Honeymoon in High Heels
Page 6
“Well, I’m sorry to have to say this, Maddie, but our flight leaves in just a few hours,” Dana said beside me. "We need to go pack and start heading to the airport."
I opened my eyes, sitting up in my chaise. “Really? You’re leaving so soon?”
Marco nodded, pouting beside me. “I’m out of vacation days.”
“Maybe I could push back my commercial shoot a few days if you need me…” Dana trailed off, a frown of concern between her strawberry blond brows.
“No!” I said. Maybe just a little too loudly. “I mean, no, I’m fine. The head hardly even hurts anymore. You go on home. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?” Dana asked, concern still wrinkling her brow.
I looked across the pool to where a tanned, toned, shirtless guy had just walked though the gate. He was wearing board shorts, flip flops, and a lopsided grin that showed off one dimple in his stubbled cheeks. Ramirez.
“Oh, yeah. I’m sure,” I said, fully meaning it.
"Okay, well, we’ll call you when we get in,” Dana promised, she and Marco gathering their sunscreen, floppy hats, and sandals.
“Have a safe flight,” I told them, as we exchanged hugs and air-kisses.
“Leaving so soon?” Ramirez asked as he approached our group.
"Parting is such sweet sorrow,” Marco said, eyeing Ramirez's bare chest. Then he gave Ramirez a hug. A long one.
Ramirez looked slightly pained, but patted Marco on the back anyway.
Then Ramirez sank down into the chaise beside me as we watched the two girls go.
“Sorry your posse is leaving so soon,” he said.
“I’m not.”
He turned to me, raising one eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I mean, of course it’s nice to spend time with my friends. But, this is my honeymoon. I’d rather be spending time with my new husband.”
“Oh, really?” he said, a wicked gleam settling in his eyes as he leaned back in his chaise.
“Really.” I leaned forward. "And, by the way, we're both well rested, there are no dead bodies around, no murders to solve, no well-meaning best friends hovering, and no more concussion pounding in my head."
Ramirez grinned his Big Bad Wolf grin, the one that said he was fantasizing about eating me right up. "Oh really?" he repeated, crossing his arms behind his head in a way that made all five hundred of his pectoral muscles stand at mouth watering attention.
“Really. So, I think we should take full advantage of what honeymoon we have left today. What are you in the mood for? Sightseeing? Hiking? Or we could go for a swim?" I asked, indicating the pool.
Ramirez shook his head, that wicked gleam twinkling in a way that made his eyes dark and dangerous. “Actually," he answered, his voice low, deep, and sexy enough to make my skin tingle. "I was thinking maybe we should try out that hot tub in our room.”
I felt a grin spread across my face that I couldn't have suppressed if I'd tried.
Days left of our honeymoon: 5
Intimate moments I planned to spend with my husband, locked up in our private suite: every last one of them.
* * * * *
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, as well as several other works. 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
Christmas in High Heels (short story)
Alibi in High Heels
Mayhem in High Heels
Sweetheart in High Heels (short story)
Fearless in High Heels
Honeymoon in High Heels (novella)
Danger in High Heels - coming Christmas 2012!
Hollywood Headlines Mysteries:
Hollywood Scandals
Hollywood Secrets
Hollywood Confessions
Jamie Bond Mysteries:
(with Jennifer Fischetto)
Unbreakable Bond
Secret Bond - coming soon!
Young Adult Books:
Deadly Cool
Social Suicide
Other Works:
Play Nice
Viva Las Vegas
A High Heels Haunting (novella)
Watching You (short story)
Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit (short story)
* * * * *
SNEAK PEEK
of the first
Hollywood Headlines Mystery
by Gemma Halliday:
HOLLYWOOD SCANDALS
* * * * *
CHAPTER ONE
TEEN SENSATION ON MORAL VACATION
LAST NIGHT THE INFORMER CAUGHT EVERYONE’S FAVORITE TEEN ACTRESS, JENNIFER WOOD, AT THE HOLLYWOOD MARTINI ROOM WITH A MEMBER OF A BOY BAND IN ONE HAND AND MARY JANE IN THE OTHER -
“Shit!”
“Tina!”
I swiveled in my chair to face my boss, Felix Dunn, standing in the doorway to his office, hands on hips.
“What?”
“Swear Pig.”
I pursed my lips. “That doesn’t count.”
“I just heard you say ‘shit.’”
“It was computer related. Everyone knows computer-related swearing doesn’t count.”
He narrowed his eyes. Clearly my argument wasn’t cutting it.
“It’s your own fault, you know,” I protested, changing tactics. I’d been typing up a juicy tidbit about the It teen actress, who’d been caught with a joint in her hand at last night’s after-party, when my backspace button stuck, taking out one very cleverly worded line, even if I did say so myself. “I mean, how many centuries old are these things anyway?” I went on. “Would it kill you to buy some new hardware once in a awhile?”
He shook his head. “Swear Pig, Bender,” he repeated, then disappeared back into his office.
“Shit.”
“I heard that!”
