High-Heeler Wonder (Killer Style 1)

“Could have. Whoever has been controlling the computer from the outside could be totally unrelated to Sylvie’s stalker. Or it could be Ivy covering her tracks.”

Carlos shook his head. “No way. I just need a little more time to prove it. I have a trace on the proxy server now. If they keep any kind of user logs, I can hack in and connect the dots.”

Tony considered the man in front of him. Carlos had joined their team a few years ago and had done stellar work since then. His instincts were usually dead on…but something about this whole thing made Tony’s toes itch. “How much time do you need?”

Carlos fist pumped the air. “Forty-eight hours.”

God, he hoped he wasn’t going to regret this. “You have twenty-four. And ’Los?”

“Yeah?”

Tony leveled a hard look at him. “There’s a woman’s life riding on this case. Don’t fuck it up.”

Chapter Thirteen

“I can’t concentrate in flats.”

—Victoria Beckham

What had her life devolved to when Sylvie had only thrown one pair of flats into her overnight bag? Not a single pair of chunky heels, knee boots, or mules. Every girl knew nothing made your butt look better than a pair of heels. They were the most often used weapon in a battle of seduction, and Sylvie needed everything in her armor to get Tony to see past his self-imposed rules.

She dug through her Louis Vuitton orange leather duffel, praying to the fashion gods that she’d find something hidden in its depths. Her fingertips hit the soft suede bottom. Shit, not only were there no heels, but her search failed to discover a second pair of shoes at all. She plopped down on the bed in Tony’s room, knocking the overnight bag to the floor. Even when she’d had only two pairs of shoes in her closet at her last foster home, if she ever went anywhere, both pairs came with her.

Priorities, sister. You weren’t exactly thinking straight when you packed that bag. You’re hiding from the stalker nut job who broke into your apartment.

True. But here in Tony’s manly man bedroom in the wilds of Waterberg, the disturbing reality of her life seemed like a child’s game of pretend. Which, in fact, it had been. Pretending to be the High-Heeled Wonder. Pretending to be happy in a relationship with a man whom she knew didn’t love her. Pretending she wasn’t petrified of taking chances.

But she was done with all that.

She slid her feet into the muted eggplant-and-navy-striped Fendi ballet flats. Today, she was the no-heeled wonder on a mission to get her groove back.

She stood, and her jeans, tailored for wearing with three-inch heels at the minimum, pooled at her feet. She sighed. And so the transformation begins.

After a quick assessment in the mirror, she went to work. She rolled her jeans until they stopped just above her ankle, swapped the patterned blouse for a cream tank, and slipped on her favorite cropped navy blazer. A chunky gold necklace and a few bangles finished the look. It wasn’t her usual armor, but somehow it worked.

Bring it on, world. I’m ready for you.

As if hearing her thoughts, her phone chirped. Then it gonged. A piano trill sounded a second later. Holy crap. Henry, Drea, and her sister all texting her within thirty seconds of each other. Her insides became as fizzy as a shaken soda. So not good. She grabbed the phone and peered at it with one eye closed.

She opened Henry’s first.

Honey, I know a lot of crazy things are going on in your life right now, but today’s posts aren’t like you at all.

What was he talking about?

Drea’s text was a bit longer. And even more stress inducing.

Are you smoking crack with HHW posts?!? Also did you see Pippa’s quote in FashionWear Daily about you coming out as the HHW? “Really, it’s not surprising considering her background and her fathers. Not that it matters. These so-called fashion bloggers will never make a lasting impact on the world. They lack taste. They lack knowledge. They lack influence. The real power will always be with Chantal. Always.” Da-y-um! Wear kevlar to fundraising dinner tomorrow. Don’t worry. I’ll bring the Uzi! :)

Shit. This could not be good.

Heart pounding, she punched up the last text. Anya was more diplomatic, but the trend continued.

It was satire? Yes?

All of the bubbles inside Sylvie’s stomach replicated and grew until they squashed her lungs against her rib cage. In three clicks she had the High-Heeled Wonder Web site up on her phone.

The top of the page was taken up by a large candid photo of a plus-sized model eating chocolate cake with the headline: Do Fatties Have a Place in Fashion?