Gemma Halliday - Alibi In High Heels

And dropped the sheet.

Currently I had two vices: Mexican food and (as you may have noticed) Mexican men. Thanks to an early morning shooting on Olympic that had Ramirez crawling out of bed at the crack of dawn (see, what did I tell you?), I couldn't indulge in the latter. Which left me with the former, in the form of a grande nachos supremo at The Whole Enchilada in Beverly Hills. And I had to admit the gooey cheddar and salsa induced semi-orgasm I was experiencing was almost as good as what I'd had planned for Ramirez this morning.

Almost.

"So, did Ramierez spend the night again last night?" my best friend, Dana, asked, leaning both of her elbows on the table across from me.

I nodded. And grinned. I couldn't help it. After spending a night with Ramirez, there was nothing I could do to wipe that sucker off. "It was hot."

Dana licked her lips. "How hot?"

I picked up a stray jalapeno from my plate and held it up. "Ten of these and you still wouldn't even be close."

Dana sighed. Then started fanning herself with a napkin imprinted with a dancing cactus. "You know, it's been so long, I can hardly even remember what a one jalapeno night would be like."

Dana was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed aerobics instructor slash wannabe actress with the kind of body that had "Playboy Bunny" written all over it. Which generally meant she saw more action than a NASCAR fan. However, her current boyfriend de jour was Ricky Montgomery, who played the hunky gardener on the hit TV show Magnolia Lane , and, amazingly, my fated-to-short-term-romance friend had actually taken a vow of monogamy with Ricky, which, thus far, had lasted a record three months. I was actually pretty proud of Dana. Especially considering that as soon as shooting ended for the Magnolia Lane season, Ricky had flown off to Croatia to shoot a crime-drama movie with Natalie Portman. Ricky said the script was amazing and had Oscar written all over it. Dana said she was investing in a battery powered rabbit and praying they wrapped quickly.

"So, when is Ricky coming back?" I asked around a bite of cool sour cream and hot salsa. I'm telling you, pure heaven.

"Three more weeks. I'm just not sure I can make it, Maddie. This is the longest I've ever gone without sex."

I raised an eyebrow. "Ever?"

Dana nodded vigorously. "Since ninth grade."

Wow. I think in ninth grade I was still negotiating with Bobby Preston over second base.

"So, why don't you just go visit him?"

She shook her head. "Can't. The set's in a military zone. They needed all sorts of permits and things just to be there. Booty call isn't exactly on the list of approved reasons."

"Sorry."

"Thanks." Dana sipped at her iced tea. Decaf, sugar free, packed-with antioxidants. Dana was of the my-body-is-a-temple school of dieting. Me, I'm pretty sure my million calorie nacho platter spoke for itself.

"If it makes you feel any better, last night was the only action I've gotten in weeks, too." Not to mention that I was currently substituting a morning of naked sheet wrestling with chips and refried beans.

Dana sighed again, giving my jalapeno a longing look. "Not really, but thanks for trying."

"So, how about a little shopping? A little retail therapy always makes me feel better."

Dana nodded her head, her pony-tail bobbing up and down. "Sure. But just for a little while. I've got an audition at one. I'm reading for the part of a street walker on that new David E. Kelly show. I can so nail this one."

I looked her up and down, taking in her denim micro-mini, three-inch heels, and pink crop top. I hated to admit it, but she so could.

After I'd fully consumed my nacho supremeo, stopping just short of actually licking the plate, Dana and I walked down Santa Monica, making a right on Beverly. Now, normally actually walking two blocks in L.A. was an unheard of phenomenon, but this was prime window shopping territory. The boutiques lining the street held windows full of designer purses, thousand dollar tank tops, and Italian leather shoes with stitching so small, you'd swear it was the work of Leprechauns.

After drooling over a pair of crocodile boots, a fabulous deconstructed jacket and two to-die-for evening gowns, Dana paused in front of the Bellissimo Boutique. "Ohmigod, Mads! Are those yours?" She pointed to a pair of red, patent leather Mary Janes with a black kitten heel.

I grinned so wide I felt my cheeks crack. (And this time it had nothing to do with Ramirez or gooey cheddar-laden chips.) "Yep," I said, beaming with a pride usually reserved for mothers sporting "student of the month" bumper stickers. "Those are my latest. You like?"

"I love! Oh, I so want a pair. Hey, you think you could do something for me to wear to the premier of Ricky's movie?"

"I don't know if you can afford me. I'm a pretty hot designer now," I joked.

"Oh, I totally know what I want! I saw the cutest pair of wedge heeled sandals on J. Lo at the MTV awards. They were, like, black with this little line of sequins going down the…" But Dana trailed off, her eyes fixing on a point just over my shoulder. Then suddenly going big and round.

"What?"

I spun around and stood rooted to the spot. A little yellow sports car was careening down Beverly at Daytona 500 speeds. It sideswiped a Hummer, narrowly missing a woman carrying a Dolce shopping bag, then bounced back into traffic, tires squealing.

"Ohmigod, Maddie," Dana said, her voice going high and wild. "Look out!"

I watched in horror as the little car cut across two lanes, jumping the curb and accelerating.

Straight toward me.

Ever had one of those moments where you're suddenly outside your body watching your own actions play out like some TV movie starring Heather Locklear and thinking, "Wow, her life really sucks"?

After a split second of deer-in-the-headlights, I jumped to the right, arms splayed out in front of me like Superman as I dove for the pavement. I'd like to think that had my belly not been weighed down by half a pound of Mexican bliss, I might have been quick enough to get out of the way. As it was, I felt the sharp bite of a fender colliding with my left leg as my head snapped back and met the sidewalk.

"Uhn." I closed my eyes, little bright pinpoints of light dancing in front of my vision. Adrenalin pumped through my every limb, my heart thudding like a jackhammer. I tried to move my mouth and tasted blood. I think I'd bit my tongue.

"Ohmigod, ohmigod! Maddie, Are you okay?"

I blinked. Slowly. And saw Dana's face hovering over mine. Along with a homeless guy wearing a faded Abercrombie T-shirt and two women in red hats with Chanel bags dangling from their wrists.

"I… I think so." I tried wiggling my fingers, arms, legs. I stopped at legs. Pain shot up my left one making me yelp like a puppy. I slowly propped myself up on my elbows and looked down. The yellow sports car was hovering just over my lower half. It was so shiny-new that it was still minus license plates and had a bright chrome mustang attached to the hood. The only thing marring its new car perfection was the big ugly dent in the front fender.

I didn't even want to see what my leg looked like.

The Mustang's door flew open and the driver stepped out. Or, I should say, wedged herself out. I was fully ready to unleash the wrath of a sexually frustrated blonde who's had her nacho buzz ruined until I got a good look at her. She was at least 300 pounds and wearing a bright green and pink muumuu, Birkenstocks, and a shade of eye shadow that would make Marilyn Manson cringe.

I did a mental forehead smack.

Mrs. Rosenblatt.

Mrs. Rosenblatt was my mother's best friend, a five-time divorcee (always on the look out for Mr. Six) who talked to the dead through her spirit guide, Albert. I know. Only in L.A. Then again, I wasn't sure I should pass judgment so quickly. By the looks of the new car, the psychic business must not be doing all that poorly these days.