Diane Vallere - Style & Error 00.5 - Just Kidding Page 2

  Sadly, I had a bigger problem than the stain. The heel of my shoe had snapped off and rolled down the grate. I hopped toward the closest building, a walk-up apartment with a faded yellow and white awning, and leaned against the side of the staircase while inspecting the damage suffered by my shoe. A couple of small nails jutted out from underneath. Otherwise, it was heelless. And with one three-inch heel on my left foot and one negative heel on my right foot, I was going to have a hard time walking the remaining five blocks. But, despite the obvious situation south of my ankles, I started the trek, because I wasn’t about to walk the streets of New York in bare feet.

  “You should have taken the shoes,” said a familiar voice from a passing white van.

  I stopped by a fire hydrant and turned to Nick, who leaned out the open driver’s side window.

  “The offer still stands,” he added.

  I tiptoed to the van and looked inside the window. “You’re driving around Manhattan with a pair of shoes in my size?”

  “I’ve been told if I find the woman who fits them I can stop looking.”

  “Where have I heard that before?”

  “You’ve heard that before? My reputation precedes me.”

  Not only did his reputation not precede him but I couldn’t believe no one had mentioned the sexy, flirtations designer that was my two o’clock. Before I could think of something snappy to say, a tourist bus pulled up behind him and honked twice. I stepped back from the van so he could drive away.

  “Samantha, wait. You’re in the middle of the street, wearing one and a half shoes. You know what that tells me?”

  “That I’m pathetic?” I answered, relieved he hadn’t commented on the stain on my suit.

  “That your plans for the night have changed. Hop in. I’m taking you out to dinner.”

  The tourist bus honked again. I scampered to the passenger side of the van and sat down inside. There wasn’t any real danger, right? I mean, the man was a shoe designer. Shoe designers don’t go all serial killer, I think.

  “You look nervous,” Nick said, picking up on the obvious. I hated that I was so readable. Mental note: practice poker face.

  “I’m not used to getting into cars with strange men in the middle of New York City.”

  “So if we were alone at, say, shoe market in Vegas, that would be okay?”

  If I were alone with him in Vegas I might make a very spontaneous and probably bad decision, but I wasn’t one to let my personal life get in the way of my career, so I said nothing.

  “Before we go out to dinner I’ve got to make a stop at the showroom,” he said after pulling away from the curb.

  We were eight blocks from the showroom, I knew only because I’d just walked them to get to the dry cleaner. I let him concentrate on not getting us smashed between the army of angry taxicabs and before I knew it, we were double-parked in front of the same address where I’d walked that morning.

  “Do you mind waiting here?” he asked. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  “Fine.”

  When he returned from the showroom (in about a minute, proving his word was good) he had a white shoebox tucked under his arm. He hopped back into the truck and handed them to me. “I have a rep to protect. I can’t be seen with a woman in one and a half shoes.”

  “I can’t accept them,” I said, just like I had that morning.

  “Consider it a loan.”

  “Fine.” I traded my one and a half shoes for the black sandals with the white flower detail. Like that morning and in the showroom, my pink toenails showed the sandals off to perfection.

  When we arrived at the restaurant, an intimate Italian grotto that sat below street level, I excused myself so I could address the stain on my skirt. I scrubbed at it with a wad of paper towels, succeeding only in getting more of the fabric wet. I gave up and dried my hands, then applied a fresh coat of lip-gloss. My hands shook. What was I doing? Getting involved with a vendor was not a good idea. I didn’t care how many times his dimples made an appearance. I was a professional and I would act as such.

  When I emerged from the restroom, my boss, Marcia, stood talking with Nick. Short of ducking back into the restroom, there was no place to hide, so I approached the two of them like wearing wet clothes out to dinner with one of my vendors was the most normal thing in the world.

  “Hello Samantha,” Marcia said. Her eyes lingered on my skirt for the briefest of seconds before she looked down at my feet. “New shoes?” she asked.

  “I broke my heel. Nick was generous enough to loan me a sample if I promised not to step in any puddles.”

  “I don’t think puddles are the only thing you have to worry about.”

  I smiled and tipped my head in understanding. Now that Marcia had seen us here together, I would have to go out of my way to ensure that nothing I did looked suspicious. If all went well this upcoming season, I was in the running for a promotion to Senior Buyer. That title would impress mom and dad and look awfully good on my business cards. I wasn’t about to risk it for a pair of shoes or a pair of root beer-barrel colored eyes. I didn’t care how many times they crinkled in the corners, either.

  Nick ordered a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and I ordered the second least expensive entrée on the menu. He preordered two chocolate soufflés, a presumptuous decision that I might have pointed out had we been on a date, but this was not a date and I didn’t want to risk the chocolate that would arrive at our table in twenty minutes.

  Somewhere between the entrée and the first three quarters of the bottle of wine, Nick leaned back in his chair. “Marcia should have warned me about you,” he said.

  “Likewise,” I said. It was the most conversation I could manage with a mouth full of chocolate.

  “Me? I’m harmless.” He raised his eyebrows, then flashed a smile. “But you? I wish I’d met you before you took this job.”

