High-Heeler Wonder (Killer Style 1)

“Fine. We’ll stay here for tonight.”

Damn, she loved winning. “Glad you’re seeing reason.”

“It sure looks like crazy from this side of the room.” He shoved his fingers through his black hair. “Okay, so tell me about the threats. All of them.”

And there went her happy buzz. This situation wasn’t a game of Scrabble. It was her life and her livelihood. Fear, frustration, and more than a dash of anger crashed against her like a tidal wave.

“I wouldn’t really call them threats. More like nasty e-mails.” She paced the kitchen, the tile cool under her bare feet. “It’s not really that unusual. But a few months ago I noticed they were becoming more intense. Until then they were all the regular stuff about me not knowing a peep toe from a kitten heel, and that I was just a coward hiding behind the High-Heeled Wonder persona.”

“Regular stuff? You get those a lot?” He fidgeted with the strap of his duffel.

She shrugged. “Five or ten a week. People can be very passionate about fashion. Usually they’re from fans who feel I’ve attacked their favorite actor when I poi

nt out his outfit is a mess. That sort of thing. Occasionally, I get a passive aggressive note from a publicist. Then, there are the weirdos who want to date me and sometimes plead their case with photos that I do not need or want to see.”

The number of cock shots a female blogger could get in a week would keep Playgirl busy for years. Something about the anonymity of the Internet along with the perceived intimacy of a blog really brought out the loony in some people.

“Why don’t you go by your real name? Most people would want to play up those kinds of insider connections.”

“Anton and Henry have already done so much for my sister and me. They got us out of foster care, raised us as their own, and would give us the world if we asked. But, as I said, fashion is insular. I knew I’d be ruffling feathers and I didn’t want my fathers to take flack for that. Plus, I don’t want to trade on their name. Building the site, getting it to half a million unique visitors a day, that’s something I wanted to do on my own.”

Tony drummed his fingers on the granite counter. “We should get some information from your hard drive, but until I can get my computer guy to take a look, can you think of anyone you’ve ticked off recently?”

Damn it, she was beginning to wonder who she hadn’t pissed off.

“There’s Daniel, for obvious reasons, but I can’t imagine why he’d be sending me nasty e-mails before I found him giving a waiter head. Then we’d have to look at Anders Bloom.”

“Who?”

“He’s the latest incarnation of Alexander McQueen—or at least he thinks he is. The truth is he just pushes buttons for the sake of gaining attention. I wrote about his pre-fall collection being a hot mess, and just found out today that somehow he knows my real identity.”

She needed to warn her fathers. God knew what stories Anders was spreading about their involvement in her blog.

“Anyone else?”

Reaching into the fridge, she bought time by grabbing a soda and downing half the can. Sure, she’d ticked off a few people with the blog, but enough to make them run her down in the middle of a crowded street? It was all too bizarre.

She touched a drop of condensation on the can. “I have a couple of regular readers who are less than stable, a former blogger friend, Ivy Rhodes, who’s refused to answer my e-mails for about four months, and I just broke the story of the decade about Pippa Worthington.”

“The editor of Chantal?” He leaned back against the counter.

Damn, the man looked good in a kitchen.

“Two points for the detective. Yes, she’s Chantal’s editor-in-chief, but only for the next few months if she can’t boost subscriptions and ad revenues. Her assistant hates her with a passion unknown to mortal man and, in a case of righteous vengeance, is going out with a glorious bang by leaking me all sorts of juicy information.”

“I feel all warm and fuzzy,” he drawled.

She toasted him before downing the rest of her drink. “Welcome to the wonderful world of fashion.”

Chapter Five

“I base most of my fashion taste on what doesn’t itch.”

—Gilda Radner

The one-bedroom apartment’s walls threatened to close in on Tony. While not a disaster zone, there was stuff everywhere—shoes, scarves, and candles with names like Peapod Pleasure and Devine Deviant. He took a deep whiff of the last one. Cherries. Of course. Weaving around the fashion magazines forming chin-high towers, he came face to snout with a weird bronze fox that made up a lamp base.

Most disconcerting of all, he couldn’t escape Sylvie’s lavender scent. It clung to her deep purple curtains and the caramel-colored leather couch, following him everywhere as he prowled the open space for the past few hours.