Undercover in High Heels by Gemma Halliday Page B

that Ramirez was a cop first. But somehow in the back of my mind I’d always hoped that he’d wake up one day and realize how much he wanted to put me first.
    Clearly today wasn’t that day.
    I finally ran out of breath and sat down at a bus stop somewhere in New York. “Somewhere” being the key word here. As I wiped at my damp cheeks, I realized I had no idea where I was.
    The fake city was eerily creepy in the fading dusk, the setting sun creating shadow across the New Yorkskyline. I did a few unladylike hiccups, getting myself under control as I got up and walked down the street, half expecting a mugger to jump out of the dirty alleyway, even though I knew the dirt had been spray painted on by set dressers and the only rats on the lot were the agents.
    But between the talk of murderous letter writers and even more murderous murderers, the empty buildings seemed to take on an ominous feeling.
    And then I heard it. The sound that made my heart start pumping double-time.
    Footsteps.
    I paused, freezing in the middle of a street lined with brownstones (or, at least, brownstone facades). The footsteps continued for a beat, then stopped, too.
    Okay, so maybe it was just a set dresser getting New York ready for that cop show tomorrow. Maybe it was a cleaning crew. Maybe it was an actor trying to soak up some of the East Coast atmosphere.
    Maybe it was a homicidal maniac who strangled women in their trailers with panty hose.
    I started walking again, briskly, in the direction of the set. Only, with the adrenaline-fueled fear pumping through my veins, I wasn’t sure which direction the set was.
    I quickened my pace, almost jogging now as I rounded the corner and found myself suddenly on a tavern-lined street in Boston. The footsteps followed me, speeding up as mine did. I glanced behind my shoulder and let out a squeak. A figure loomed in the shadows just a few yards behind me. Clearly my imagination did not produce that. Frantically I tried the door to O’Shays Pub. Of course it didn’t open because,duh, it was freaking painted on. Nothing here was real!
    Nothing, that was, except the murderer chasing me.
    I was running now, trying not to trip over my feet as I heard the footsteps growing closer. I didn’t dare look back for fear he’d be right on top of me. I rounded another corner, onto a San Francisco street lined with Victorians, and started jogging uphill.
    I could hear him closing in, his breath coming fast, as if he weren’t any fonder of San Francisco terrain than I was. I reached into my purse, grasping for anything that might be used as a weapon. Lipstick, tampon, change…pepper spray! I said a silent thank-you to my overly protective (though, in hindsight, genius) mother as my fingers curled around the canister. I felt around for the little button to push, still tripping uphill. I found it.
    Just as I felt a hand clamp down on my shoulder.

Chapter 7
    More out of instinct than anything else, I let out a bloodcurdling scream as I whipped around and shot the contents of the spray canister blindly at my attacker.
    “Son of a…!” My attacker staggered backward, clawing at his eyes. “What the bloody hell did you do that for, Maddie!”
    I blinked, the adrenaline slowly receding from my limbs as I took in the rumpled khaki pants, sneakers, and slept-in white button-down. Felix.
    “Oh crap!” I dropped the canister on the ground. “Oh holy crap. I’m so sorry, Felix. Oh crap, are you okay?”
    “No, I’m not bloody okay!” He was still rubbing at his eyes, his entire face turning redder than a Malibu sunburn victim. “What the hell was that?”
    “Pepper spray.”
    He dropped his hands, his eyes tearing as he stared at me. “Pepper spray? You bloody shot me with pepper spray?”
    I felt myself blush. “Sorry. But in my defense, you did kind of sneak up on me.”
    “I did no such thing. I was trying to catch up to you. You’re bloody fast in flats. Dammit, this stuff stings.”
    “Water. We need