Honeymoon in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  Here’s what critics are saying about

  The High Heels Mysteries:

  "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

  * * * * *

  HONEYMOON IN HIGH HEELS

  by

  GEMMA HALLIDAY

  * * * * *

  ebook Edition

  Copyright © 2012 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.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to your online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  * * * * *

  HONEYMOON IN HIGH HEELS

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  There are three things in this world that I would apply the word “love” to when describing my feelings.

  Number one: Shoes. I have always had a love for fashion, one that only grew as I got older and my heels got higher. I spent years as a struggling fashion designer, mostly making a living designing children's shoes in the form of sparkly Dora the Explorer flip-flops and light-up Transformers sneakers, before I was able to design my own couture collection. And I was happy to report that I had finally made it to the point where grown women - with credit cards, no less - bought my creations in fashionable boutiques everywhere. In fact, I was wearing a pair from my own High Heels Seduction line right now - black, strappy slingbacks with tiny Swarovski crystals scattered over the toes. Très chic, even if I did say so myself.

  The number two thing that I loved, was my friends and family. I guess technically that's two things, but I’m lumping them all together because I honestly think of my friends as an extension of my family. After my best laid wedding plans were recently ruined, my friends and family all traipsed across the desert with me to elope to Las Vegas. My fiancé and I had exchanged vows amidst sniffles, sighs, and congrats. I could not ask for a more supportive group, and I felt incredibly fortunate to have them.

  And the last but certainly not least thing I loved most in this world was my new husband. Just the word - husband - gave me a giddy little thrill every time I heard it. I glanced to my right where the man in question sat, dozing in his seat. His eyes were closed, stubble-dusted jaw slack, a slight sound between a sigh and a snore coming from between his parted lips. He looked so peaceful, so handsome. And so very mine.

  I did a contented sigh and leaned back in my own seat, peeking out the small window to my left. We were currently thirty-five thousand miles above the Pacific Ocean on our way to our honeymoon destination on the tropical island of Tahiti. Below me, miles of brilliant blue stretched, broken up only by the occasional white cloud floating between us. It was the same scenery that had greeted me ever since we’d left California behind, but I still smiled at the sight. Not only was this our honeymoon, but it was the first real vacation Ramirez and I had taken together. Real, as in he had actually taken vacation days and assigned all of his open cases to someone else.

  My husband (there went that giddy feeling again!) was Detective Jack Ramirez, LAPD homicide. Which might have sounded like a super cool, kick ass job, but the reality was I hardly ever saw him. Murderers didn’t exactly keep 9-to-5 hours, so consequently neither did Ramirez. It was a rare night when his cell didn’t go off at three in the morning, his captain informing him of a homicide somewhere that required his immediate attention. But Ramirez was good at his job, and I did get a little surge of pride when I thought of him clearing the mean streets of L.A. of bad guys. So mostly I didn't mind his work. Mostly. But I had done a totally girly squeal thing and jumped up and down like a kindergartener staring at a bag of lollipops when he’d told me he was leaving his cell behind and not even checking in with his captain for ten whole days. Ten days of Ramirez to myself was even more of miracle than the brilliant blue waters rushing past my window.

  Ramirez stirred in his seat beside me, the snoring slash breathing stopping for a moment, his eyes fluttering open.

  “Did I fall asleep?” he asked, his voice low, groggy, and super sexy.

  I nodded. “Just a little.”

  “Sorry. What did I miss?”

  I smiled at him. “Not much. More water. Sodas and some bags of peanuts made the rounds.”

  He nodded, then took my hand in his across the shared armrest. “Then wake me up when we get there,” he said, a slow smile snaking across his face. “I want to be well rested to start this honeymoon.”

  My insides fluttered in a way that normally only happened on first dates. I hoped it lasted forever as I felt his hand squeeze mine, his eyes closing again.

  I had a hot guy who was legally and bindingly mine, I was on my way to tropical paradise, and Ramirez’s captain did not exist for the next ten days. I sighed and leaned my head back against the seat again. Could life get any better than this?

  * * *

  Four hours later we had landed at the airport near Pape'ete, driven a rental car to our resort on the northern coast, and been checked into our suite at the Island Paradise Village by a chubby cheeked desk clerk who looked like he’d rather be doing anything other than repeating the same “ia orana, maeva" (or "hello, welcome", as he translated for us) over and over to tired tourists. Especially when we requested an extra private room facing the beach. Though the clerk's less-than-jovial mood was well worth it when I stepped into our honeymoon suite. It was decorated in cool blues and soft greens, mimicking the hues of the ocean, which was just steps away from our own private lanai. A king sized bed took up most of the room, while a jetted hot tub sat next to a big, picture window in the bathroom. And I couldn't help but notice there was room for two in that tub.

