Hell on Heels

“Chantal, we need to talk.”

She froze and whirled back around to face Luke in horror. “How do you know my real name?” She’d been so careful to make sure nobody here knew her as anything but Carol Worth. How long had he known her real identity? How the devil had he found out?

He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the scent of minty soap and his spicy cologne. That’s one thing she’d noticed about him—no matter how disreputable he looked, he always smelled clean and good.

“Don’t worry, your little secret is safe with me. I’m not worried about where you live or what’s in your bank account. I’m more worried about the fact that according to my sources you now have a price on your head.”

Dear Reader,

I confess, I have a passion for high heels, and my heroine in Hell on Heels embodies that passion. Chantal Worthington. I loved her the first time she popped into my head. Young, wealthy, smart and savvy, she’s a girl after my own heart. Best of all, she has a fierce loyalty to her friends and a heart the size of the price of the designer clothes she loves.

Of course, Chantal needs a strong counterpart—and crazy Luke Coleman is just the ticket. These two characters are such fun! I hope you enjoy reading their story as much as I loved writing it.

Carla Cassidy

Hell on Heels
Carla Cassidy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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CARLA CASSIDY

isn’t a secret agent or martial arts expert, but she does consider herself a Bombshell kind of woman. She lives a life of love and adventure in the Midwest with her husband, Frank, and has written more than fifty books for Silhouette. Look for Carla’s next Bombshell, Pawn, an Athena Force adventure, in July 2006.

To my fellow MARA members,

Thanks for putting up with my craziness and never telling me to go away! I appreciate all of you.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 1

The fundraiser had been a smashing success. The staff at the exclusive Kansas City Club had worked overtime to ensure that the decor and the service for the two-hundred-dollar-a-plate dinner was impeccable.

Everyone who was anyone had been there, afraid that if they weren’t then they’d be fodder for gossip during the evening. Of course if there was one thing the wealthy of Kansas City loved to do more than spend money, it was to talk about one another.

“I could live on this.” Belinda Carlyle scooped up a cracker full of caviar and popped it into her mouth.

Chantal Worthington wrinkled her nose at her best friend. “Not me, I can’t stand the stuff.”

The two women stood next to a buffet table. The fancy appetizers had been picked over hours earlier. Chantal would have left long ago but her mother had been in charge. Chantal knew her mother would expect her to stay until the last party gasp.

“See the waiter over there? The one with the flashing dark eyes and tight pants? I’m thinking of having him on a cracker later this evening.”

“Honestly, Belinda…” Chantal bit back the lecture that sprang to her lips, knowing from past experience that it wouldn’t do any good.

Belinda had been on a path of self-destruction for years and Chantal knew there was nothing she could do except be there when her friend fell…which she did often.

“Your mother looks good. Botox?” Belinda asked as she grabbed another cracker.

Chantal looked across the room where her mother stood talking with the mayor. At sixty-five years old Katherine Worthington was still a beautiful woman, thanks to a man named Pepe who was paid an inordinately large amount of money to keep her hair the perfect shade of champagne blond and her skin like that on a baby’s butt.

“If she’s had it, she’ll never admit to it,” Chantal replied dryly. “She’ll simply say her ageless beauty is the result of good genes.”

“I met a guy in the bar earlier whom I would have liked to talk right out of his jeans.” When Belinda got no rise from Chantal she changed the subject. “How’s the bounty-hunting business?” Belinda shook her head, her highlighted brown curls dancing on her painfully thin shoulders. “I still can’t believe my best friend is a bounty hunter.”

Chantal grinned. “There are times I can’t believe it myself. Mother insists it’s a form of late rebellion.” Belinda was one of only a few people who knew what Chantal did during her free time.

Belinda raised a perfectly waxed eyebrow. “Is it?”

Chantal didn’t answer immediately. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I was bored, looking to challenge myself with something more than shopping and doing lunch.”

“Seems a little extreme,” Belinda observed.

“So does taking home waiters you don’t know to have meaningless sex,” Chantal retorted.

“Darling, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” Belinda purred. Then she widened her eyes. “Oops, I forgot, you did try it. What was his name? Larry or Harry?”

Chantal laughed and nudged her friend with her elbow. “Gary, and that was definitely a wild, crazy rebellion.” Gary Burkett was a poet she’d met at a literacy function.

