“Ever since that debacle at the chicken ranch, I must admit Louie has a lot more street cred with me.”
“He saved me from a mob hit man.”
“I don’t give him that much cred. He was just acting out in the manner of his breed. He went a little crazy in a speeding vehicle, is all. Cats hate riding in cars.”
Sure. Temple eyed Louie, sprawled dead center of her huge, round, gold-satin-covered bed like a big, black, hairy, giant tarantula. His absinthe-green eyes squinted with mobster relish. He’d loved lolling in the big black SUV on the ride to Laughlin and back.
Yeah, baby, yeah.
Midnight Louie must have been exhausted by the roundabout trip to the hotel.
He didn’t budge for an instant from lying dead center of the mattress.
Since it was a round bed, Temple had to curl around him like a worm. So much for Internet stardom.
She had trouble sleeping, which might have been the position, or her, um, position.
She was now officially a fiancée acting against her intended’s better judgment. She hadn’t had to answer for her own safety to anyone since leaving her Minneapolis home almost three years before. True, she’d been living on her own since she was twenty-three, and she was pushing thirty-one now.
Temple tossed and turned, trying to track down the gnawing feeling of guilt taking nibbles out of her innards. She’d left Minneapolis with Max, which was hardly a huge independent step, although leaving her smother-loving family was a hard break to make.
Max had been concerned about her safety—he’d left her without a word for almost a year to lead some nasty hoodlums away from their love nest. Love nest. Temple smiled. Max was hardly the nest type. They’d lived together, but Max had always had a secret life she finally found out about. So he’d never moved back into their Circle Ritz condominium once he was back in Vegas and her life. They were both free to come and go.
Matt was a lot more conservative than Max. He worried about her unleashing Zoe Chloe Ozone again, even though the police were unofficially encouraging her to do it. Temple supposed a suspect nicknamed the Barbie Doll Killer might be a tad unsettling to a fiancé who wasn’t a secret agent on the side, like Max.
But she’d gotten attached to Mariah when she and Zoe had been roommates for the Teen Queen competition. Temple had only had older brothers in her family, always bigger, stronger, surer, “righter.” Mariah was like a little sister who needed advice on being girly, being a performer, being a snoop.
Temple grinned. How could she and Zoe be any safer? She had two relentless protectors in the form of feuding bodyguards, each competing to be the more perfect parent and police officer.
Insecure Security
The ballroom where the show would be held seemed football field huge, with electricians and stagehands running around it like fire ants.
Temple eased her candy-apple red patent leather platform shoes over the snakes’ nests of black cables crisscrossing the carpeted floor.
“Watch your step, little lady.” Rafi took her elbow and almost hoisted her above the entangling cables.
On her other side, Molina frowned. “You two are on cozy terms.”
Rafi gave Temple a Cheshire cat smirk. “It’s all about working together on that reality TV show. Bonds form fast.”
“You and a bunch of teenage girls. I may heave.”
“Not on the cables. That could be dangerous.”
She looked mad enough to spit on both of them, but shrugged and stalked ahead, her tailored loafers missing every sheaf of cable.
“Man, she is wired,” Rafi said.
When Temple laughed, he caught her eye.
“Appropriate choice of words, right here,” he said. “I don’t know whether her problem is concealed pain or . . . concealed something else.”
Temple was not an ex–marital counselor, like Matt, so she let that lie. “How do we go about investigating in this massive place? A determined killer could be running around in one of these work-man’s overalls.”
“I’m sure that’s where Carmen’s gone. She’s got undercover cops here. They’ll have checked lists of workmen, program personnel, waitstaff, anyone with business in the area. And they’ll continue checking. You think you could find an outfit more likely to scream, ‘Here I am, mob me or kill me’?”
Temple looked down at her black-lace leggings, racy red shoes, and short, full skirt. She waggled her fingers in the long spiderweb-pattern Goth gloves and hefted the orange patent leather tote bag holding Louie and little else higher on her shoulder.
“I have to be fashion-forward. The world expects that of Zoe Chloe. Golly, Rafi, how long do I have to lug Louie around as a purse pussycat? He weighs a ton!”
Louie’s large, cheeky tomcat face looked very Halloweenish peering over the pumpkin-colored tote bag.
“Cats aren’t supposed to like being carried around,” Temple complained further.
“He’s a good prop,” Rafi said, lifting the double tote straps off her right shoulder.
Before Temple could sigh her relief, Louie hissed at his new custodian and wriggled out of the bag onto the floor. In a few smooth darts, he threaded the workmen’s legs before they even noticed his presence and, like Molina before him, disappeared.
“That cat has a nose for trouble,” Rafi commented. “If Carmen wouldn’t have my head for leaving you, I’d follow him.”
“Let’s both do it. Louie thinks best on his feet.”
So they tripped the cables fantastic until they arrived at the backstage area where floor directors, the producer, the music director, and press agents were milling around.
“Miss Ozone!” exclaimed a jovial man shaped like a bottom-heavy wine bottle that comes in a basket wrap. He waddled over, operating a cell phone camera. “Fab to have you here. You look fab. The show will be fab with you emceeing our junior division and bringing all your online fans along for the ride, not to mention making new fans through your appearances here. And this gentlemen is?”
“Mr. Raphael d’Arc, my manager and occasional personal security agent.”
“Hmm.” The officious fellow looked Rafi over and decided he looked both secure and personable. “Not the usual mindless muscle in hip-hop bling. Quite refreshing, Miss Ozone.”
“I aim to refresh,” Temple said. “So tell me what’s all happenin’ so I can jive with the jukebox in perfect one-and-ah-two-and-ah-three-and-ah-bam git-down, tank-up, thank you, ladies and gentlemen time.”
“She is a pistol, isn’t she, man?” the guy asked Rafi as if they were secret frat brothers, with a wink and a would-be jab in the ribs.
Rafi easily evaded any contact and drew his black denim jacket back to reveal a tan leather holster. “This is a pistol, man. Who are you and why are you accosting Miss Ozone?”
“Hey, chill, dude! I’m the DJ for breaks on this show. Gotta keep the live audience mellow yellow between segments. I’m just a fan of Miss Ozone. She is one scintillating little mama.”
“You’re on the set the day before the actual broadcasts?”
“Yes, sir!” The DJ was getting very Private Gomer Pyle after seeing the iron Rafi was pumping. “I need to watch the rehearsals, get the rhythm and the routines down. Just like Miss Ozone here. That’s why you’re here early, isn’t it? A real hip little pro. Always a 110 percent for the gig. These teen pop tarts are all energy and nerve and flash edges, even if they burn out fast.”
Temple thought that was pretty true, but coming from this oil-slick guy it made her sick to the stomach.
Rafi had the same reaction and he had a wanna-be pop tart daughter who was still as naïve as cornflakes. “Maybe. But Miss Ozone is only paid to perform on stage. You keep your distance and do your job, and your lame little soul patch will not be torn right off your chinny-chin-chin.”