Part 5 (2/2)
I squinted my eyes shut, embarra.s.sment was.h.i.+ng over me. ”Uh, hi.”
”Hi. Watcha doing down there?” he asked, a grin lacing his voice.
I cleared my throat, pulling myself up off the floor with as much dignity as I could. ”Waiting for you,” I said, tugging the hem of my lingerie down. ”You're late.”
Ramirez glanced at the clock on the nightstand. ”A little,” he admitted. ”But, I'm here.”
”Huh.” I crossed my arms over my chest, not yet ready to let this one go. Especially since he'd caught me on the floor and not in my perfect s.e.xy-coy pose.
”I think you should forgive me,” Ramirez said, taking a step toward me. ”Because I brought you something.”
He held out a box to me. It was pink, about a foot long, and wide.
”Shoes?' I squealed, all immediately forgiven as I grabbed it from him and tore the top off.
”Not just any shoes,” he said as I pulled them from the tissue.
He was right. They were the shoes I'd had specially made for the Viewer's Choice Awards and given to Betty White.
”OhmiG.o.d, where did you get these?”
Ramirez grinned. ”I have a friend on the force who knows Betty's personal a.s.sistant. She got them back for you.”
”You are the best!” I said, wrapping my arms around his neck.
”Check inside the strap,” he instructed.
I did, turning the shoes over. Along the interior of the leather T-strap, in permanent sharpie marker, was Betty White's autograph. I think I squealed again.
”These are now officially the best pair of shoes I own.” I smiled at him. ”Thank you.”
”You're welcome. Happy Valentine's anniversary, Maddie,” he said, coming in for a kiss.
A very warm, soft kiss that made me tingle in all the right places.
”So,” he said when we finally came up for air. ”Remember when I said I'd make all those missed dinners up to you?”
”Yes?” I said.
Ramirez grinned, his eyes going dark and wicked. ”Lock the door.”
About the author: Gemma Halliday is the 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 Francis...o...b..y Area where she is hard at work on several new projects.
To learn more about Gemma, visit her online atConnect with Gemma on Facebook at: /pages/Gemma-Halliday/285144192552 * * * * *
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 Haunted (novella) Watching You (short story) Confessions of a Bombsh.e.l.l Bandit (short story) * * * * *
SNEAK PEEK.
of the brand new Anna Smith-Nick Dade Thriller by Gemma Halliday: PLAY NICE.
Prologue.
”Take it off.”
Anya looked across the over-furnished room at the man who'd issued the command. General Fedorov. Fifties, salt and pepper hair, eyes as dark as two bottomless pits. He took a deceptively casual position, leaning back in a plush, velvet armchair, one leg crossed over the other. But Anya wasn't fooled. She could see the tension still present in his limbs, as if he were ready to pounce at the slightest provocation. He held a lit cigar in one hand, the cloyingly sweet scent tickling her nostrils as she complied, slipping the strap of her dress down her right shoulder, then the left. She s.h.i.+mmed her hips until it fell to the floor, leaving her bare beneath his gaze but for the red, patent leather heels on her feet.
”Like this?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Fedorov nodded, looked her up and down. A flicker of appreciation crossed his sharp features. He took another long drag from the cigar, as if dragging in the sight of her, then slowly blew it up toward the ceiling.
”Come closer.”
Her stomach clenched. But she did. Her long legs crossing the distance between them until she was standing directly in front of him, so close she could feel the heat emanating from his body.
”And now?” she asked.
”Kneel down.”
Again, Anya did as she was told, her bare knees. .h.i.tting the cool marble floor. She swallowed a shot of apprehension, noticing the growing bulge beneath his tailored slacks.
You've done this a thousand times before. You can do it again.
One last time.
”And now?” she asked. Even though she knew full well what ”and now” would be. They'd been watching him for weeks. They knew his habits, his mannerisms, what kind of soap he washed with in the morning and what color socks he wore at night. What kind of cigars he smoked and what kind of recreation he indulged in. Blondes. Expensive ones. If they were lucky, he let them leave in the morning. Others became just another casualty of war.
Fedorov reached out, trailing a finger down Anya's cheek. His hands were rough, calloused, like him. She s.h.i.+vered but leaned into his touch all the same, doing a kitten-like mew deep in her throat. He gave an answering groan, telling her she'd done her research well. He liked.
His hand left her face, and Anya could swear she felt her skin sigh in relief. Fedorov moved to set his cigar down, his free hand reaching for his zipper.
”No. Let me,” Anya purred, sliding her hands up the expensive wool fabric that covered his thighs. ”Please,” she begged.
A smirk crossed his features before he picked up his cigar again.
He liked it when they begged.
She smiled up at him, holding his eyes as she slowly lowered his zipper. She did another feminine coo, letting her eyes flicker to him as she licked her lips.
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