High Heels and Holidays by Kasey Michaels Read Free Book Online Page A

confident our revenues will reflect the correctness of my choice.”
    Bernie shrugged. “Looked to me like a few pockets were opening. You know, I still want to publish a collection of your speeches one of these days.”
    â€œOh, please, Bernie, don’t encourage him. He’s already got about fifty employees and thinks he’s the Donald Trump of street corners.” Maggie had thought Alex’s idea to create a flow of income without actually having to work—as Regency gentlemen collect income from their estates, or invest in the exchange, they do not work —would be a bust, a failure. She should have known better. Between his orators and his modeling contract with Fragrances By Pierre, the man’s income had skyrocketed in the few short months he’d been in New York. Hell, the man had an accountant. He wasn’t real, but he had an accountant. Sometimes she got a little dizzy, just thinking about that one.
    â€œI’m not encouraging him, Maggie. I think the book would be a hit, in a weird sort of way. You know, how an Englishman looks at America, that sort of thing? Now, back to gifts for the boys.”
    Maggie looked at her friend in some confusion. “Why? You don’t care about that.”
    â€œNo, of course not,” Bernie said in her usual honesty. “But I do want to talk about Francis, now that you put the idea in my head, and who better to talk to than Alex, our resident supersleuth?”
    Alex looked to each woman in turn. “I’m missing something here, aren’t I? Who is Frances? Do I know her?”
    â€œFrancis Oakes, Alex, and he’s a he. Well, was a he, used to be a he.”
    Alex waved a hand in front of himself. “Would this be anything like Socks’s friend Jay-Jayne?”
    â€œI think I’ve got your headache now, Bernie,” Maggie said, getting to her feet and tossing the empty soda can in the recycling bin. “No, Alex. Jay is a cross-dresser. Francis Oakes is just dead.”
    â€œReally. How unfortunate for the man,” Alex said, following after Maggie and Bernie as they returned to the living room, where Bernie’s Fendi bag could be heard playing the first few bars of the William Tell Overture. “Bernice, isn’t that your phone?”
    â€œI’m ignoring it,” Bernie said, stuffing a cushion over her purse as she sat down, drawing her long legs up on the couch. “Oh, and you could get your business partners subscriptions to the Wall Street Journal . If they can read?”
    â€œ Et tu, Brute ?” Alex said, seating himself in Maggie’s swivel desk chair.
    â€œYeah, Bernie, insulting remarks are my job,” Maggie complained as Wellington jumped up on the couch beside her, a gilded miniature pinecone in his mouth. “Give,” she commanded, holding out her hand, which Wellington ignored, so that within moments a tug-of-war ensued, with Wellington growling and Maggie pleading.
    â€œOh, for God’s sake, Mags, let him have it,” Bernie said, piling another pillow on top of her purse, because the ringer must have been on Excruciatingly Loud. “If that’s the office, by the way, they’ll ring you next, so I’m not missing anything.”
    â€œLet him have it? Sure, so he can barf it up on my bedspread at midnight. Damn cat thinks he’s a dog. Wellington give !”
    â€œYou could turn off the ringer, you know,” Alex suggested as he walked behind the couch, snapped his fingers, and then held out his upturned palm to the cat, which promptly gifted him with the pinecone.
    â€œI hate you,” Maggie said without heat as Alex then dropped the pinecone in her lap, complete with cat drool. “But he’s right, Bernie. Please turn off that damn ringer. Every time I hear that ring my mind starts repeating the cereal that’s popped from guns over and over in my head. My dad used to sing it every morning as he poured his