Two years ago I had investigated the disappearance of my former boyfriend, who, as it turned out, had been involved in an embezzlement scheme that ended in murder. I'd confronted the killer head-on, and during the resulting struggle, I'd inadvertently popped one of her saline breast implants with a nail file. And then stabbed her in the side of the neck with a stiletto heel. I know. Very girly of me. But, what can I say? Shit happens.
Unfortunately, it was just the kind of story that the L.A. Informer, Southern California's sleaziest tabloid, lived for. That was my first encounter with Felix Dunn, the only reporter in all of L.A. County who had published no less than five articles revolving around Bigfoot's secret love child with the Crocodile Woman. Felix had taken the popped implant story and run with it, even going so far as pasting a picture of my head on Pamela Anderson's body under the caption: Big Boobs Beware! I'd briefly contemplated hiring a hit man.
Since then, Felix and I had, on occasion, worked together for the greater good. Okay, I'd worked for the greater good. Felix had worked for a juicy story to land him on the front page. Felix had the moral fiber of pond scum, which came in handy when dealing with the criminal element, but I wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't eat his young to sell a few more papers.
During brief moments, Felix did, I admit, appear to have a human side. Born in England, he wore his cropped blond hair a little on the messy side, had twin dimples that appeared in his tanned cheeks quite frequently, and had the Hugh Grant charm thing down pat. And he had, at least once, expressed genuine concern over my well being. It was during one of those rare moments that I'd last seen Felix. I'd been spending the night at his house and, in a completely accidental move, kissed him. On the lips. With tongue.
The kiss had been meant for his cheek but I swear he'd turned his head at the last minute. Like I said, complete accident. But, considering we hadn't seen each other since then, I still felt heat creeping into my cheeks and the taste of his lips slipping to the forefront of my memory as I stood in the lobby of the Plaza Athenee staring up into his blue eyes.
"Maddie. How are you, love?" he asked, his voice holding the slightest hint of a British accent.
"Fine." I cleared my throat. "Uh, great. Wonderful."
His gaze strayed down to Wonder Boot. "You don't look all that great wonderful."
"Gee, thanks. Just what every girl wants to hear."
His eyes crinkled at the corners, those dimples making an appearance. "That's not what I meant." His eyes roved appreciatively over my red dress. "And you know it,"
My cheeks went lava girl again. "Tibial fracture," I blurted out. "I got hit by a Mustang. Mrs. Rosenblatt. I'm fine."
Felix clucked his tongue. "You've got to be more careful, love. Let me guess, stumbled over a heel? Not the most practical footwear now, are they?"
I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out at him. "Fashion is not about practicality. And, no, I didn't stumble. I was the victim of a psychic who couldn't work a clutch."
Felix chuckled. "Only you, Maddie."
I ignored his amusement at my expense. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
Felix raised an eyebrow at me. "It's Fashion Week, what do you think I'm doing here?"
"Hoping one of Versace's models runs off with the Loch Ness Monster?"
Again those dimples flashed. "Actually, I'm here with my auntie. She never misses Fashion Week, but she does hate coming alone."
I narrowed my eyes at him. Dutiful Nephew didn't fit Felix's usual M.O. any more than G.I. Jane fit mine. I could hardly see him accompanying a doddering blue hair to runway after runway.
He paused. Then added, "And, of course, if some top model should happen to trash her hotel room or collapse from an anorexic laxative overdose while I'm here, so much the better."
Ah. Now there was the Tabloid Boy I knew and loved.
I mean, hated.
"And you? What brings our Maddie to Paris?"
I lifted my chin, making the most of my 5'1 1/2" frame. "I happen to be showing this week."
He raised a blond eyebrow, suitably impressed. "Really?"
"Yes, at the Le Croix show. All the models will be wearing Maddie Springer originals."
"I should say you've finally arrived then." He looked down at my one polka dotted ballet flat. "This from your collection?"
"No. Thanks to the broken leg, I'm on a no-heels diet."
"No heels?" He did a mock gasp. "Good God, how will our Maddie survive?"
"Ha, ha. Very funny, Tabloid Boy."
"Well, congratulations on the show. I'll look forward to seeing you there. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm afraid I'm keeping Auntie waiting. Good to see you again, Maddie. Uh…" He gestured down to Wonder Boot. "Need a hand getting up to your room, love?"
I squared my shoulders (not an easy thing to do while holding onto a pair of crutches, by the way). "No, thank you. I'm quite capable of taking care of myself."
Again with the grin. "Suit yourself." Felix did a little bow, then took off in the direction of the hotel's restaurant.
