Gemma Halliday - Alibi In High Heels

But a little trust might be nice now and then.

Only as I stared at my phone sitting silently on the floral duvet, I realized that I didn't trust him either. He asked me to trust in the legal system, to trust Moreau, to trust that, with Ramirez here, I wouldn't end up in jail. And what had I done? Gone off to London on a wild goose chase that had ended in me lip-locked with Felix, of all people.

No wonder he wasn't calling.

As if on cue, my cell chirped to life.

I dove for it, hitting the on button without even looking at the readout.

"Jack?" I asked, my heart leaping into my throat.

"He still hasn't called, huh?" Dana's voice answered.

I gulped down my disappointment. "No."

"Sorry, hon. But, give him a little time. I'm sure he will."

If only I was as sure.

"Anyway, I just wanted to let you know I'm done with my fitting and on my way to the hotel. Give me ten minutes to pack a bag and I'm ready to go."

I nodded at the phone. "Okay, meet you in the lobby in twenty."

I hung up, flopping back onto the bed. I looked at the silent phone in my hands. Closed my eyes and willed it to ring. Come on, Jack. Please, please, please…

I opened them. Nothing. Still silent.

I took a deep breath and scrolled through the numbers in my address book until Ramirez's showed on the screen. I stared the entry. So hard that the numbers started swimming front of my vision. My finger hovered over the call button.

I hit it, holding my breath as it rang on the other end. Once, twice, then to voicemail. My heart bottomed out. He wasn't calling and he still wasn't taking my calls.

"Hey, it's me again. I just wanted to let you know I'm going to Milan," I told his voicemail, making good on my promise to keep him informed. "And I… I'm still sorry."

I hung up, then flipped my phone shut and stared at the dark LCD screen.

Dana was right. He just needed some time. He'd call. Eventually.

I hoped.

Those who know me well know that I am a bit of a celebrity junkie. I never miss a night watching the Emmys, Oscars, or SAG awards, and I'd have to say that my favorite all time awards show moment was when Roberto Benigni won the Oscar for his film Life Is Beautiful . In true expressive Italian fashion he jumped up and down, kissing everyone in sight, running down the aisles like a little kid at Christmas. You couldn't help but laugh, cry, and feel your heart beat a little faster right along with him.

Milan was a city full of Benignis. As soon as our plane landed, Dana and I trudged our way through the airport amidst boisterous Italians hugging, laughing, and gesturing with their arms in an aerobic fashion. And kissing. Kissing seemed to be the national sport of Italy. Everywhere we went, men kissing each other on both cheeks, women kissing everyone on both cheeks, and children being kissed in all directions by everyone. In Italy, everyone kissed.

By the time we hailed a cab and were on our way to the address Mom and Mrs. R had Googled for the Girardi Agency, I was seriously contemplating a disinfectant wipe for my cheeks, though I couldn't help the grin that had spread across my face. The Benigni-eque atmosphere was infecting.

"I like it here," Dana said, waving to a friendly group of soccer players waiting at the curb. I was pretty sure at least one of them had slipped her his number.

"Do you know where this address is?" I asked our driver, handing him the print out.

" S i , si ," he said, nodding his head. "I take you pretty signoras there." He gave Dana a wink in the rearview mirror. Dana giggled.

"Heard from Ricky lately?" I asked, nudging her in the ribs.

Immediately the smile left her face. "Oh yeah. The cheating bastard."

"Uh oh. Trouble in Croatia?"

"I guess you haven't seen the latest edition of the Informer ?"

I shook my head. Considering there was a ninety percent chance of seeing my own picture splayed across their pages, I was trying to stay clear. "What did they say this time?"

"There was a picture, Maddie. Of Ricky and Natalie Portman on a beach. She was in a bikini and he was rubbing sunscreen all over her back. Her bare back."

"So he's concerned about skin cancer?"

"So he's definitely doing her."

"You don't know that. For all you know, they pasted Ricky and Natalie's faces on Brad and Angelina's bodies. They do that, you know."

Dana made a disbelieving "hmph" sound.

"Have you asked him about it?"

She nodded. "He's still denying it. He told me they're 'just friends,'" she said, doing air quotes with her fingers.

"So, maybe they are."

"Yeah, right."

"Look, maybe he has a perfectly good explanation for it all. Maybe he didn't mean to rub sunscreen on her, maybe he was tricked, coerced. Maybe it was just moment of weakness. Maybe he's really, really sorry and really, really wishes you'd just call and forgive him."

Dana gave me a look. "Um, we're not still talking about Ricky are we?" she asked.

I bit my lip. "No."

She patted my arm. "Don't worry. He'll call."

While I appreciated the sentiment, I was beginning to believe that less and less.

The ride from the airport to the Girardi Agency was, thankfully, a short one. Even with the packed city streets, we pulled up in front of the tall, modern glass building in less than twenty minutes. It was in a densely urban part of the city, which, unless you looked closely, could have resembled any part of L.A. Tall office buildings, parking garages, small coffee shops tucked on every corner, and men and women wearing everything from business attire to Bohemian peasant skirts and backpacks rushing to and fro on the sidewalks.

Dana and I paid the driver, then got out and entered the lobby of the cool air-conditioned building. After consulting the directory, we hopped in the elevator and rode it to the twenty-first floor where the agency's offices were housed.

The frosted glass doors simply read "Girardi" in black letters. The reception area beyond was a cool, sophisticated example of modern Italian design. Bright bold area rugs covered the floors, low chairs and tables in sleek chrome and colorful upholstery lined the waiting area. On the tables, a range of fashion magazines, most, I would assume, featuring the agency clientele. The walls were a soft cream color, punctuated with abstract art in a variety of bold geometric shapes, and the kidney shaped desk in the center featured a range of sleek, streamlined computers and other offices machines I'd be afraid to touch for fear of pushing the wrong button.

Behind the desk sat an Asian woman, a headset glued to one ear, her fingers clacking noisily over a keyboard.

"Excuse me, we here to see-" I started, but she didn't let me finish, giving the universal one finger "wait" signal as we approached.

" S i ," she said into the headset, her Italian tinged with a Brooklyn accent as she rattled off a string of phrases. Finally one came through that I understood. " No, dispiaci, no commento ." Then she clicked off.

"I'm sorry," she said, addressing us. "The press has been calling non-stop lately. I'm about to pull the phone out of the wall."

Been there. Done that.

"Anyway, how can I help you?" she asked, breaking into a pleasant smile.

"We're here to see Miss Girardi," I informed her.

A little frown settled between her brows. "Oh. Do you have an appointment?"

"Uh, not exactly," I hedged.

"I'm sorry, Miss Girardi isn't in. She went home early today, she said she had some personal business to take care of. Maybe I can help? I'm her assistant, Debbie. What is this regarding?"

I bit my lip. Regarding the fact that your employer might be part of a ring of jewel thieves didn't seem like a kosher message to leave with the friendly assistant. I was still trying to come up with an alternative when Dana piped up beside me.