Undercover in High Heels Read Online Free Page B

I’d lately started doing a little freelancing on the side, for—wonder of wonders—actual adults. Okay, so I’d designed and constructed a pair of purple size-thirteen sequin-covered heels for my father’s birthday. (Yes, you heard me right. Father. He danced in a Las Vegas all-male “showgirl” revue.) And I’d recently put the finishing touches on my first Maddie originals for myself: pink pumps with three-inch heels, leather ankle straps, and tiny crystal details on the buckles. All in all, I was rather proud of them.
    I let myself into my apartment and kicked off my abused heels, then dragged myself into the shower, careful to rinse all the bits of broken auto glass out of my hair. I pulled on an oversized Guns N’ Roses T-shirt, left over from my college days, and curled up on my futon with my TV remote. Three late-night episodes of Cheers later I was fast asleep.
    I wasn’t sure how long I’d actually been asleep, but I knew it wasn’t long enough. My phone was ringing from somewhere deep inside a lovely dream of Ramirez and me doing horizontal acrobatics across my kitchen counter when I cracked one eye open to stare at the digital clock beside my bed. 6:15 A.M. Ugh. I’m not exactly what you’d call a morning person. I’m more of a stumble-out-of-bed-at-ten-and-make-a-break-for-the-nearest-Starbucks kind of person. Which may be why my voice sounded like I’d been sucking on sandpaper as I croaked out a “Hello?” in the vicinity of my phone.
    “Maddie! Oh my word, honey, what happened?”
    Instinctively, I pulled the phone away from my ear. 6:15 A.M. was too early for anyone to be that loud.
    “Mom?” I croaked out again. “You don’t have to shout. I can hear you.”
    “Sorry. I’m on a cell phone, sweetie, ” she yelled.
    I felt a headache brewing between my eyes.
    “Maddie, what’s going on? I was having breakfast with Mrs. Rosenblatt, and we saw a man reading the L.A. Informer at the next table. Honey, your picture was on the front page. Were you involved in a shootout last night?”
    I smacked my palm to my head. Leave it to L.A.’s sleaziest tabloid to sensationalize a simple misunderstanding between a girl and her beau into a Wild West showdown at the OK Corral. “It wasn’t a shootout, Mom. Just…a misunderstanding.” Okay, I admit, when I said it out loud, the Informer ’s version sounded closer to the truth.
    “Are you okay? They said you were taken hostage.”
    I groaned again. “Mom, I’m fine. I promise.”
    “Oh honey, I’m coming over right now.”
    “No!” I fairly screamed into the phone. Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother. But the last time she was in my apartment she insisted on organizing my underwear drawer, covering my cooktop in aluminum foil, and feng shui-ing the entire place by moving my television into the bathroom and my futon next to the refrigerator. “No, I’m fine, Mom, really. Never better.” Except for the headache that seemed to be spreading to my temples.
    “Now, don’t try to be all adult and independent on me, Mads. I know when my baby needs me.”
    I rolled my eyes. I was facing the big three-oh this year. God forbid I should be adult and independent.
    “Mom—”
    “Nope. No protests.”
    “But—”
    “And no buts.”
    I rubbed my temple, hoping I still had that travel-size bottle of aspirin in my purse. “Okay, how about this, Mom. How about I just come down to the salon later? That way you wouldn’t have to drive all the way out here, and I could get my pedi fixed at the same time?” I asked, hoping for a compromise that didn’t involve rearranging my furniture.
    Mom paused, considering this. Luckily, I knew howmuch she hated to drive the 405. “Well, if you’re sure you’re okay…”
    “Right as rain!” I said, doing my best perky-cheerleader impression.
    “All right. Why don’t you meet me at Fernando’s after lunch and you can tell me all about it. Okay?”
    I did a silent sigh of relief. “Perfect. I’ll