  The first thing we did, however, was shower, change and dress for the nightly luau dinner show in the restaurant by the beach. The Island Paradise Village was a fully contained resort, with a restaurant, bar area, spa, pool, and just about any other amenity that you could think of to prevent you from leaving. Not that we were going anywhere. In fact, if I had my way, we'd spend the rest of the honeymoon in our room
.

  I chose a long, flowing maxi dress with a halter top in a soft blue floral print, paired with white espadrilles with a wedge heel. Ramirez went with a standard jeans and T-shirt, though as a concession to the locale, he went with flip flops instead of his normal work boots. He looked laid back, relaxed, and I couldn’t wait to get him back to the room and alone.

  He lightly took hold of my hand as we walked along the pathway by the beach to the restaurant, sunset falling just behind us, casting a warm, amber colored glow along the water. This was as close to perfect as I could imagine being.

  As soon as we got to the luau, we were seated at a table for two near the stage, and two Mai Tais arrived at our table. No sooner had we started sipping, than the lights dimmed, and loud drum music filled the room.

  A moment later three guys in tiny loincloths carrying huge batons filled the stage. They stomped to the rhythm of the drums then, to my surprise, lit the ends of their sticks on fire, swirling them around in the air in a brilliantly dangerous light show.

  I sipped my drink. “Hot,” I muttered. Then giggled. “No pun intended.”

  “You’re ogling the fire dancers, aren't you?” Ramirez teased.

  I gave him an innocent stare. “Who me?”

  He shook his head. “Only hours into our marriage, and you're checking out other guys?” He made a tsking sound with his teeth.

  I swatted him on the arm. “Hey, I'm still allowed to look. I just only touch you.”

  He sent me a look that was filled with more heat than the fire dancers' stage. “That’s the part I’m looking forward to.”

  I grinned. Me too.

  I sipped at my Mai Tai again, watching as the three guys swirled their sticks in the air, coming close to hitting the colorful, woven tarps draped on the walls behind them. The crowd, oohed, aahed, and gasped as the fire swirled around their near naked bodies. I'll admit, as my second Mai Tai came, I gasped right along with them, clapping as loudly as anyone when the show ended, and the guys bowed deeply, putting out their fire sticks.

  As soon as they vacated the stage, servers appeared at the table, depositing our first course. It was soft, mushy and grey. I sniffed it. I nibbled it. It was okay Tasted a bit like coconut really, so I dug in as the next group of dancers took to the stage.

  This time it was three girls - all of them young, slim, and dressed in traditional grass skirts and strategically placed coconut bras. They held flower leis in their hands, and as the drum music started up again, they began shaking their hips at a rate that would have Shakira jealous. I watched, mesmerized by the shake-shake-shake as the music escalated in intensity, pumping in through hidden speakers.

  I turned to my right. Ramirez was a little mesmerized too.

  The girls stepped down off the stage and started shimmying through the crowd as our next course arrived. Pork this time. (I could tell because the pig head was still attached to the serving platter. Ew.) A girl with long, silky black hair and big brown eyes shimmied over to our table, moving her hips within a breath of Ramirez.

  His eyes glazed over.

  I swatted him on the arm

  He gave me an innocent stare. “What? I’m just looking, not touching.”

  I shot him a dirty look, but couldn't help grinning. "Good. Hands off the hula girls."

  "'Ote'a girls," he corrected me. "Hula is Hawaiian. It's slower. 'Ote'a is the Tahtiain traditional dance."

  I blinked at him. "Wait - you've been studying up on the native dancing girls?"

  Ramirez shrugged. "There was a brochure in the suite. It was something to read while I was waiting for you to get dressed."

  Three Mai Tais, two more courses, and one more group of dancers later I was feeling very happy, just the slightest bit tipsy, and like I had to pee a river. I excused myself to go find the little girls room while Ramirez dug into another helping of mushy, grey stuff.

  I felt my wedges slip a little on the polished wood floors as I made my way unsteadily around dozens of tables for two, toward the back of the restaurant where two little blue figures promised restrooms. I did my business in the room with the figure in a dress on the door, but still felt a little shaky. There was another door off the hallway, across from the restrooms, that was marked “exit”. Figuring a little fresh air might do me good, I pushed through and was instantly greeting by a splash of warm, tropical air that smelled like flowers. Everything here smelled like flowers. I inhaled deeply, clearing my head. The last thing I wanted to do was be too tipsy to enjoy the first night of my honeymoon with my husband. Ramirez had even rested up for it! I had big plans for that hot guy and that hot tub in my room.

