"What's wrong with that?" Electra demanded.
Before Temple could explain that she belonged to enough disadvantaged categories--women, short women, unlucky redheaded women, deserted women, assaulted women--without getting dragooned into yet another one oi which she was utterly innocent. . . someone bumped into her from behind.
The offense was repeated, with feeling.
"Hey!" Temple spun around, ready to lambaste.
The offender's identity struck her dumb.
"Well, well," he said, practically purring. "Had no idea you were this hard up, T.B. I can point you to a dozen places in Las Vegas where you can put a little romance in your life, besides this hen party." He glanced at the long line of women waiting to register for their rooms. "What a bunch of losers."
"So that's what you're doing here, Buchanan."
"Hey! As you often say so eloquently. Sleaze is my beat." He leaned closer than was necessary or particularly healthy, batting his thick black eyelashes up and down the better to look Temple up and down. "You don't want to ogle these beefcake cover models, T.B. Half of 'em are queer and the other half are iffy. If I'd have known you were at loose ends and had a yen for romance, we might have got something going. No wonder you're so snappish to me. You just need a good--"
"Jerk!" Electra growled like a watchdog at Temple's side. "Who is this little man, Temple?"
"Not the Duchess of Windsor's darling, I'll tell you that. Meet Crawford Buchanan, author of the Broadside column for the Las Vegas Scoop."
"Oh, yes, I've seen it," Electra allowed. "Usually with used cat litter on it."
"I'm not covering this for the Scoop" Buchanan disdainfully adjusted the hang of his ivory linen jacket. "I'm the local liaison for Hot Heads, the national TV news mag, you know. I'll be providing a blow-by-blow account on all five days of the GROWLers' time to howl. If you're nice to me"--he leaned almost close enough to polish Temple's teeth with his own--"I'll make sure you get an on-camera interview. I'll even identify you as a local flack. Be good for business."
"I'm here on business," she announced airily, stepping back and right onto Electra's toe. "For the Phoenix." She hoped that was vague enough. "The only air time I need is room to breathe about six miles from you!"
"Women." Crawford smiled smarmily at Electra, as if--being silver-haired--she wasn't quite one anymore. "You can always tell they like you when they're testy."
"Sorry," Temple said, leaping off of Electra's toe the moment Crawford Buchanan had removed himself.
"Why?" Electra looked puzzled.
Mortified, Temple turned to see who her spike heel had nailed to the floor, and more important, who was so stoic as to mumble no word of protest.
Oh my. There he was. David in the flesh, only seven feet high instead of eighteen. Temple looked up, and up. Max was tall, but effacingly narrow. This guy was built more like an inverted skyscraper. Unlike one of those needle-nosed buildings, he widened as he went up to Schwarzenegger proportions. Unlike David and Arnold, he draped his upper development in a modest curtain of bicep-brushing hair--pseudo sun-streaked, honestly straight and artfully untamed.
Temple had the oddest sensation of being within stomping distance of a massive palomino horse. All right. Palomino stallion. Okay, revise that. Palomino stud.
I'm sorry," she said, "for stepping on you."
"You step on Fabrizio?" His tanned face crinkled (adorably, Temple assumed) with amusement. "No.
Fabrizio must avoid stepping on lovely lady." With that he grinned (tenderly) and picked her up (manfully) in one fell swoop.
Some women in line turned to stare, then coo. Some blushed. Fabrizio crushed Temple to his manly chest, bared thanks to an unlaced not-so-manly poet's shirt. His skin was tanned, super-naturally hairless and his pectorals swelled to such unbelievable dimensions that Temple marveled that he was allowed out in public without a Wonderbra.
Electronic flashes exploded along the registration line, but a hotter, more dazzling light went nova on the sidelines. Temple knew that blinding brilliance from days of old, though at that time she had been the tormenter hiding behind it.
"Looks like America's favorite male cover model, Fabrizio, has found a maiden fair already." Crawford Buchanan's oozing baritone rose from beyond the nebula of wattage. "How does it feel, miss, to be where every woman in America wants to be? How does it feel to be in the great Fabrizio's arms?"
