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  He held my gaze, letting the word out on an exhale. “Shit.”

  “Oh, it gets better. My co-worker is across the street right now with a telephoto lens, taking pictures of you meeting a gorgeous brunette for afternoon coffee. Which,” I said, watching his jaw harden, his unnervingly pale eyes flash with anger, his nostrils flare, “he’ll be delivering to your wife ASAP. By the time you get home from work I’d fully expect every one of your Armani suits to be strewn across the front lawn, stud.”

  He was breathing hard, his eyes narrowing into fine slits. “You fucking set me up?”

  I nodded slowly. “Uh huh.”

  “But coffee isn’t an affair,” he ground out. “You’ve got nothing.”

  “True.” I faked a disappointed look. Then before he had a chance to respond, I leaned across the table and planted my heavily lined lips on his. It was just a quick movement, only lasting a second before Brandon pulled away. But I knew Danny had been ready for it. A second was all he needed to snap the shot.

  Unfortunately, it was also all I needed to be transported back in time. His lips were still as soft as I remembered them. As sweet, as warm. I tried to mask the shaky, weak feeling flooding through my veins as he scraped his chair back and stared at me, the faintest outline of my plum colored lipstick still on his bottom lip.

  “I can’t believe you just did that,” he said, disgust coming out on a snarl. Then he turned and pushed his way through the room.

  I don’t know what made me get up and go after him. I had the pictures. Mission accomplished. The job was done. We were done.

  But I did. My long legs quickly matching his pace until I caught him just inside the glass doors.

  “Maya, what are you doing? Let him go,” Danny’s voice crackled to life in my ear.

  I was never very good at following orders.

  I grabbed Brandon’s arm, spinning him around so quickly we almost collided with the pig-tailed barista balancing a tray of lattes on one arm.

  “What?” I asked, indignation high in my voice. “What can’t you believe? That I bested you? That for once, I wasn’t the one playing the fool? I am not the same person you knew, Brandon.”

  His eyes flashed down at me, his voice tightly restrained. “Obviously.”

  “Oh, don’t get all high and mighty with me. You’re cheating on your wife.”

  He leaned in and I instinctively took a step back, coming up against a round, wooden table.

  “Jesus, I can’t believe you took a case from Lana.”

  “I didn’t. The agency did. Trust me, I would never have taken this one if I knew it was you.”

  “Well, you seemed to pull it off just fine.”

  I ignored the comment. “You didn’t answer my question. You cheating on your wife, Brandon?”

  “You think I would?”

  “It fits your M.O.”

  He stared at me for a moment. Then turned his back, muttering a curse. He ran a hand through is dark hair, making it stick out a little on the side, as he sank into an overstuffed chair by the window. “I never cheated on you, Maya.”

  Shit. My breath stopped. It had hurt like hell at the time, but I’d gotten over it. It was behind me. There was no need for my stomach to clench up on me like that now. I was a different person now. One that could care less where Brandon took his pecker.

  “I don’t want to talk about that.” But I slid into the chair beside him.

  “You brought it up.”

  “No, I brought up you cheating on your wife. Not what you did five years ago.”

  “Five years, three months and two days.”

  I blinked. “Jesus, what, did you write down the date? You keep a log of your affairs?”

  “It wasn’t an affair.”

  “Oh really, so what do you call me finding you in bed with a hooker?”

  Okay, so maybe I cared a little where his pecker turned up.

  “She was not a hooker.”

  “She had a lightning bolt shaved into her pubic hair. She was no virgin.”

  “She set me up, Maya.”

  I raised one eyebrow at him. “People seem to be doing that to you a lot.”

  He swore under his breath, shaking his head again. “Jesus, you never listened then either.”

  “I guess I haven’t changed that much, then, huh?”

  “Look, Lana knew I was crazy about you. She was pissed. She had a thing for me. She got me drunk, then paid the stripper,” he emphasized, “to get in bed with me. I didn’t do anything with her. She just wanted to break us up.”

  I stared at him, the words sinking in, my insides doing a suspended in time thing, all too aware that Danny was just feet away listening to every embarrassing word. Words that couldn’t possibly be true. I’d seen it with my own eyes. My fiancée, naked, in bed with a woman who, quite obviously, wasn’t me. He was lying. He was making it up.

  “You’re making that up.”

  “Hell, if I was gonna make up a story, don’t you think I’d come up with something better than that?” he asked.

  “Lana wouldn’t do that to me.”

  “Your sister would eat her young to get what she wants and you know it.”

