention.
Okay, fine. He broke promises all the time. They were like fine china in a bullring to him. Sure, I knew he meant well, but following through was a lot harder in his world. Not that I totally blamed him. Before I came along, homicide was his life. He'd been lucky to remember to eat, let alone make time for a girlfriend. He was trying. I knew that. Deep down, I was sure Ramirez loved and wanted to be with me.
It was the surface stuff that was still a little murky.
I looked down at my cell readout again. 1:11. He was officially very late.
As much as I tired to tell myself he'd show, Panic starting flirting with my gut as the seconds ticked by. I let out a long sigh at the thought of braving iced rosettes, raspberry cream filling and matching bride and groom cake toppers alone. A sigh that ended in a loud hiccup.
And another.
I took a deep, calming breath... ending in a hiccup. Crap. I did another deep breath and held it, slowly counting to twenty before letting it out. Nothing. I did a sigh of relief.
Ending in a hiccup.
"Shit."
All right, fine. I tilted my head back, closed my eyes, held my nose, and sucked in my diaphragm as hard as I could. I stood like that until I felt my cheeks turning red and my ears start to pop. Then held it ten seconds longer.
"What are you doing?"
I opened my eyes and let out a long whoosh of air to find Ramirez standing in front of me, a look of amusement quirking one eyebrow north.
I bent over at the middle, sucking in long breaths. "Hiccups."
"Ah." Though his mouth twitched in a grin.
"What? How do you get rid of them?"
"Water."
"I'll remember that."
I straightened up, getting my breathing back to normal, and fixed my hair in the reflection from my passenger side window.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Dandy. You're late."
"Traffic."
"Uh huh."
Ramirez spun me to face him, the grin taking over his whole face this time. "You didn't think I'd show, did you?"
"Of course I did!" I protested. Only it came out more like, "Of c-ourse I d-id," punctuated with two loud, yelping hiccups.
The grin broke, letting a chuckle flow out as Ramirez shook his head at me. "Come on," he said, steering me by the elbow toward L'Amore. "Let's get you that glass of water."
I would have protested, but the hiccups were too strong.
Instead, I followed Ramirez through the glass front doors of Gigi's studio, hearing the little bell chime above the door as we walked in.
"Hell-(hiccup)-o?" I called. The place was dark, the only light coming in from the two back windows as the sun struggled to maintain its precarious hold on the weather. All the overhead lights were switched off. "Gigi?" I tried again, scanning the interior of the studio for any sign of her.
"Maybe she's late?" Ramirez suggested.
"Ha! Obviously you haven't met Gigi yet. Precision is her middle name."
Ramirez shrugged. Then nodded toward the conference room. "Maybe she's in there already?"
I followed his lead, crossing to the room.
But only got as far as the doorway.
That's where I froze, my boots suddenly encased in cement, refusing to move. I opened my mouth, but the only sound that came out was a sort of strangled cry in the back of my throat. I felt Ramirez's arm go around my waist. A good thing. Because, at the moment, my legs were doing their Jell-O imitation, threatening to crumple into a h
eap on the floor as I took in the scene before me.
Sitting at the sleek black conference table in the middle of the studio, surrounded by thick tulle, embossed invitations, and centerpieces made of delicate baby's breath, was Gigi. Facedown in the buttercream frosting of a carefully sculpted wedding cake.
A knife sticking out of her back.
Chapter Three
It's a terrible thing for a girl to have to admit, but the fact was this wasn't the first time I'd ever found a dead body.
Not by a long shot.
In the months since Ramirez and I had first met, I'd been, as he put it, a bit of a magnet for trouble. (Okay, he'd used stronger language than that, but I put it down to stress.) In fact, that's how Ramirez and I had originally met, when he'd been investigating the disappearance of my last boyfriend, which had ended in a double homicide and my ex behind bars.
And that proposal in Paris? It had come right after I'd landed myself in a wee bit of trouble with a homicidal European fashionista. And that was right after I'd been involved with a Hollywood strangler. Which was right after getting mixed up with a group of Prada smuggling drag queens and the Vegas mob. (You can see where Ramirez's stress comes from.)
So, I guess you could say death was something I'd become more acquainted with in the last few years than I'd ever thought possible. And, after bearing witness to victims of drowning, falling off buildings, strangulation, gunshot wounds, and, most recently, stabbing by stiletto heel, you'd think I was immune to the sight of another dead body.
You'd think.
Despite Ramirez's arm around my waist, I felt myself going limp as he pulled me back outside. He gently lowered me to the sidewalk as he grabbed for his cell, shouting codes at the dispatcher and calling for backup.
I dragged in deep breaths, scented with car exhaust and pepperoni from the pizza joint across the street. I willed my lawn lunch not to make a repeat appearance as tears of hysteria backed up behind my eyes. Instead, I tucked my knees up close to my chest, hugging them to me for warmth, despite the sunshine beating down on my bare shoulders.
Mayhem in High Heels Page 2