  I managed a rather large swallow of soufflé. “Why’s that?” I asked. My voice cracked.

  He reached across the table and wiped a blob of chocolate off my lower lip. My heart pounded like a judge trying to maintain order in a courtroom.

  “I have really awesome sample sales twice a year,” he said when he pulled his napkin away. “You would have loved them.”

  After dinner I told Nick I’d take the subway back to my apartment. He wouldn’t hear of it, and ultimately, it was easier to say yes to his offer of a ride home than to argue. When he pulled up in front of my building, the evening turned date-night awkward. I slipped off his shoes and set them on the seat between us. “It’s time for me to turn back into a pumpkin. Thanks for the loan.”

  I leaned over for a goodbye air kiss–standard behavior in our industry–but he leaned in and my lips connected with his soft cheek. I pulled away, embarrassed, got out of the car and ran to my building on tiptoes. When I unlocked the door, Logan stared at me from the inside.

  “Don’t judge me,” I said to my cat.

  One week later a rectangular UPS package was delivered to my office. Samples for our spring advertising shoot had been trickling in since I’d returned from market. I sliced through the shiny taupe packing tape and pulled out a white shoebox with the name Nick Taylor embossed on the lid. I hadn’t asked Nick for a sample yet, but I knew what was inside. I opened the lid and lifted a small envelope from on top of the creamy white tissue paper. Inside were the shoes I’d worn on our Not-A-Date.

  Dear Samantha, Turns out they don’t fit anyone but you. –NT

  I took the note home and tucked it in my underwear drawer. Two weeks later, I turned the sample over to advertising. A month after that I approved the proof for the spring catalog. I had the image blown up to poster size and hung it in my apartment. It was a reminder of my career path and the decisions I made to be successful.

  It was also a reminder that this was the hardest job I’d ever had.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from

  DESIGNER DIRTY LAUNDRY,

  first book in the Style & Error Mystery Seri
es

  Excerpt from Designer Dirty Laundry,

  #1 in the Style & Error Mystery Series

  Chapter 1

  WHEN YOU WEAR fishnet stockings to the grocery store, people tend to stare. Women look at you like you’re affiliated with the sex trade. Men pretend they’re not staring, doing so all the while. It’s probably because they’re thinking the same thing.

  The last time I wore fishnets to the grocery store was weeks ago. It was then I met the man who changed the course of my life. Because of him I’d traded in the title senior buyer of ladies designer shoes at Bentley’s New York to become the trend specialist at Tradava, the family-owned retailer in Ribbon, Pennsylvania. I’d given up an apartment in Manhattan to buy the house where I grew up. And now, because of him, I sat in a police station explaining my actions to a homicide detective.

  I still couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it all started to go wrong.

  I changed clothes six times, then ultimately settled on the fashion uniform of black: satin motorcycle jacket cinched at the waist over a black lace camisole, pegged pencil skirt, fishnets, and stilettos. Elsa Klensch meets Catwoman. Patrick, the fashion director and my new boss, was bound to approve.

  I topped off my look with a finishing blast of Aqua Net, powered up with coffee and a donut from a newspaper kiosk by my house, and headed to work earlier than I remember ever going to work before.

  “I’m Samantha Kidd,” I announced to the Latina woman behind the Loss Prevention desk at the store. “Patrick’s new trend specialist. Do you know if he’s here yet?”

  “He’s here but he didn’t say anything about you.” She picked up the phone and did a double take when she saw my fishnets. I heard the ring through the receiver. When no one answered, she hung up.

  “Visitors gotta sign in.”

  “But I’m not a visitor, I’m staff. Today’s my first day.”

  “You got ID?”

  I reached into my handbag and pulled out a quilted leather wallet, then held it open so my driver’s license showed through the plastic window.

  “I meant a store ID.”

  “No. Not yet, anyway.”

  “That’s a New York license,” she said.

  “You’re right, I moved. But it’s me, see?” I held the wallet up to my face and smiled at her in the way only a half-crazy person who is brimming with caffeine and adrenaline over starting a new job might. She reached her hands up and gathered her long wavy brownish-orange hair on top of her head then wound it around several times until it resembled a doorknob. The whole time she kept eye contact with me but didn’t smile back.

  She handed me a clipboard and a red ballpoint pen. Samantha Kidd, I wrote with a flourish. trend office, 7:37. I snapped my wallet shut and put it in my handbag, then hopped out of the way of a flatbed filled with merchandise and headed into the store. Aside from security and shipping, the store was quiet and I was on my own.

  I wasn’t a morning person. It was Day One of a new job and a new life, full of potential. My early arrival had less to do with my natural ways and more to do with my need to make a good impression. I was determined to be the best damn trend specialist Patrick had ever hired.

  I wandered through the dirty gray hallway, through the shoe department on my way to the elevators, pausing by a round marble fixture that displayed a purple suede platform pump. My index finger traced over the black and white designer label that decorated the sock lining.

