Eight Hundred Dollar Heels

Black, silk stockings. Short, tailored pencil skirt. Lacy Italian lingerie. The woman sitting at that hotel bar after hours on a Friday night barely recognized herself. The Deanna she knew should have been tucked in bed with a legal brief forgotten in her lap and sweet dreams behind her closed eyes; yet here she was, sitting on a bar stool in a strange city, looking for trouble.

Trouble walked in, tall and handsome, sporting a smile that made her tremble and dark eyes that matched her own. He looked at her and saw neither wife nor mother nor hot-shot lawyer. He saw her as she did her $800 heels: something to covet; something sleek, sexy, and worth the challenge.