Free Spying in High Heels by Gemma Halliday Page B

dishes, so I ate my rice noodles with a plastic spork while standing at my kitchen counter. Trying to avoid eye contact with the little pink box that had become my obsession.
    I knew I was being a wuss. Just take the damn test already. But if there had been too many it's for comfort before, there were way too many now. if Richard was involved with Greenway. If he wasn't entirely innocent in this whole thing, if Ramirez—or, heaven forbid, Greenway—found Richard first.
    If Richard didn't have a good reason for that condom wrapper.
    So instead of opening the box like a normal, rational woman, I decided to go with the if-I-don't-look-at-it-it-doesn't-exist theory of matter and plopped down on the futon, turning on the TV instead. Denial is a girl's best friend.
    But wouldn't you know it, the first channel I flipped to showed a perky reporter with a Tipper Gore bob doing a report from Celia Greenway's swimming pool. Ramirez appeared (dressed in butt-hugging Levi's and a slick leather jacket—seriously hide-your-daughters sexy) and gave the reporter an update on the investigation. Basically repeating what he'd already told me. The coroner's office wasn't yet ready to release a statement and in the meantime it was being considered a "suspicious death." Suspicious was right.
    The rice noodles squirmed in my belly as pictures flashed across the screen. A smiling, red-haired Celia sitting on the beach. A press clipping of Devon Greenway, hair slicked back, dressed in a tuxedo as he shook hands with some politician. And another clipping of the Newtone Technologies Corporation, now under investigation for fraud, misappropriation, embezzlement, and a whole host of other charges that made the reporter's plucked eyebrows knit together in practiced concern.
    Thankfully there were no pictures of Richard.
    Yet.

Chapter Six
     
     
    The next morning I woke up early, a bundle of nervous energy even before my requisite cup of coffee. All night long images of Ramirez, Greenway and, most importantly, Richard kept swirling through my head. Not to mention the permanently seared image of Richard's stray Trojan.
    The more I thought about it, the more uncertain I became that Richard was merely an innocent bystander in all this. From the looks of his financial statements, he had needed money. And there was twenty million dollars floating around unaccounted for. It was pretty tempting. And as much as I liked to think Richard was above temptation, I just wasn't sure.
    I decided in the wake of my fitful night's sleep to treat myself to a double grande mocha latte with decadent whipped cream for breakfast. (Sometimes a girl needs to splurge.) I slipped on a pair of low-slung, boot-cut jeans, a black Calvin tank and silver patent leather slingbacks that complemented my
    Pinkberry toenails. I grabbed my purse and pointed my Jeep toward the nearest Starbucks.
    Amazingly I found a parking place right in front and took my place in line, which, as usual, was about a million caffeine-starved people long. It gave me way too much time to contemplate the bakery case. By the time I reached the pimply kid behind the counter, somehow a chocolate chip muffin and a blueberry croissant had been added to my order.
    I found a quiet corner in the back and settled in to my breakfast of fat, sugar and mass amounts of caffeine. By the time I'd polished off the croissant and was digging into the chocolate muffin (melt-in-your-mouth delish, by the way!), I was beginning to feel like myself again.
    Okay, maybe not totally like myself, as the biggest worry my usual self had to encounter was whether the Spiderman rain boots would cover this month's rent. Now shoes seemed to be the last thing on my mind. Which was a sign my life was really falling apart.
    I was just licking the muffin remains off my fingers when my purse rang. I pulled out my cell to see Mom's number lighting up my LCD screen.
    "Hello?" I answered, still picking up the little stray muffin crumbs with my