I watched his retreating back. He'd traded in his usual uniform of a white, button down shirt and rumpled khaki pants for a more sophisticated look of tailored slacks and a soft gray blazer. The color of the jacket brought out the highlights in his blond hair, the line of the slacks accentuating his long, lean form. I had to admit, it looked good on him.
Not, mind you, that I was looking.
I turned and hit the elevator button, immensely relieved that for all his teasing, at least Felix hadn't mentioned The Kiss. (Accidental as it was.) I'd expected some snide comment, but he hadn't even hinted. In fact, it was almost as if he'd completely forgotten all about it. Good. Perfect. Me too. What kiss? See? It never happened. Completely forgotten.
The carriage arrived and I awkwardly hobbled into the elevator, glancing briefly toward the restaurant as Felix disappeared inside.
I had to remember to ask Ramirez if he owned a blazer.
I opened the door to my room and immediately spied a note on hotel stationary slipped under the door. Ditching the crutches with a clattering thud on the carpet, I leaned down and picked it up. "Went to Moulin Rouge. Don't wait up. Mom." Mom and Cancan dancers. Now there was a combination.
I hopped over to my ruffled four poster bed on one ballet flat and flopped down on my back, spread eagle. I closed my eyes, and lay there contemplating the back of my eyelids. One day down, six more to go until Show Day.
I was hovering in that place somewhere between semi-consciousness and dead-to-the-world sleep when the "William Tell Overture" started singing from the region of my purse. I groped, refusing to open my eyes as I fished by brail for my cell. "Hello?" I asked as I flipped it open.
"How's my favorite designer this morning?"
Ramirez. Despite the tired ache in my limbs a smile lifted the corners of my mouth at his smooth voice, sounding deceptively close.
"Evening. It's eight o'clock. I'm beat."
"Aw, poor girl. Slide a little closer, I'll give you a massage."
I grinned in the dark. "Don't tempt me, it's only an eleven hour flight."
"Paris is that bad, huh?"
I sighed. "No, actually it's wonderful. Absolutely amazingly exhaustingly wonderful."
"Good. I'm glad to hear it." Though I'd swear a tiny corner of his voice almost sounded disappointed.
"I still haven't even got a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower yet, though."
"I'm sure Jean Luc wouldn't mind you taking a little time off to do some sightseeing."
"Ha! You don't know Jean Luc."
"What if you just go in a little early tomorrow and take a quick trip to the tower in the afternoon?"
I rubbed my temples. I had to admit, it wasn't a bad idea. "Maybe."
"Hey, by the way, I dropped by your place last night and watered your plants."
Last spring Ramirez and I had finally taken the plunge and exchanged house keys. Probably the biggest commitment I could ever expect out of a guy like Ramirez. When I'd showed Dana the pink copy of Ramirez's house key that he'd had made for me, she'd warned that once the keys came out the ring wasn't far behind. I'd had a brief moment of panic until I realized a) this was Ramirez we were talking about and b) Dana's longest lasting relationship thus far had been with a battery powered rabbit. She wasn't exactly an expert.
I frowned into the phone. "Um, honey, I don't have any plants."
"Okay, I dropped by and watched the game on your TV. Cable was out at my place."
"You are such a guy."
"And that's a bad thing?"
I felt myself smiling in the dark again. "No. Definitely not."
"So, when are you coming home? Your place isn't the same without you."
"A week from Sunday."
Ramirez groaned into the phone. "That's a long time."
"Only ten days."
"Only?" He groaned again. Though this one held a hint of his wicked Big Bad Wolf smile behind it. "You know, I think you're going to have to make this up to me when you come home."
I quirked an eyebrow in the darkness. "Oh yeah? What did you have in mind, pal?"
"Oh, I've got a couple of ideas. How do you feel about whipped cream?"
I giggled into the phone. Even as my body went warm in places completely inappropriate to talk about in mixed company. "Whipped cream, huh? What am I, an ice cream sundae?"
There was that growl again. "Uhn huh. With maybe a cherry or two on top. Then I'd lick-"
But he didn't get to finish that thought as Ramirez's pager chirped to life in the background. I heard him shift, then curse under his breath. "Shit. Maddie, Captain's paging me. I gotta go. Call you back?"
I swallowed down a lump of disappointment. Just when we were getting to the good part. "Sure."
"Five minutes. Promise," he shot out. Then a click and silence sounded in my ear.