I stuck my tongue out at his door and dropped two quarters into the purple piggy bank on my desk. Somehow our newly appointed editor in chief was under the impression that yours truly swore too much. I have no fucking idea where he got that impression. But he’d set up the Swear Pig as a way to break my bad habit. Personally, I was fine with my bad habit. It’s not like I was shooting heroin or anything.
Which brought me back to my story.
I swiveled around, pushing my glasses back up onto my nose and put my fingers to keyboard, recreating my perfect line.
IT MAY BE ONE JOINT TODAY FOR OUR FAVORITE FAIR-HAIRED TEENY-BOPPER, BUT WITH THE WAY HER LIFE IS SPIRALING OUT OF CONTROL, CAN COCAINE, METH, OR EVEN HEROIN BE FAR BEHIND? HOW MANY BLONDES DOES IT TAKE TO SPELL “REHAB?”
I sat back in my chair, surveying my work. Okay, so it was a little mean. And the truth was Wood claimed someone had thrust the “stinky cigarette” into her hand just before the paparazzi flashbulbs went off, after which she’d promptly threw it out. But, seriously, she played the perky “Pippi Mississippi” in a tween cable show. This was tabloid gold.
I hit “send” letting my daily gossip column zip through the L.A. Infomer’s network to Felix’s inbox, then gave my knuckles a satisfying crack.
I glanced at the clock. Quitting time. And somewhere there was a big beefy burrito dinner with my name on it. I grabbed my Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox that doubled as my purse and made for the exit.
Unfortunately, not before Eagle Eyes Dunn could catch me.
“Bender?”
I thought a dirty word and turned around to find him leaning against his office doorframe. “Did you want something, chief?”
“You finish up that Wood piece yet?” he asked.
“Just emailed it to you.” I loved it when I was one step ahead of the boss.
“What about Pines?”
“Pines?”
Edward Pines was the director who’d recently been arrested when police found a stack of pornography under the seat of his car during a routine traffic stop. Not that naked bodies were a novelty in Hollywood, but these particular magazines had included photos of thirteen-year-old boys in the buff. I don’t care how much his last action pic grossed, that guy was total Hollywood roadkill now.
“What about him?” I asked.
“Being arraigned today. It’s your story, right?”
Damned straight. My headline the morning after Pine’s arrest had read: PINES PINES AFTER PINT-SIZED PRE-TEENS. What can I say? I have a thing for alliteration.
But as much as I was relishing the story, I wasn’t thrilled with the timing.
“He’s being arraigned now?” My stomach growled. “It’s dinner time.”
“The news waits for no one, love. Cam’s meeting you at the courthouse,” he said, ducking back into his office.
So much for my burrito. “Shit.”
“Bender…”
“I know, I know.” I reached into Strawberry Shortcake, pulled out another quarter, and dropped it into the ceramic pig on my way out.
At this rate, I’d be broke by Christmas.
* * *
The Beverly Hills courthouse was located on Burton, just a block south of Santa Monica. An unimpressive building, it had a sixties glass-and-concrete esthetic going on that made me think of a Doris Day movie. Totally outdated, totally utilitarian, totally at odds with the rows of Jags and Beemers in the parking lot.
I slipped my Honda Rebel into a space near the entrance. Yep, that’s right, I ride a motorcycle. A bitchin’ hot pink motorcycle. With yellow flames. I’ll admit, it was no Harley, but for a gal my size, 5’3” on a good day, it fit just right. And with L.A. gas prices shooting through the roof, it was the only way I could afford my rent and my regular Swear Pig deposits.
I pulled off my helmet, locked it to the handlebars with a metal chain, and shook out my hair. Luckily when your hair is as stick straight as mine helmet head isn’t much of a problem. I gave it a good fluff and felt the shag cut fall back into place. Currently it was auburn with deep purple highlights. Though, I’ve been through so many shades in my lifetime, I’m not even really sure what my natural color is anymore.
I grabbed Strawberry Shortcake and made my way inside, the cool air-conditioning a sharp contrast to the heat outside. Even in fall, the temp in So. Cal never goes much below 70, and this week we seemed to be hitting Indian summer in spades. After sending my purse through the conveyor belt and stepping through a pair of metal detectors, I made my way up to the second floor where Pines was scheduled to be arraigned.
A towering blonde in jeans and sneakers, holding a big, black Nikon, leaned against the drinking fountain outside the room.
“Hey, Tina,” she said, raising a hand in greeting.
“I see Felix gave you late shift too, huh?” I said, gesturing to her camera.
She nodded. “Caught me in the middle of the dinner rush at Mr. Chow. And Britney had reservations today, too.”
Cameron Dakota was the Informer’s only full-time photographer. Most of the time Felix found it cheaper to pay freelancers by the picture, but Cameron had a knack for not only capturing celebs with their pants down (literally, if she was lucky) but also providing clear, quality shots that kept readers coming back time and time again to the Informer’s pages. And, oddly enough, she actually seemed to enjoy being stuck on Brit watch. Personally, if I had to follow Hollywood halfwits to Starbucks every day, I’d shoot myself.
Lucky for me, I only had to cover them in court.
“Pines in there yet?” I asked, gesturing to the large, oak doors.
