Hollywood Secrets (34 page)

“
Yep. That Barker,” Tina confirmed. “Allie’s like a dog with a bone on this one. If I don’t dig up some fresh dirt soon, Felix is liable to give away my front page status.”

“
Good luck!” I called after her.

I looked down at my clock. 4:35. I grabbed my Nikon and bag and was just about to shut off my computer when the elevator doors slid open and Trace walked out. To say every head in the place turned his way would not be an exaggeration.

He spotted me and waved.

I grinned so big I feared I’d crack my face.

“
Hey,” he said, leaning down and depositing a quick kiss on my cheek. “Our guests are on their way. You ready, babe?”

I risked cracking, my smile growing. I loved it when he called me babe.

I grabbed his hand.

“
Am I ever.”

* * * * *

About the author:

Gemma Halliday is the author of the
High Heels Mysteries
, the
Hollywood Headlines
Mysteries,
and the
Deadly Cool
series of young adult books
. Gemma’s books have received numerous awards, including a Golden Heart, a National Reader’s Choice award and three RITA nominations. She currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area where she is hard at work on several new projects.

To learn more about Gemma, visit her online at
http://www.gemmahalliday.com

Connect with Gemma on Facebook at:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Gemma-Halliday/285144192552

* * * * *

OTHER BOOKS BY GEMMA HALLIDAY

High Heels Mysteries:

Spying in High Heels

Killer in High Heels

Undercover in High Heels

Alibi in High Heels

Mayhem in High Heels

Fearless in High Heels

Christmas in High Heels
(short story)

Sweetheart in High Heels
(short story)

Hollywood Headlines Mysteries:

Hollywood Scandals

Hollywood Secrets

Hollywood Confessions

Anna Smith-Nick Dade Thrillers:

Play Nice

Young Adult Books:

Deadly Cool

Social Suicide

Other Works:

Viva Las Vegas

Haunted
(novella)

Watching You
(short story)

Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit
(short story)

* * * * *

SNEAK PEEK

of the next

Hollywood Headlines Mystery

by Gemma Halliday:

HOLLYWOOD CONFESSIONS

Chapter One

“
Well, we were all very impressed with your
body
of work, Miss Quick.”

Was he talking about my tits?

I wasn’t sure, but I nodded at the man sitting across from me anyway. Balding, paunchy, non-descript gray suit. Your typical managing editor.

“
Thank you, Mr. Callahan,” I said, keeping my voice as even as possible, despite the anxiety that had been building throughout our interview. He and I both knew that my portfolio contained a very small body of work. So small that I almost hadn’t even bothered submitting it when I heard that the
L.A. Times
was looking to fill a desk. I’d only been a working reporter for just under a year, not long compared to most veteran newshounds. Then again, it was the
L.A. Times
. I’d have to be a moron not to at least apply for the job. And, moron was one thing I was not.

“
I’ve shown your clippings to my colleagues, and they all agreed that your
assets
would be a wonderful addition to the paper.” He glanced down at my chest.

Yeah, he was totally talking about my tits.

I shifted in my seat, adjusting my neckline. I knew I should have gone for a higher-cut blouse, but this one matched the pink pin-stripes in my skirt so perfectly.

“
Wonderful,” I said, stopping myself from glancing at my watch just in time. I’d already been sitting in his office for over an hour – way longer than my lunch break allowed.

“
After consulting with my assistant editor, we’ve decided we’d like to offer you a freelance opportunity here at the
L.A. Times
.”

“
Really?” As much as I was trying to play it cool, my voice rose an octave, sounding instead of a professional business woman more like a kid who’d just been told she could have ice cream for dinner. “Ohmigod, that would be… wow. Really?”

He nodded, a grin spreading across his paunchy cheeks. “Really. Now, I know you were hoping for a staff position, but if this opportunity goes well, there’s a chance to transition from freelance to something more permanent.”

Freelance, staff, one-shot-deal, I didn’t care. It was the
L.A. Times
! The holy grail of any reporter’s career. And they wanted me! I had died and gone to heaven.

“
That sounds great! Amazing. Wow, thanks.”

“
Wonderful! We think you’ll be perfect to write a weekly women’s interest column.”

I felt my face freeze mid-goofy grin. “Women’s interest… you mean like relationship stuff?”

“
No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “Nothing so limiting.”

“
Oh, good.”

“
Not just relationships. We’d love for you to write about
anything
important to women. Lipstick, shoes, cleaning product reviews.”

I felt that ice cream for dinner melting into a soft, mushy puddle. “Cleaning product reviews?”

He nodded, his jowls wobbling with aftershocks. “And lipstick and shoes. You know, women’s subjects.”

I felt my eyes narrowing. “Mr. Callahan, I graduated at the top of my class from UCLA. Didn’t you read my resume? I’m an investigative journalist. I write stories, hard hitting
news stories. Did you see the one I wrote about the misappropriation of campaign funds last fall?”