He’d been intensely handsome with soulful eyes. They’d spent thirty minutes talking at the bookstore then had left and had spent the next two days in bed.

Chantal had begun to believe she’d found Mr. Right, then they’d gotten out of bed. What was it about silk sheets that could make a man irresistible but once the sheets were off transformed him into an asshole?

“I can tell you why you were so bored with your life,” Belinda continued. “You don’t have enough dysfunction. You’re the only person I know who doesn’t have a therapist.”

“You have two. Me not having one keeps the world in perfect balance.”

Belinda picked up her purse from a nearby chair. “On that note, I’m going home. Call me tomorrow?”

“As always,” Chantal replied.

Belinda pulled her keys from her purse, then looked at Chantal again, all trace of humor gone from her pretty features. “Did you hear that the case went to the jury late yesterday afternoon?”

Chantal didn’t have to ask which case Belinda was referring to. The Willowby rape trial had been one of the most highly publicized cases ever tried in the state of Missouri.

Ten months before, Marcus Willowby, heir to the Willowby Whisky fortune had been arrested on two counts of rape. It was alleged that twenty-eight-year-old Marcus had drugged the victims with GHB, then videotaped himself raping the unconscious young women.

The crimes were brought to the attention of the police by a young woman and her friend who had spent the night at Willowby’s condo after a night of dancing and partying at a local club.

According to the young women they had gone to Willowby’s place and had a few drinks and neither of them remembered anything after that. They’d awakened the next morning in Willowby’s spare bedroom, fully clothed on top of the bed. Willowby had been in the kitchen fixing them all breakfast.

It wasn’t until one of the women went to use the bathroom and discovered her underwear inside out that she became suspicious that something had happened that shouldn’t have. She and her friend had left Willowby’s and gone directly to the nearest police station where rape kits were performed on the two women and traces of semen were found on their underwear and skin.

An investigation had yielded the videotape of the two women being raped by Willowby while they were unconscious. Although the police suspected there were other victims, no other videotapes had been found and no other women had come forward.

It was an ugly case, but there had been very little gossip among Chantal’s friends and peers. Willowby was one of their own, but the heinous nature of the crime and the power wielded by Rebecca and Roger Willowby, Marcus’s parents, had kept public gossip at a minimum.

But Belinda and Chantal had spent a lot of time talking about Willowby. Ten years ago Marcus had raped Belinda.

“I hope the bastard rots in hell,” Belinda now said, her voice husky with suppressed emotion. “I hope somebody kills him in prison.”

Chantal placed a hand on her friend’s arm. She knew the devastation that single night had wreaked in Belinda’s life. She knew the emotional scars had been ripped open again when details of Willowby’s arrest had hit the news.

“Belinda, he’s not going to get away this time,” she said softly. “According to everyone there’s no way the jury can come back with a not guilty verdict.”

“I know…I just wish…” She shook her head once again. “I’ve got to go home. I’m getting one of my headaches.” She leaned forward and kissed Chantal on the cheek, then turned and headed for the banquet-room exit.

Chantal watched her friend go, her heart aching. She and Belinda had been best friends since seventh grade when the two of them had attended an exclusive summer camp and discovered they both had a passion for mint chocolate truffles from the Tenth Street Bakery, Vogue magazines and late lunches at the Plaza.

During those early teenage years, they had shared their despair over the fact that high fashion came to Kansas City six months later than every place else on earth and that the grapefruit diet didn’t really work.

They’d shared the joy of discovering that Calvin Klein jeans actually made their butts look good and that bitchy Susie Winchester had become a cliché and run off with her family’s gardener.

Those had been the most carefree years Chantal had enjoyed, even though, looking back, she recognized that she and Belinda had been totally self-absorbed and shallow as only teenagers can be.

The night of the party at the Willowby mansion had changed everything. They’d been sixteen, and, despite not really hanging out with Marcus and his friends, they hadn’t been able to resist a party at the Willowby home.

The house had crawled with teenagers. Drugs and liquor had flowed freely and in the space of the thirty minutes that Belinda and Chantal had been separated, Marcus Willowby had nearly destroyed Belinda’s life.

Chantal had tried to talk Belinda into going to the authorities and reporting the crime, but Belinda had been afraid. She’d been afraid of what Marcus might do, what her parents would think, and the gossip that would surround her if she told.

