Killer in High Heels Read Online Free PDF Page B

to do with me approaching him. Probably it was a totally different car I’d seen following Dana and me.
    But I still felt I should probably keep my door locked and my Ginzu knife handy while I ate my takeout. Just in case. (Hey, I’m no dummy. The blonde always dies first in those horror movies.)
    I polished off my Chinese in record time and spent the rest of the evening doing half-hearted sketches of the Rainbow Brite jellies in between calling the Larry numbers again. And again. With the same results each time. I hoped Dana was getting along better with Verizon Ted. After Letterman I did one more round of calls before calling it a night myself. I pulled out my futon and fell into a restless sleep, visions of the Mob a la Ray Liotta invading my dreams.
    I could swear I’d only been asleep for five minutes when the sound of my door being pounded down woke me. But when I cracked one eye open I saw the sun was up and my digital clock read 7:13 A.M. I groaned as another knock sounded. What was it with morning people?
    Reluctantly, I rolled over, throwing off my sheets and shuffling in that half-asleep, half-awake zombie walk of those who have stayed up much too late gorging on takeout.

    “Coming,” I called as Mr. Impatience threatened to rattle my door off its hinges again.
    I squinted one half-opened eye at the peephole.
    The sight that greeted me woke me up faster than any grande mocha latte ever could. Dark, tussled hair. Dark eyes with one small scar cutting across his left eyebrow. Tightly set jaw, dusted with sexy day-old stubble and that black T-shirt fairly painted onto a body that instantly made me feel like a dog in heat.
    Ramirez.

Chapter Three
    Oh, shit! I immediately recoiled from the door as if he could see me through the little peephole. My gaze whipped around my apartment. Clothes on the floor, empty take-out cartons on the counters, lipstick, mascara and drawing pencils scattered everywhere—not exactly Martha Stewart ready for visitors. I hated people who showed up unannounced almost as much as I hated morning people.
    Maybe if I stood really still he’d think I wasn’t home and come back later. Like, after I’d had a chance to straighten up. I did a quick sniff test of my person. Ugh. And a shower.
    “I know you’re in there, Maddie. Your Jeep’s out front.”
    Damn. I guess he didn’t make detective for nothing.
    “Open the door, Maddie, or I’ll have to break it down.”

    I was ninety-nine percent sure that was a bluff. But from the way he was pounding, I didn’t think it wise to risk the one percent. Reluctantly, I slipped off the security chain and opened the door.
    For a full two seconds we both just stood there staring at each other. He was wearing his trademark faded jeans, work boots, and gun bulge tucked at his side. A tattoo of a panther flirted with me from beneath the sleeve of his shirt, and his dark eyes did a slow sweep of my body that made me very aware I hadn’t brushed my teeth yet. I did a dry gulp thing while I tried to decide whether I hated him for not calling or loved him for finally showing up on my doorstep.
    Finally he broke the silence. “Nice outfit.” The corner of his mouth jerked up into a half smile.
    I looked down. Just my luck he’d show up the day I throw on yellow duck pajamas.
    “Thanks,” I said with as much dignity as a grown woman wearing duckies could.
    “Can I come in?”
    I stepped back, hesitating only a minute. The way we’d last left things was somewhere in that vast limbo land of maybe relationships. I mean, he’d seen me one inch from naked and I already knew his condom size. We weren’t exactly strangers. Though the fact that he hadn’t called me in weeks didn’t exactly make us a hot item either.
    So I opted for a cool, casual air of indifference, leaning against my kitchen counter and crossing my arms over my ducky jammies as I pretended his sexy stubble and Russell Crowe build had no effect on me whatsoever.
    “So what are you