Honeymoon in High Heels by Gemma Halliday Page A

stubble-dusted jaw slack, a slight sound between a sigh and a snore coming from between his parted lips.  He looked so peaceful, so handsome.  And so very mine.
    I did a contented sigh and leaned back in my own seat, peeking out the small window to my left.  We were currently thirty-five thousand miles above the Pacific Ocean on our way to our honeymoon destination on the tropical island of Tahiti.  Below me, miles of brilliant blue stretched, broken up only by the occasional white cloud floating between us.  It was the same scenery that had greeted me ever since we’d left California behind, but I still smiled at the sight.  Not only was this our honeymoon, but it was the first real vacation Ramirez and I had taken together.  Real, as in he had actually taken vacation days and assigned all of his open cases to someone else.
    My husband (there went that giddy feeling again!) was Detective Jack Ramirez, LAPD homicide.  Which might have sounded like a super cool, kick ass job, but the reality was I hardly ever saw him.  Murderers didn’t exactly keep 9-to-5 hours, so consequently neither did Ramirez.  It was a rare night when his cell didn’t go off at three in the morning, his captain informing him of a homicide somewhere that required his immediate attention.  But Ramirez was good at his job, and I did get a little surge of pride when I thought of him clearing the mean streets of L.A. of bad guys.  So mostly I didn't mind his work.  Mostly.  But I had done a totally girly squeal thing and jumped up and down like a kindergartener staring at a bag of lollipops when he’d told me he was leaving his cell behind and not even checking in with his captain for ten whole days.  Ten days of Ramirez to myself was even more of miracle than the brilliant blue waters rushing past my window.
    Ramirez stirred in his seat beside me, the snoring slash breathing stopping for a moment, his eyes fluttering open.
    “Did I fall asleep?” he asked, his voice low, groggy, and super sexy.
    I nodded.  “Just a little.”
    “Sorry.  What did I miss?”
    I smiled at him.  “Not much.  More water.  Sodas and some bags of peanuts made the rounds.”
    He nodded, then took my hand in his across the shared armrest.  “Then wake me up when we get there,” he said , a slow smile snaking across his face.  “I want to be well rested to start this honeymoon.”
    My insides fluttered in a way that normally only happened on first dates.  I hoped it lasted forever as I felt his hand squeeze mine, his eyes closing again.
    I had a hot guy who was legally and bindingly mine, I was on my way to tropical paradise, and Ramirez’s captain did not exist for the next ten days.  I sighed and leaned my head back against the seat again.  Could life get any better than this?
     
*  *  *
     
    Four hours later we had landed at the airport near Pape'ete, driven a rental car to our resort on the northern coast, and been checked into our suite at the Island Paradise Village by a chubby cheeked desk clerk who looked like he’d rather be doing anything other than repeating the same “ia orana, maeva" (or "hello, welcome", as he translated for us) over and over to tired tourists.  Especially when we requested an extra private room facing the beach.  Though the clerk's less-than-jovial mood was well worth it when I stepped into our honeymoon suite.   It was decorated in cool blues and soft greens, mimicking the hues of the ocean, which was just steps away fr o m ou r own private lanai.  A king sized bed took up most of the room, while a jetted hot tub sat next to a big, picture window  in the bathroom.  And I couldn't help but notice there was room for two in that tub.   
    The first thing we did, however, was shower, change and dress for the nightly luau dinner show in the restaurant by the beach.   The Island Paradise Village was a fully contained resort, with a restaurant, bar area, spa, pool, and just about any other amenity that you