While Chantal and Belinda’s friendship had only grown stronger, Belinda had transformed from a happy, carefree teen to a neurotic mess who only occasionally allowed glimpses of the happy girl she had once been.

“Darling, where are you?”

Chantal blinked and realized her mother stood before her. She smiled. “I got lost in my thoughts for a moment.” She leaned forward and kissed her mother on the cheek. “The evening was a huge success.”

Katherine frowned, a dainty wrinkle forming in the center of her forehead. “The salmon was overcooked and the salad wasn’t chilled enough, but the good thing is, according to my best guess, we raised almost twenty thousand dollars for Kansas City Kids.”

Kansas City Kids was one of Katherine’s pet charities, an organization that provided medical and dental treatment to the underprivileged children in the city.

“That’s wonderful, but certainly not a surprise. You’re definitely an expert at fundraising.”

Katherine smiled. “Your father used to say that if necessary I could raise a million for a family of toads.” Her smile grew wistful and Chantal knew she was thinking of Chantal’s father, who had died unexpectedly of a heart attack five years before.

“He’d be proud of you,” Chantal said softly.

“Yes, I think he would be,” she agreed. “So, are you heading straight home?”

“I’m not sure. I’m going to check in with Big Joey and see if anything is happening.”

The frown that had disappeared from Katherine’s forehead appeared again. “You will be careful?”

“Heavens, why would I want to do that?” Chantal teased. “You know I will be,” she added and kissed her mother’s cheek once again.

Minutes later she walked out of the lobby and into the sultry mid-June night and waited for the valet to bring her car around. She was glad the fundraiser was over. This had been her third one in the past two weeks. Friends of the Zoo, People for Pets, Save the Whales…everyone needed money and Chantal was on everyone’s list as a benefactor.

As she waited for her car she pulled her cell phone from her purse and hit the speed dial for Big Joey’s Bail Bonds.

Even though it was after eleven, she knew Joey would be in. Joey was almost always in. He slept, ate and drank his bail-bond business, and that business was never closed.

The phone was answered on the first ring. Monica Hyatt, Big Joey’s assistant, barked a hello. “Monica, it’s Carol. Is the boss in?”

“Nah, he left about fifteen minutes ago.”

“Everything all right?” Chantal asked in surprise.

“Fine, just the slowest Saturday night we’ve seen in years. Every criminal in the city either went to bed early or decided to take the night off.”

“So, there’s nothing popping?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Anyone else around?”

“James and Brian are playing cards and keeping me company, bitching about the slow night.”

“Thanks, Monica, I’ll check in sometime Monday.” Chantal ended the call as the valet arrived with her car.

As she drove away from the hotel she contemplated her options. She could go straight home and get out of the sinfully short, clingy, red Valentino dress and the Gucci heels that made her long legs looks sexy but pinched like hell, or she could swing by Ruby’s and see if Wesley Baker was as dumb as his rap sheet implied.

She decided on the latter. She headed toward the west side of town where Ruby’s was located. As she drove, her thoughts were scattered, shooting first in one direction, then another.

For the last eight months she’d been living a lifestyle that would please a schizophrenic. Her life as Chantal Worthington revolved around fundraisers and parties, lunch dates and social events.

When she wasn’t being socialite Chantal, she was working hard at being Carol Worth, bounty hunter. From the moment Big Joey had hired her she decided the smartest thing to do was keep the two lives as separate as possible.

She was wise enough to understand reverse snobbery, that the men she worked with at Big Joey’s wouldn’t trust her, wouldn’t respect her if they knew where she came from and what her bank account contained. As it was, even after several decent collars she didn’t feel as if she’d gained the respect of her coworkers at Big Joey’s.

As a bounty hunter she used the name Carol Worth and worked from a post-office box. Only Big Joey knew that in reality she was heir to Worthington Boat Industries and worth a small fortune.

Ruby’s was a hole in the wall, a bar that catered to a leather-and-Harley clientele. Chantal parked across the street, shut off her engine and rolled down her car window.

You could always tell how business was at Ruby’s by the number of motorcycles parked out front. Tonight there was an even dozen, all chromed and shiny in the illumination from a nearby streetlight.

For the last four nights Chantal had been watching Ruby’s, waiting for one Wesley Baker to show up. Baker’s latest crime, an attempted robbery using a Slim Jim beef stick as a pretend gun in his pocket had gone bad when the convenience-store clerk had pulled a very real gun on him.