I looked at the phone in my hands. I swear if Ramirez paid half as much attention to me as he did his Captain, we'd be married and cooking babies by now. Not that I necessarily wanted to be a baby cooker, but quite honestly I wouldn't thumb my nose at a night of being a human ice cream sundae. I closed my eyes, wondering just how Ramirez had anticipated finishing that last thought.
There went that inappropriate heat again. I stared at my cell. Five minutes, huh?
I got up, rummaging in my suitcase for something suitable to wear while having intercontinental phone sex with my boyfriend. Unfortunately, the best I could come up with were the flannel pajamas with little ducks printed on them that I'd packed. Not necessarily Fredericks of Hollywood, but they'd have to do. I slipped the top on, giving up on the bottoms as they stretched and strained around Wonder Boot. I guess I could have taken the boot off. But I only had two more minutes. Besides, the shirt was long enough to cover all the important parts. I grabbed my cell, flipped the lights off and crawled back into bed with one minute to spare.
I sat there staring at my phone. A minute went by. Then another. One more. Okay, don't panic. Five minutes, ten minutes – what's the difference, right? I decided that a watched cell never rings and grabbed the remote on the night table, switching on the TV to wait it out. Surely Ramirez would call any second.
I surfed through one channel after another of people speaking way too quickly me for me to catch even a word or two, until I found a station airing Friends reruns dubbed in French. I still couldn't understand what they were saying, but I remembered this one as the episode where Rachel got drunk and confessed her attraction for Ross and could follow the plot well enough from memory.
Fifteen minutes later Rachel was blasted, leaving Ross's answering machine her thoughts on closure, and I was staring at my own very silent phone.
"ca, mon ami, est aboutissement" Rachel said with a smirk. Canned laughter erupted, then the screen switched to a commercial for either tennis shoes or fitness water, I couldn't really tell.
I looked down at my cell readout. Completely dark. Five minutes, huh? I flipped open my phone. Yes, battery was charged. No, I hadn't missed any calls. Damn.
I'd give him another ten minutes.
By the time Friends was over and I was watching a dubbed I Love Lucy rerun where Ricky told Lucy she had some explicitation to do, I realized a) my libido had completely faded into exhaustion and b) I'd been stood up.
While I was disappointed, it was depressing to realize I wasn't entirely surprised. When the choice was between me or a case, I knew exactly where I stood with Ramirez. When a homicide came up, Maddie disappeared. I flipped off Lucy and closed my eyes, wondering if I'd ever have Ramirez's full attention.
Bright and early the next morning my alarm blared, a Black Eyed Peas song breaking through the pre-dawn light. For half a second I had seriously second thoughts about my getting up early plan. But, it was the Eiffel Tower we were talking about. Reluctantly, I dragged myself out of bed and hopped (quite literally) into the shower, doing a one-leg-in, one-leg-out thing with Wonder Boot, which resulted in shampoo in the eyes, a funky shaving job on my one good leg, and an aerobic workout to rival Dana's Step and Sculpt class. Twenty minutes later I felt like I'd run a marathon, but I was clean and dressed in black jeans (one leg rolled up past my knee), an Ed Hardy shirt with a skull and daisies printed on it, and a silver ballet flat (just one). I had the doorman grab me a cab and made tracks through the crisp morning air toward the Louvre. This time with a large cafe au lait from the Plaza's cafe. Don't ever let it be said that I'm not a fast learner.
By the time I arrived, the sun was just starting to peek out from behind the buildings, illuminating the impressive glass pyramid structure in the Louvre courtyard from behind. The light reflecting off the angles and slopes gave it an almost other worldy look that reminded me of the New Year's ball in New York. I took a moment just to watch the spreading pink hues of the sunrise reflecting off its surface as I finished my cafe au lait.
I made a mental note to buy a disposable camera before coming in tomorrow morning as I chucked my paper cup into a nearby trash can and hobbled through the plastic flaps of the Le Croix tent.
But I didn't get far as I ran smack into Jean Luc.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, I'm still a little clumsy on these things. The doctor said I'd get used to them, but-"
Jean Luc cut me off, grabbing me by both shoulders. His face was white as a sheet, his eyes wide, pupils dilated. "Maddie," he said in strangled voice. "It's Gisella."
He gestured toward the newly constructed runway. It was missing a few boards and the sides were still unfinished. Flanking it on one side was a pile of lumber scraps and on the other a sawhorse, ready for the coverall fellows to resume their work.
And in the center of it was Gisella. Jean Luc's top model. Laying face up. Her stick straight hair fanned around her head, being consumed by a thick, dark pool of crimson. One of my pointy toed, black ankle strap stiletto heels sticking out of her jugular.