Gemma Halliday: Alibi In High Heels

One cab ride later (during which I had my nose pressed to the glass the entire time, trying to catch a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower) I was dragging my tired self through the lobby of the Plaza Athenee. It took all the energy I had left to concentrate on keeping my crutches from slipping on the marble floor. Not an easy thing to do. And one that inevitably led to me running smack into some poor soul getting off the elevators.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," I mumbled to the ground. " Je suis … uh… muy, muy sorry." No wait, that was Spanish. "Uh, je suis …"

"No problem, Maddie."

I froze. And looked up into the man's face for the first time, sucking in a breath of surprise. There, standing in front of me, was the last person I expected to see in Paris.

Felix.

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.