  He was right. Lana had always been that way. I thought back to the time I’d gotten a Malibu Barbie and her matching pink corvette for Christmas. Lana had been so jealous that she’d waited until I was asleep, then cut all of the doll’s hair off and painted her lips black until she looked like Goth Barbie.

  “Did Lana tell you this?” I asked.

  “No. Lightening Bolt did. After the wedding. She felt guilty.”

  A hooker with a conscience. That was almost as hard to believe as the idea he’d really fallen for a stupid play like that.

  I shook my head, feeling hair whip my cheeks. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter now. You married her. That’s all that matters.”

  He nodded slowly. “Yes. I did.”

  I looked down at the gold band on his finger again, imagining the scene in The Boss’s office when Lana had walked in, wanting to get the goods on her philandering Prince Charming.

  “How is the little woman these days?” I couldn’t help asking.

  He looked out the window, his gaze straying to Danny’s white van. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” I raised an eyebrow at him.

  “We’re getting a divorce.”

  I almost laughed out loud. “Ha!” Okay, fine. I did laugh out loud. “Oh, that’s priceless.”

  “I thought we were trying to work things out, but apparently, the fact that she hired you-”

  “Hired my boss. The Bond Agency.”

  He paused. “The Bond Agency, means she didn’t feel the same way. Though, I didn’t think she’d stoop so low as to actually try to set me up.”

  “Again?” I asked, enjoying the irony too much. “You underestimated Lana.”

  He nodded. “I did.” He paused. “Again.”

  “So, working things out. Does that mean you still love her?” I asked, dying inside at how much his answer meant to me.

  He shook his head. “I never really loved her, Maya. You must know that. She was just a way… a way to feel close to you.”

  My lip started to quiver and I bit down hard on it.

  He reached a hand out, his thumb gliding ever so gently over my lower lip. “Don’t do that,” he said softly.

  My breath caught in my throat, a chill running through my entire body until little raised goosebumps appeared on my arms.

  His eyes softened, his head tilting to the side. “Maya,” he said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “What happened to us?”

  I felt tears well behind my eyes. Dammit. I reached down and unclipped the broach from my shirt.

  “Maya,” Danny immediately chirped to life in my ear.

  “Maya-” Brandon started. But I stopped him, holding up a finger as the universal “wait” signal.

  I grabbed the mic from my lapels and pulled the wire out from my shirt.


  Brandon raised an amused eyebrow at me.

  “Maya, what are you doing? Don’t you dare take that earpiece out or I’ll-”

  I didn’t hear the rest of Danny’s threat as I ripped the bud from my ear, laying it on the table with the rest of the surveillance equipment.

  “You really are a professional,” Brandon observed.

  “Much better than that hooker, huh?”

  “Stripper. Her name was Candi. She was actually a very nice gal.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him.

  His lips quirked up.

  “Your teasing me now, aren’t you?”

  He nodded, blue eyes crinkling at the corners.

  “Asshole.”

  His face broke into a full-fledged grin. “God, I’ve missed you.”

  I looked across the table at him. “Yeah, me too.”

  “What do you say we get out of here and do some catching up?”

  Five years was a long time. Too long to know if there was anything between us but memories. Had I changed? Had he? I didn’t know. But I found myself nodding anyway. “Yeah. Lets.”

  He smiled at me again, showing off a row of white teeth. Then got up.

  “The Bond Agency, huh?” he asked as I pushed my chair back, slipping the mic and company into my purse. “So, does that make you a Bond Girl?”

  My turn to grin. “Something like that.”

  He nodded. “It suits you. And, for the record, I never thought you were a fool.”

  “For the record, I never thought you were the kind to go for a lightening bolt.”

  He laughed, a deep, rich sound that rippled through me like a physical touch. Filling my belly with an odd sensation. Only this time, it wasn’t unpleasant. More like something familiar that verged on… excitement? Uncertainty? Promise?

  Whatever it was, I liked it.

  “One thing, though, Brandon?”

  “Yes?” he asked as we stepped into the sunshine. I could see Danny standing outside the van, arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head at me.

  I ignored him. Instead, slipping my hand into Brandon’s. “I am sending your wife those photos.”

  His face broke into a broad grin. “I’m counting on it.”

  * * * * *

  About the author:

  Gemma Halliday is the author of the High Heels Mysteries, and the Hollywood Headlines Mysteries. Her previous 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, including a mystery series for teens debuting in 2011, and a new mystery series for adults, set to be published in hardcover in 2012.

  To learn more about Gemma, visit her online at www.GemmaHalliday.com

  * * * * *

  SNEAK PEEK

  of the exciting first book in the

  High Heels Mysteries

  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 ble
ached 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?