  “Of all the shoes, in all the stores, she had to walk up to mine,” said a husky voice behind me. I turned and faced the man whose name was stitched onto that label. The man I’d once fantasized about during a layover in Paris and almost kissed a couple of months ago after a particularly late dinner that involved a good deal of Sauvignon Blanc and an unexpected serving of lemon meringue pie. My judgment is severely impaired when there’s lemon meringue involved.

  Nick Taylor was a shoe designer. His showroom was charged with electricity, hot looks, and devastating style. His shoe collection wasn’t bad, either. He was one of the few people I thought I’d miss after leaving Bentley’s, that is, until I caught him flirting with the buyer from Bloomingdales and realized the only special thing we had was a gross margin agreement.

  “You’re a long way from New York. What are you doing here?” I asked in lieu of hello.

  “Same thing as you, probably.”

  “I doubt that. I’m here to start a new job.” I cocked my head to the side and crossed my arms, the plum-colored laptop bag that hung from my shoulder banging against my hip.

  “First day? Let’s get you into practice.” He stood directly in front of me and held out a hand. “I’m Nick Taylor. Shoe designer and all around good guy.”

  I pursed my lips and took in his dark curly hair and his brown eyes, the exact shade of the three root beer barrels I ate in the car after finishing the donut. I met his outstretched hand with my own.

  “Samantha Kidd. Former shoe buyer. Former angry New Yorker.” I pumped his hand twice to emphasize the word ‘former.’ “Current trend specialist for Tradava, on the cusp of a new life.”

  He pulled me in, converting our handshake to an embrace. I lost my balance and fell against him. “I thought I might never see you again,” he whispered in my ear. As we parted I checked my reflection in the highly polished doors of the elevators for smudged lipstick and errant crumbs. “So, Tradava?” He held his palms up and looked to his left and right at the store. “From the big city to the small town. I knew you’d land on your feet, but I didn’t expect you to land here.”

  “You make it sound like I vanished into the night,” I replied, blowing at a strand of hair that had gotten stuck in my lipstick. My cell phone buzzed from the depths of my handbag and I pretended not to hear it.

  “You did vanish in the night. Out of my life, out of my dreams …” He reached out an index finger and freed the lock of hair, a trace of red lipstick remaining on his fingertip. “And now I find you haven’t even missed me. That hurts.”

  “So you took it upon yourself to stalk me. Good to know.”

  “C’mon, everybody needs at least one stalker in their life. It’s good for the ego,” he said.

  Nick Taylor had captured the eye of more than one female at Bentley’s and rumors of his love life often permeated the otherwise work-heavy market weeks. More than once I’d wondered what would have happened if I’d given in to my post-pie impulse to kiss him after that innocent business dinner last May.

  “So, what are you doing at the store so early?” I asked, wondering at the luck of running into him on my first day.

  “I have some outstanding business with the buyer,” he said vaguely. “The only time he had available was this morning.”

  “Did security make you sign in?” I asked, nodding toward the back hallway.

  “Sure. They make everybody sign in before the store is open.”

  The bell sounded. The doors attempted to open, then jerked shut. Nick stabbed the button with his index finger and the doors repeated their spastic motion. I had the other option to take the stairs but with a breakfast of highly concentrated sugar, fat, and root beer barrels coursing through my veins that wasn’t going to happen.

  The doors jerked open again and I jammed the laptop between them. They beat an irregular rhythm against the plum nylon case but left a resulting opening large enough for my fingers. By now I had exerted more energy than I would have on the stairs, but I was determined to get on the damn thing.

  I quickly changed my mind.

  In the elevator was a well dressed man. His jet-black hair was held perfectly in place with pomade and his mustache was neatly trimmed. He wore a taupe suit with a violet windowpane pattern, a brown and purple paisley ascot knotted around his neck, and a crisp white shirt that no doubt had been laundered and starched by a team of professionals. Even though his body lay crumpled on the floor, the shirt was barely wrinkled.

  Patrick.

  I yanked the laptop out from between the doors. W
hen I stood back up, the room spun. I put a hand out to steady myself and lost my grip on the computer bag. It fell from my shoulder and landed on its side. A sound escaped my lips, my knees buckled, and I followed the laptop to the floor.

  Want to keep reading? Get your Kindle copy here

  About the author

  Diane Vallere is a fashion industry veteran with a taste for murder. She started her own detective agency at age ten and has maintained a passion for shoes, clues, and clothes ever since.

  You can find her at www.dianevallere.com

  Enjoy other titles in the Polyester Press catalog:

  DESIGNER DIRTY LAUNDRY

  Samantha Kidd, ex-buyer turned Trend Specialist, designed her future with couture precision, but finding the Fashion Director’s corpse on Day One leaves her hanging by a thread. When the killer fabricates evidence that puts the cops on her hemline, her new life begins to unravel. She trades high fashion for dirty laundry and reveals a cast of designers out for blood. Now this flatfoot in heels must keep pace with a diabolical designer before she gets marked down for murder.

  Book 1 in the Style & Error Mystery Series by Diane Vallere

  Now Available | Kindle Copy Here

  BUYER, BEWARE