The great Fabrizio was nuzzling her neck and swinging his gilded locks into her nose, which itched.
"Like ... like, my friend Flicka," Temple said brightly. To the Great Fabrizio, she was less creative. "I have a terrible fear of heights," she murmured fretfully. "I may be sick to my stomach any second. Put me down."
She emphasized her wishes by doing what she would try with an errant horse who had rudely cantered off with her. She kicked him in the washboard belly with one long, sharp spur of high heel.
"Oof." Fabrizio swung her to the floor faster than a square-dancing partner. But he was still grinning.
Apparently huge size muffled the sense of feeling. So much for the sensitive nineties kind of guy.
Women had deserted their places in line to cluster around the monument in their midst, squeezing Temple out of the picture, thank God. All of them carried black canvas bags emblazoned with the hot-pink letters of G.R.O.W.L., which made them seem quite fierce.
"Quick!" Electra's foot nudged their piled luggage forward over the smooth marble floor. "We can slip ahead in the line."
"Don't you want to stay here and ogle Fabrizio?" Temple wondered in a hoarse whisper.
Electra cast an interested look over her shoulder and past her swinging earrings. "Too much competition right now. He certainly liked you."
"I was easy to pick on and pick up. Look, there goes another one."
A slender woman with long, braided hair, wearing a country-print smock, was giggling in the grasp of Fabrizio. More electronic flashes popped as more women deserted the line to ooh and ahhh.
"Bet he won't pick up that one." Electra jerked her head to a heavyset woman in an olive-green jogging suit painted from wrist to ankle with violets. "You're right. That big galoot doesn't tax his torso unnecessarily."
"It's probably insured by Lloyd's of London against sudden hair growth, yellow waxy buildup and drool," Temple said wickedly. "I already regret being here," she added as they stepped up to the registration desk
"Maybe, but imagine what the boys back at the Circle Ritz will think if they happen to catch Hot Heads tonight."
"Never happen," Temple predicted with confidence. "Matt will be on the job at ConTact by ten-thirty P.M., and who knows where Max will be? Not before his nearest television set, I'll wager."
Temple felt odd about checking into the Crystal Phoenix. In their eighth-floor room, she and Electra took turns hanging up their duds. Electra had whipped articles out of Temple's closet without waiting for their owner's advice and consent. And, in truth, Temple didn't much care what she wore.
She threw herself tummy-down on the window-side double bed and began leafing through the usual tourist attraction guide. "I almost never see these things. Maybe it'll give me a clue to the whereabouts of the shoes."
"You're not going to gallivant all over Las Vegas and miss half the convention, I hope," Electra said, laying out an impressive arsenal of hair products on the long dressing table surface between bathroom and bedroom. Temple had enthused about the Midnight Louie shoes all the way over in the car.
"Maybe, this really isn't my thing. I only came along to use your extra ticket."
"Then maybe you could hop down and pick up our registration materials while I finish unpacking."
Temple glimpsed Electra wrestling a cloud of chiffon and glitter into the narrow closet. It seemed to be dueling the brocaded train of her lavender velvet Renaissance gown for privilege of place.
"Okay." She pulled the wallet on a string from her tote bag, made sure she had the room entry card, then headed down to the ballroo
m floor.
Electra was humming happily off-key as she left.
This "getaway," Temple mused in the familiar elevator on the way down, was more for Electra's sake than hers. Presiding at weddings night and day must become quite a grind. No wonder Electra was a dedicated romance reader, given her profession. Seeing all those dewy couples must create an artificially sweetened view of life, love and lust.
More women melded in the ballroom lobby, swamping the registration table. Luckily, the designation A-L was less lightly patronized than M-Z. Temple slipped into line and shuffled forward dutifully. At first she tried to decide if crowd control could be improved by any rearrangement of the premises. She had, after all, a big stake in the Phoenix's operations now that she was its official updating consultant. Then she found herself concentrating on fragments of conversation.
"I love those big, bad boys."
"Too juvenile. I'll take the strong, silent type."
