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
Learning to Kill: Stories