Baker had no known address, unless you counted Ruby’s, where on most nights before his arrest he could be found. He’d missed his court date a week ago and Chantal had a feeling it was just a matter of time before he showed up back here.

It was a funny thing about criminals…most of them were stupid.

Closing time was two and she settled back in her car seat to wait and watch. As always, a small kick of adrenaline filled her as she anticipated catching her quarry. The burst of adrenaline was as addictive as Godiva chocolate.

It had been her personal assistant, Harrah, who had gotten her into the bounty-hunting business. Harrah was a struggling jewelry designer who had come to work for Chantal a year ago as a stepping stone into the society she hoped to cultivate as clients.

Harrah had come up by way of the school of hard knocks. One of four children raised by an alcoholic mother and an absentee father, Harrah had big dreams and a willingness to work for success.

One day while she and Chantal were working together, Harrah confessed that her brother, Jimmy, had a court date in two days and had disappeared.

Harrah had gone through Big Joey’s Bail Bonds to secure her brother’s bond and was scared to death he didn’t intend to show at court and Big Joey would come looking for her.

On a lark, Chantal told Harrah not to worry, that she’d help her find her errant brother. For the next forty-eight hours Chantal and Harrah had pounded pavement, knocked on doors, and had finally located Jimmy two hours before court time.

It had taken every minute to talk him through his fear and convince him that it was in his best interest to show up and take his punishment.

In those forty-eight hours, a couple things happened that had changed Chantal’s life. She’d met Big Joey and she’d realized she loved the hunt.

Harrah’s brother had gone to prison to serve a three-year sentence on drug charges and Big Joey’s Bail Bonds had hired Chantal as a bail-enforcement agent.

She sat up straighter as she saw a tall young man approaching the bar. Despite the heat of the night he wore a jacket, the collar pulled up as if to hide his facial features from view. Dark hair, a lanky build and suspicious clothing. She had a feeling it was her man.

Adrenaline once again twisted in her gut as she grabbed her purse from the seat next to her. She peeked inside, making sure she had both her handcuffs and her pistol.

Even though she’d been watching Ruby’s for the past four nights, she’d never ventured inside. It definitely wasn’t the kind of place she’d choose for a night out.

As she got out of her car she wished she were wearing black leather instead of Valentino. She had a feeling she was going to stick out like a bad cubic zirconia among a scatter of Harry Winston diamonds.

She approached the entrance, her heels clicking against the pavement that still radiated the heat from the day. Raucous music and laughter poured from the opened doorway. She began her mantra.

“Prada handbags…sunny days…lunch with Mom…Chloe jeans.”

Whenever she was going into what might be a dangerous situation her habit was to list in her head all of her favorite things. That way she figured if something went wrong and she was killed, the last thing her mind would remember was something she loved.

“Facials at Mimi’s…sad movies…slumber parties with Belinda…” She stopped as she walked through the front door of Ruby’s.

The smoke was as thick as socialites at a Versace sale. The bar was to her left, a long expanse of scarred wood holding up a handful of drunken men and women. To her right were the biggest, meanest men she’d ever seen playing at two pool tables.

She scanned the people inside and spied Wesley Baker at the far end of the bar. He’d removed his jacket and looked at ease as he nursed a beer.

As she moved toward the empty stool next to him, she consciously made no eye contact with anyone. She didn’t want trouble. She just wanted to get Baker outside and into handcuffs.

“Hey, baby, slumming tonight?” a deep voice said from behind her.

“Get lost on the way to the prom?” a woman laughed.

Chantal ignored them and wove her way toward the empty stool, walking as if she was lit like a Christmas tree. She sat on the stool and slumped forward, elbows on the bar. “I think I’m lost,” she slurred. She offered Wesley a loopy, but friendly grin.

She knew from all the information she’d gathered on him that Baker considered himself a real ladies’ man. Maybe in a worm colony, she thought.

“Where are you supposed to be?” Wesley asked, then raised a finger for the bartender.

Chantal giggled. “I can’t remember the address. Maybe a little drink will help.” She grinned at the bartender, a bear of a man sporting more tattoos than hair. “How about a little top-shelf Scotch on the rocks?” She turned to look at Wesley, who had a cheap beer in front of him. “How about a Scotch on me?”