  I took a few steps, rounding the side of the building, inhaled deeply, feeling my senses begin to return to normal. I closed my eyes, listening to the sounds of the ocean hitting the shore just out of my eye-line, the rustling of the trees as a soft wind blew through. I’m not sure how long I stood like that, but by the time I opened my eyes again, I felt much better. Still a little on the “mellow" side, but clear-headed enough that I wasn’t in danger of twisting an ankle on my wedges.

  I walked back to the door I’d come out of and tugged. Only it didn't budge. I tried again, but it was definitely stuck. Great. It had locked behind me. I wrapped my arms around myself and trudged around the side of the building, heading back toward the front doors instead.

  Unfortunately, while we’d been watching the dancers inside, the sun had set, and it was pitch black behind the building. Lights blazed along the path to the resort, but the alleyway wasn’t an area that tourists usually frequented. I squinted through darkness, trying to make out the shapes in front of me. I could see the building, a Dumpster (a practical eyesore that felt out of place in this tropical bliss), and a car parked off to the side of the building. What I couldn't see, unfortunately, were the smaller shapes lurking in the shadows. Which is why I stumbled right over one, barely catching myself on the side of the building before I face-planted into the concrete walkway.

  I did a couple of deep breaths, then looked down at the ground to figure out what I'd tripped on.

  It was soft, a dark shape, about five feet long, and covered in a woven tarp like the ones they’d used to drape around the stage. And I would have left it at that, but at the very corner of the tarp I saw something sticking out. Something that did not look like garbage. In fact, it looked a lot like hair. Long, dark, silky hair. I bit my lip. I braced myself on the side of the restaurant and carefully lifted the edge of the cloth with one hand.

  I’m pretty sure the scream that leaked from my lips could have been heard all the way back home in L.A. as I stared down at the “garbage” I’d tripped over. Warm brown skin, long dark hair, one grass skirt and two strategically placed coconuts, sitting just belong a long, thin neck, which was currently a dull shade of blue, garroted by a flower lei pulled tightly enough to make her eyes bulge from their very dead sockets.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I’m not sure how long I stood there staring dumbly at the body, but I must have been screaming at least most of the time, as I vaguely registered several sets of footsteps pounding the pavement behind me. Before I knew it, I was surrounded by restaurant patrons, gasping, yelling, and shouting for paramedics even though it was clear by the macabre features of the girl’s face that she was long past any medical help.

  A large, warm pair of hands clamped down on my shoulders, and I realized I was shaking.

  “Maddie?” a familiar voice said calmly in my ear.

  I spun around, immediately burying my face in my husband’s chest. “I fink shes head.”

  “What was that?” he asked, pulling my mouth out of his T-shirt.

  “I think she’s dead,” I repeated, hearing my voice come out on a shaky whisper.

  Ramirez looked past me to the body, which was now surrounded by both tourists and restaurant employees alike. “I think you’re right.”

  I buried my face in his chest again and let him lead me to a stone ledge a few feet away. He sat
me down, rubbing his hands up and down my bare arms. “You gonna be okay?”

  I nodded, taking in big gulps of floral scented air. Just a few moments ago, it had smelled like a soft perfume, but in the wake of my sudden I-found-a-dead-girl nausea, it was cloyingly sweet and making my head hurt. "I think so."

  “Good. Listen, you sit tight here for a minute. I’m just going to go make sure someone’s called the authorities and no one’s moving the body,” Ramirez said, going into cop mode.

  I nodded again, a little less shakily this time.

  Ramirez paused. “You sure you’re okay?”

  I'll admit, part of me wanted to wail, “No!” and make him stay right where he was, rubbing my arms, which I’d noticed had broken out in creeped-out gooseflesh. But I knew that was selfish. With the crowd gathering around the body, it was clear someone had to take charge, and my husband was the best man for the job.

  I cleared my throat, gulped down the nausea, and nodded again, making myself do it without shaking this time.

  He gave me a tight grin. “You’re one tough cookie, Springer,” he said. Then quickly kissed the top of my head before being swallowed up by the growing crowd.

  As soon as he was out of sight, I crumbled into a little ball again, putting my head between my knees to stop the spinning in my vision.

  Here’s the thing: this was not my first encounter with a dead body. Not even my second, I was sorry to say. Trouble seemed to have a way of finding me, which was completely not my fault by the way. Just dumb luck, I guess. Not that I could complain too much. My luck was a hell of a lot better than Dancing Girl’s was tonight.