"Alpha males are where it's at, ladies."
"But not on the covers. Beefcake is boring."
"Oh, look! There's Sharon Rose. Hold my place in line."
At a side table, authors were displaying promotional materials for their books. Temple didn't recognize any of the women, though her line-mates certainly did.
"Shannon Little," a nearby voice whispered reverently. "The Lightning Lord Saga."
Temple realized that Shannon Little must be the spectacularly large woman attired totally in purple, down to the ostrich-plume pen she carried like a wimpy scepter. She was fanning out a sheaf of four-color posters when another woman made a beeline for her.
"Where are my promo materials?" the newcomer asked. "I put them out half an hour ago."
"Oh, I adjusted the layout," Shannon Little said with vague, airy waves of her pudgy fingers and fluffy pen. "Everyone expects to see my books here in front, next to my dear friend Misty Meadows."
Even Temple recognized that name. Misty Meadows was such a perennial bestselling author that she had starred in a memorable TV ad. The ad, which supposedly showed her relaxing at home, featured a site that resembled Kensington Palace and gardens.
"You just swept my stuff away?" The other author was younger, smaller and more polite than Little, but equally unidentifiable to Temple
"Surely you don't mind?" Shannon Little sounded ever so slightly put upon. "Misty and I always display together."
"Misty's stuff was already out when I came and used the available space for mine. If I can find another free spot, I'll move, but--"
"Never mind!" Shannon Little swept her flyers into a ragged pile. I'll go someplace else if I must."
A slight woman with hip-length brown hair glided serenely past the tense scene.
"Misty Meadows," murmured a woman ahead of Temple in line.
Temple eyed the famous bestseller: middle-aged, middle-sized, well-dressed and totally oblivious to her "dear friend" Shannon Little.
The territory-defending author pulled her materials from the jumbled pile at the table's rear and began laying them out--again. Shannon Little sailed away like a Spanish galley, ponderous and stiff, her flyers clutched against her generous purple bosom, which had nothing in common with her selfish spirit.
Temple heard a wave of chuckles agitate the women around her.
"La Little got caught making too much of herself again," the woman behind her muttered.
"You must be a veteran of these things," Temple said, turning with a smile. She was startled to find herself eye to eye with the woman. Usually she had to look up. So she looked down. Yup, the woman was wearing high heels, too. Hallelujah, another shrimp on stilts in the world! Let's hear it for "littles"
that live up to their names.
The woman grinned at her. "What a bitch. We're not all like that."
"You're an author?" Temple couldn't help being impressed. Authors made things up, which was much more taxing than spitting out the facts over and over in ever-inventive forms.
" 'Fraid so." The woman cast a wry look after the fading purple sails of the Bad Ship Shannon Little.
Now this was her idea of a romance author, Temple thought, eyeing the outspoken woman. She was in her well-preserved fifties, petite and chic in a careless sort of way, with her oversize designer glasses and cheerful silk scarf. She also had a face willing to wrinkle and a sense of humor unafraid to call a spade a spade and a witch a bitch. Now the woman had returned her attention to the line and was assessing Temple in turn.
Parallel frown lines made sudden quote marks above the bridge of her glasses. She peered sharply at Temple's face, then looked at her hair. For the first time, the woman sounded uncertain.
"Temple?" She drew back as if denying her own suspicions. "You can't be. .. Little Temple."
"I am not little!" Temple's knee-jerk denial had even more kick, since she'd just seen a woman named Little misbehave. She did not want to be associated with that creature in any way.
The woman behind her in line laughed until her glasses gleamed from the shockwaves. "You are Temple, all right. Said the same thing twenty years ago. Don't you remember me?"
"No. Should I?"
"Maybe not. I'm your aunt, but I haven't been around since you were . .. well, little. Sorry."
"Aunt? I don't have any missing aunts. Except . . . Aunt Ursula!" she shrieked.
"Shhh!" Her aunt cast nervous glances around. "I don't go by that name anymore."
"You went to New York to become an actress," Temple said, not so much recalling as accusing.
"Mother said you would starve."