“Now you’re talking.” He shoved the beer aside as the bartender poured the two Scotches.

For the next few minutes Chantal small-talked with Wesley, who proved to be as charming as a Brazilian wax. Although anyone seeing the two of them interacting would assume her attention was focused solely on Baker, she was conscious of everything going on in the bar around them.

She needed to get Baker outside. There were too many men in the bar who looked as though they walked on the wrong side of the law, and if she tried to take him down inside she had a feeling she’d wind up wearing her own handcuffs, or worse.

She wasn’t just worried about the men she could see, but there were others hanging out in the hallway near the bathrooms and in the poolroom. Chantal didn’t mind taking risks, but she wasn’t suicidal.

“I just remembered where I’m supposed to be,” she said, after taking only two tiny sips of her drink. “At the Radisson Hotel.”

“Sweetcakes, you’re about two freeway exits off. You need to get back up on the interstate and take the Broadway exit.”

“Is that left or right?”

He stared at her blankly. “Where are you parked?”

“Out front.”

Wesley finished his drink. “What direction are you facing, north or south?”

“North…no, south.” Chantal released what she hoped sounded like a half-drunk giggle. “Wow, I’m so turned around I’m not sure.”

Wesley slid off his stool. “Come on, I’ll walk you out and we’ll see where you need to go.”

The taste of sweet success filled her mouth. This was going to be a piece of cake. Once she got him outside and away from the crowd, she’d slap the handcuffs on him and take him to Big Joey’s. From there he’d be taken to the police station.

The outside air smelled wonderful as they stepped outside of the smoky alcoholic haven. Chantal frowned as she saw a couple of men loitering by the row of motorcycles.

She’d hoped that nobody would be out front. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to try to get involved in her collar.

As they walked across the street, she opened her purse so she could gain access to her handcuffs. “Oh, wow, I can’t find my keys,” she said and pretended to rummage in the bottom of her purse.

“Maybe you left them in the car.” As Wesley reached the driver door he bent down to peer into the window.

Chantal yanked the cuffs from her purse and slapped one on Wesley’s wrist. It didn’t fasten. “Hey, what the hell?” He attempted to whirl around to face her, but she held his wrist and tried to get the damned handcuff to connect.

“What’s going on over there?” a deep voice yelled.

As Chantal and Wesley fell to the pavement, she was aware of the sound of running feet. It wasn’t exactly music to her ears, but she refused to release her death grip on Baker’s wrist.

“Everybody back off. This is official business,” a deep, familiar voice rang out.

A wave of dread swept through Chantal. Of all the men she wanted to see right now, Crazy Luke Coleman was the last. Just her luck that he would appear at the moment she suspected she was about to get her ass kicked.

With irritating ease, he grabbed Baker, yanked him up and cuffed him, then reached out a hand to help her up off the sidewalk. “Darlin’, you’re in way over your head,” he murmured as he held out her cuffs.

She snatched the cuffs from him and jammed them back in her purse, aware that the group of men who had begun to advance had gone back to the opposite side of the street.

She eyed the tall man who now had control of her prisoner. “I could have managed on my own,” she exclaimed.

Luke Coleman, or Crazy Coleman as he was known in the bounty business, looked as if he belonged at a biker bar. His dark hair hung to his shoulders and his jaw was covered with more than a day’s dark stubble.

His sleeveless shirt exposed not only bulging biceps but also an intricate tattoo of an eagle. His jeans were worn and fit snugly on his long, muscular legs. He looked edgy, dangerous and more than capable of taking care of himself.

The other bounty hunters who worked for Big Joey spoke of him as if he was a demigod. In the time Chantal had worked for Joey she’d found Luke Coleman to be arrogant, irritating and unsettling. He was also the most successful bounty hunter in a four-state area.

“Wait! What are you doing?” she asked as he started to lead Wesley Baker away from her car.

“I’m taking my prisoner to my truck,” he said, then turned and proceeded to walk away from her.

“Stop!” She hurried after him and grabbed him by the arm. “What do you mean your prisoner? He’s my prisoner.”

Coleman turned to look at her once again, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. “My cuffs, my collar.”

She watched in outrage as he continued toward his truck, her prisoner in tow. “Bastard,” she hissed. He had the audacity to turn and salute her.

She remained on the sidewalk, cursing a blue streak as Crazy Luke Coleman drove away with Wesley Baker.