“
I did.”

“
And the Catholic Church scandal?”

“
Sure.”

“
And the way I busted that story about middle school drug dealers in the heights wide open?”

He nodded again. “Yes, they were all very good,” he said.

“
But?”

“
But, Miss Quick. We are a serious paper here.”

“
And I’m a serious journalist!”

He looked down at my skirt, the tiny frown between his bushy eyebrows clearly not convinced that serious reporters wore pink.

“
Mr. Callahan,” I tried again the desperation in my voice clear even to my ears, “I know I may not have the experience that many of your reporters do, but I am a hard worker, I love long hours, overtime, and I will do anything to get the story.”

“
I’m sorry, Miss Quick. But my assistant and I have reviewed your file and we both agree that someone with your…” He paused. “…
assets
would best serve us writing a woman’s column.” His eyes flickered to my chest again, then looked away so fast I could tell his mandatory corporate sensitivity training had been a success.

But not so fast that I didn’t catch the double entendre.

I narrowed my eyes. “Thirty-four D.”

Mr. Callahen blinked. “Excuse me?”

“
The pair of tits you’ve been staring at for the last hour? They’re a thirty-four D.”

“
I… I…” Mr. Callahan stammered, his cheeks tingeing red.

“
And if you like that number, I have a few more for you,” I said, gaining steam. “One-thirty-four: my I.Q. 2300: my SAT score. Four-point-O: my grade point average at UCLA. And finally,” I said, standing and hiking my purse onto my shoulder, “Zero: the chances that I will degrade not only myself but my entire gender by writing a column that supposes having ovaries somehow limits our level of intelligence to complexities of eye shadow and sponge mops.”

Mr. Callahan stared at me, blinking his eyes beneath his bush brows, his mouth stuck open, his jowls slack on his jaw.

But I didn’t give him a chance to respond, instead, I forced one foot in front of the other as I marched back through the busy newsroom that I would not be a part of, down the hallways of my dream paper, and out into the deceptively optimistic sunshine.

I made it all the way to my VW Bug before I let my indignation and anger morph into big, fat tears. Goddamnit, I was not just a pair of headlights and a short skirt! I had a brain, a pretty damned functional one, even if I did say so myself. I was a smart, diligent reporter.

But all anyone at any of the major newspapers that I’d interviewed with since graduation had seen was Allie Quick: 36, 26, 36.

Seriously, you’d think boobs wouldn’t be such a novelty in L.A.

I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand, sliding into my car and slamming my door shut, taking my aggression out on Daisy. (Yes, I named my car. But don’t worry, I had stopped myself just short of putting big daisy decals on the side doors. I just had one small daisy decal on the trunk. A pink one. To match the silk pink Gerbera daisy stuck in my dash.) I immediately slipped my polyester skirt off and threw it in the backseat. Hey, it was California. It was summer. And my air conditioning had broken three paychecks ago. Don’t worry, I had a pair of bikini bottoms on underneath.

I pulled out of the parking lot and pointed my car toward the 101 freeway.

Twenty minutes later I exited, traveling through the Hollywood streets until I pulled up to the squat stuccoed building on Hollywood Boulevard stuck between two souvenir shops. At one time the building might have been white, but years of smog and rainless winters had turned it a dingy gray. The windows were covered in cheap vertical blinds, and the distinct odor of stale take-out emanated from the place.

I looked up at the slightly askew sign above the door. The
L.A. Informer
, my current place of employment. A tabloid. The lowest form of journalism in the known universe. I felt familiar shame curl in my belly at the fact that I actually worked here.

At least it was a step above sponge mops.

Maybe.

A very small one.

I pulled Daisy into a space near the back of the lot with a sigh, slipping my skirt back over my hips before trudging up the one flight of stairs to the offices.

The interior was buzzing as usual, dozens of reporters hammering out the latest celebrity gossip on their keyboards to the tune of ringing telephones and beeping IM’s. My cube was in the center of the room, just outside the door to my editor’s glass-walled office. Luckily at the moment his back was turned to me, a hand to his Bluetooth, shouting at someone on the other side just loud enough that I could hear the occasional muffled expletive.

I ducked my head down, slipping into my chair before he could notice just what a long lunch I’d taken. I quickly pulled up the story I’d been working on before I left that morning: Megan Fox’s boobs – real or fake.

Yeah, CNN we were not.

Swallowing down every dream I ever had of following in Diane Sawyer’s footsteps, I hammered out a 2 by 3 inch column on the size, shape, and possible plasticity of the actress’s chest. I was just about finished (concluding that – duh – there was no way these puppies were organic), when an IM popped up on my screen. My editor.

Where have you been?

I peeked up over the top of my cube. He was still shouting into his earpiece, but he was now seated at his computer, eyes on the 32 inch flat screen mounted on his desk.

I ducked back down.