"Well, I didn't, did I? But I didn't miss that prophecy by much. You got my Christmas cards, didn't you?"
"When I lived at home, but I haven't lived at home for nine years."
Ursula shrugged. "Good for you. Let's get our paperwork, and then I'll buy you a drink. We've got a lot to talk about."
Temple hesitated. Given her current emotional quandary, she really didn't want to delve into ancient family matters at the same time, and anything involving her parents' generation had to be old news Still, it gave her something besides Crawford Buchanan, the Great Fabrizio and Shannon Little to think about while shuffling forward six inches at a time.
When she reached the long table, the harried woman behind it had her sign a computer listing for Electra Lark and Guest, then handed her two heavy canvas bags fat with folders, flyers, giveaways and free books.
She stepped out of line as best she could to wait for her aunt-- imagine that, her long-lost Aunt Ursula who was now going under another name, apparently. Temple watched the woman conduct her business, searching for comparisons with her mother and her Minnesota aunts. None came. The ex-Ursula greeted, signed, sympathized and bore away the ear-marked bag in such a charming, efficient manner that Temple writhed in envy and lusted for reaching a certain age, when no one would mistake her for a girl.
"Now." Her aunt used a long, elegant middle finger to thrust the bridge of her glasses more firmly on her aquiline nose. Maybe that autocratic nose gave her the air of authority. "I'm dying for a martini.
Come on."
Or maybe it was her deep, textured voice. Temple's had a slight rasp that some considered endearing, but Auntie Whoever's voice held a true froggy dew reminiscent of Tallulah Bankhead or Tammy Grimes.
Bemused, Temple followed the authoritative tap of her aunt's conservative but expensive heels--
Bally, she would guess. But then why wouldn't her aunt be authoritative in every respect? She had said she was an author, hadn't she? But a romance author? Why hadn't Mom said anything about that?
Soon they were ensconced at a tiny round marble-topped table beside the Phoenix's meandering indoor stream, overhung by thriving tropical plants and crowded at foot-level by the sagging weight of their convention bags. A waitress buzzed by with the usual round brown tray. Her aunt ordered a Gibson, cocked her eyebrows and waited while Temple dithered.
"A Bloody Mary, I guess."
The waitress swooped away on he
r rounds.
"Who's your friend?" her aunt asked, looking down.
Temple fully expected to follow her gaze and find Midnight Louie blinking up at her, so well-trained was she to his uncat-like comings and goings. All she saw was three black canvas bags full of words, woo and woe, not wool.
"Oh. The other bag's for my landlady, Electra. She's the romance buff. I just came along for the ride."
"Yes, I saw you mounted on the human roller coaster. Awesome, isn't he?"
"Fabrizio? More like paw-some."
Her aunt's contralto laugh would have been a whoop if it weren't so basso. "Breezy, they call him for short. Say, do you mind if I smoke? I'll keep the fumes aimed in a neutral direction."
"I do, but I guess relatives have an escape clause."
"Terrible habit." Her aunt lit a Virginia Slim with a match from a--yup--Sardi's box. "I try to quit once a month. But at least I don't bite babies."
Temple blinked as her aunt finished her lighting-up ritual by smiling expectantly, then went back to something that intrigued her. "Tell me what you meant about not using 'Ursula' anymore."
"Well, it's a godawful name."
"I know."
"That's right! Sis stuck that on you as a middle name, didn't she? Probably thought making me your godmother would be a good influence on me. It wasn't."
"You're my godmother! I'd forgotten that. You've been gone for such a long time, and have been strangely out of touch."
"Strangely out of touch." Her aunt gazed up at the twinkling fairy lights entwining the greenery. "An off-Broadway director said that about me once, in less innocuous tones."
She leaned away from the tiny table as the waitress bent to set their drinks down, then produced a fan of bills that earned an especially deep departing dip from the server.
"Ah, Temple dear," her flowing delivery went on, not missing a beat, "my life's long story is not worth even a short retelling. In fact, one picture is worth a thousand words."
Midnight Louie 05-Cat in a Diamond Dazzle Page 6
