Free Spying in High Heels by Gemma Halliday Page A

hollow pit in my stomach. I did. And she was right. The look in Ramirez's eyes as he'd questioned me yesterday had been clear enough. Richard was no longer considered just a witness.
    "But Richard is innocent," I protested. Only it sounded oddly uncertain even to my own ears. "And there's more," I admitted.
    "What 'more'?"
    I leaned in close, half whispering to avoid Marco's gossip radar. "When I was going through Richard's office I kind of found something. Something that shouldn't be there."
    Dana leaned in so close I could smell her morning nonfat decaf latte on her breath. "What?"
    I swallowed hard. " A condom wrapper."
    She blinked, looking at me as if still waiting for the punch line. "So?"
    "So, Richard and I have never done it in his office. I mean, we've only done it in his bedroom. Or mine."
    "Wait, you mean to tell me that you've never had sex with Richard outside of a bed?"
    I'm no shrinking violet. I watch HBO, I have frank discussions with my gynecologist using anatomically correct language, and I've had enough sexual experiences that I have to take my socks off to count them all. But something about the way Dana was looking at me as if I'd just confessed I didn't know where second base was made my cheeks grow instantly hot.
    "No," I said defensively. "Richard likes to be comfortable."
    Dana made a disbelieving sound, something between a snort and a cough. "Comfortable and sex are two words that should never go together. Wild and sex, maybe. Passionate and sex. Even animal and sex—"
    "Okay, I get the point." I think Mrs. Spears was beginning to stare.
    "Wow. You live a sheltered life."
    If my cheeks got any hotter, I'd erupt. So Richard liked things comfortable. What was wrong with being comfortable? Comfortable was fine. No gear shifts in your back, no soap in your eyes. We might not be on the sexual safari that Dana was, but Richard and I were fine. And I swear my mind did not flash for a second on Ramirez when she mentioned wild animal sex. Not one second.
    "Dana, you're missing the point. That condom wasn't mine."
    "Well, let's not jump to conclusions. Maybe it wasn't his, maybe it was one of his friends'."
    Yeah right. That was the same excuse I'd used the one time I'd Been dumb enough to try pot senior year of high school and my mom had caught me trying to air out my room before she got home from work. It was flimsy then, and it didn't sound much better now.
    But I was desperate.
    "You think?"
    "Sure. Or maybe he just emptied his pockets onto his desk after an overnight at your place."
    Hey, that one didn't sound so bad. "Right. That's probably it."
    "Of course it is. Richard's mad about you. It's not like he'd go bop his secretary or something."
    Richard and Jasmine? That thought made me ill. I'd have to buy a gun and put myself out of my misery because I didn't want to live in a world where the likes of Miss PP could steal a boyfriend from the likes of me. Not that I'm a conceited person, but Jasmine was one step up from belly-button lint.
    "Right. You're right. I'm sure Richard will have a perfectly good explanation." Once I found him.
     
    After our toes were Fuchsia Fusion and Pinkberry Stain, Dana and I went for lunch at the Brown Bag Deli on Wilshire. There Elvira, Mistress of the Dark Eye Shadow, signed no less than three autographs for star-happy tourist, with a hopeful, "I'm so getting this part." By the time we were both stuffed with kosher pickles and turkey sandwiches (hers with low-fat mayo and sprouts, mine with extra cheese and salty fries—Hey, I was possibly eating for two now, right?), it was getting late and I realized I hadn't touched the Strawberry Shortcake high-tops in days. I promised Dana I'd call her as soon as I saw Althea and dropped her at her audition before heading back to my studio. ,
    I forced myself to finish the sparkly laces and Velcro closure for the Shortcake shoes, then ordered delivery from the Vietnamese place down the street. I was too tired to bother with