Cam shook her head, long blond hair whipping at her cheeks. “He’s up next. Right now he’s in the room next door with his lawyers. No cameras allowed in the courtroom so I’m waiting for a walk-of-shame shot.” She gave me a wink.
“Go get ‘em, tiger.”
I pushed through the doors and slipped into the back of the courtroom.
Contrary to the world of L.A. Law, there was nothing glamorous, sexy, or exciting about sitting in L.A. County Court. The rooms were squat, square boxes filled with metal-framed tables, hard wooden chairs, and depressingly beige walls. Think DMV décor. Only worse. Since this was only an arraignment, no jury was present, just a bunch of people sitting in the gallery, family members who’d likely be putting up bail for the various guys in orange jumpsuits being paraded through the room. Currently up was a guy with earrings the size of nickels stuck in his ears, apparently pleading no contest to a drug possession charge.
Yawn.
I shifted in my seat, pulling my digital recorder from my back pocket as they let Mr. Meth out the side, telling a skinny brunette with tattoos that she could post his $50,000 bail downstairs.
But I sat up straighter as the side door opened and the next defendant shuffled in.
Edward Pines was in his fifties, though he looked about seventy-five today. Apparently jail did not agree with the man. Dark circles ringed his eyes, his jowly features softer and flabbier than the last photo Cam had snapped for our front page. He walked with his head down, as if already playing contrite despite the absence of jurors. Beside him stood his attorney—tall, pressed suit, pasty complexion. I didn’t recognize him, but that wasn’t surprising. High-profile pedophiles didn’t make legal careers.
“Mr. Pines, you’ve been charged with possession of child pornography,” the judge boomed from his bench. “How do you plead?”
The pasty attorney took his cue. “The defendant pleads not guilty, Your Honor.”
I raised an eyebrow. Pines had been caught red-handed by police. I wondered just how his attorney planned to tap dance out of that.
“Very well. Prosecution on bail?” The judge turned to the pencil-thin district attorney, who, with the exception of his slight height, could have been a carbon copy of the pasty defense attorney. Didn’t any of these guys ever see the sun?
“Your Honor, the People request bail be set at ten million dollars.”
“Sonofa-” I sucked in a breath and heard a round of gasps ripple through the courtroom at the exorbitant amount.
Pines might have been a public figure and a creep, but it wasn’t like he’d killed anyone. Even murder charges rarely topped a million in bail. I leaned forward in my seat. This was about to get juicy, I could feel it.
“Your Honor, that’s outrageous,” the defense attorney argued. His cheeks actually showed some color now. “My client is an upstanding member of society, highly regarded by his peers. He has deep ties to the community, and, quite frankly, I feel the D.A.’s bail request is ludicrously out of proportion to the crime at hand.”
The judge raised his bushy eyebrows. “You think child pornography isn’t a big deal, counselor?”
“Of course it is, Your Honor,” he quickly backpedaled. “But the D.A.’s request is…severe,” he finished, this time choosing his words more carefully.
Severe. Good way of putting it. I made a mental note to use that word in my copy.
“Mr. Atwood?” the judged asked, addressing the D.A.
“Your Honor, the defendant has considerable means, dual citizenship in the U.S. and Canada. He is a flight risk. And,” he said, shooting Pines a withering look, “considering the defendant is a director with access to all manner of photographic equipment, we feel it is our duty to protect the children of the community by requesting ten million in bail.”
“That’s insane, Your Honor,” defense argued. “My client is being persecuted by the D.A. because of his fame.”
“I’ve heard enough,” the judge said, holding up his hands.
The entire courtroom, myself included, went silent, holding our collective breath as the judge chewed the inside of his cheek, his gaze going from one attorney to the other. No doubt wondering just how this would play out in the press.
Finally he seemed to come to some conclusion.
“Mr. Pines, if you think celebrity is an excuse for immoral behavior, you’ll be sorely disappointed in my courtroom. Bail is set at ten million dollars.”
I let out a low whistle as the judge banged his gavel. The D.A. gave a triumphant lift of his chin, almost exactly proportionate to the slump in Pines’s shoulders as the bailiff accompanied him out of the room.
I slipped my recorder back in my pocket. An interesting development indeed. Whether Pines actually had ten mil in change for bail or not, I had no idea. But a Hollywood director stuck in jail for days? This was almost as good as Paris Watch ’08. What do you want to bet he’d be claiming mental anguish in under a week?
I mentally rubbed my hands together with glee as I slipped back out the door to find Cam waiting for me. After all, one pedophile director’s mental anguish meant front-page coverage for yours truly.
God, I loved Hollywood.
CHAPTER TWO
After the arraignment, Cam and I hit the Del Taco on Santa Monica. I got my steaming hot burrito, ordering a second to go just in case, and Cam did a taco salad before we parted ways - her to camp out on Sunset for the evening club crowd and me to home.
Which, for me, was South Pasadena, a sleepy little suburb wedged between Glendale and the San Gabriel Valley. Wide streets, palms on every corner, and strip malls with Trader Joe’s and Pier One at all the intersections. Pretty typical American every-suburb, except for the fact that Nicole Richie lived just over the freeway.