“Yeah? I don’t think any saint designed that. It’s like you’re wearing liquid Karo syrup on the way to a mud-wrestling match.”
She laughed. “Glad you noticed. Sophisticated slink. Courtesy of the Grand Bahama Mama resale shop on Charleston in Vegas.”
“I can buy you upscale business clothes.”
“No way. Recycling is virtuously ‘green.’ The Gilmore Girls TV show mother/grandmother often wore St. John knits. All the male stars’ rich-bitch mothers on TV sitcoms do. Must be because there are so many thirty-something male scriptwriters and so many unemployed skinny older actresses.”
“Huh?” Matt shrugged too. “That’s a secret code I’ll never crack, but I did visit a very not-resale shop on Michigan Avenue on my last trip here.”
He fished a small blue box from the side pocket of his Pat Sajak–stylish suit.
“Tiffany?” Temple accepted it with raised eyebrows. Inside lay a delicate web of diamond-dewed rubies on blue velvet.
“Oh.” She rushed to the mirror to insert the neck-brushing earrings. They must have cost a couple months of her salary from the Crystal Phoenix. “They match my engagement ring, but, Matt, I wear my hair longer now. That’s why I only use little gold studs occasionally to keep the piercings open. No one will ever see them unless I put my hair up.”
She fluffed her shoulder-brushing strawberry red curls to show him.
He came up behind her, nudged the obscuring hair out of the way, performed CPR on her earlobes and earrings. “I will. That’s the way I want it. I might catch a glimpse now and then, but no one else will know.”
“Oooh,” she said, turning to face him. “That is super sexy.”
“So you’re not going to complain about the expense?”
“Not since it’s so deliciously private. When you get to the matching navel ring, we’ll see.”
He did not object to the threat.
She put a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you. I’ll let you count the ways again later.”
They paused to enjoy a mutual smile even though they needed to rush.
Temple could also count the ways this trip was so important for Matt, and the ways it had almost been jinxed. First, the ghastly Louie incident, then the unsettling revelations about his stepfather. Then meeting his mother’s brotherly beau. Events seemed designed to distract Matt from his amazing career opportunity. Temple had no trouble in deciding her role. She was here to totally take his mind off the negative and accent the positive for the rest of the trip.
“You are so going commit even more mortal sin when we get back here tonight,” she threatened with all her heart. That ought to take his mind off the negative. Meanwhile, she had to play the good little wife-to-be, but she had no issues with that. Temple understood perfectly that when it came to a media career, a significant other could be an asset but was usually viewed as a possible detriment.
* * *
The Michigan Avenue restaurant stunned diners with soaring ceilings and blue-velvet banquettes amid a stark black-and-white décor. Matt and Temple were ushered to a private dining area that nonetheless featured a curved banquette, and a private bar for standing drinks and introductions.
Their entrance caused a flattering break in the chitchat as all eyes turned their way.
No problem. Temple was here to slay network dragons for her man. Super PR Woman had brought a ’40s envelope purse bristling with golden spangles. She could tuck it under one arm to keep both hands free for cocktail-holding and hand shaking.
Her literally killer French shoes slayed her aching arches—’70s Charles Jourdan heels hosted two sets of unseen but sincerely felt Dr. Scholle’s cushioned inserts. A slight platform from the period put her on an easy interaction level with taller men and women, who were usually in the majority.
She mingled generously, sipped stingily, chatted. She wondered if she could get used to a life of this.
Scents of expensive perfumes and cologne vied with the costly waft of world-class whiskeys and gins.
The other guests were older but so well-kept, both men and women, that Temple expected to see a manicurist and airbrush makeup artist hovering on the fringes and available for touch-ups.
At last the man with the most distinguished wings of silver hair at his temples suggested they sit. Temple and Matt ended up shuffling on the sticky velvet banquette to the back seats of the huge horseshoe, ranks of three wives on Temple’s side and three execs on his.
She felt a bit like an invitee to a feast hosted by Genghis Khan. They’d been “cut from the herd” and would each be given a good going-over by the jury of their own gender.
Matt leaned to whisper in her ear as they unfurled their origami napkins. “Courage.”
“Love your dinner suit, Miss Barr,” the glossily groomed woman on Temple’s left leaned in to say. “Your fiancé is instant Ben and Jerry’s Karamel Sutra on a stick.”
Temple shot her an admonishing look.
“You’ll have to get used to that reaction, dear. Media is brutal today. Crazed fans rule the air waves and the Internet.”
Her apparent husband across the way leaned in. “Miss Barr has her own media appeal. Your Zoe Chloe Ozone profile and following numbers on Twitter were quite a pleasant surprise. Don’t be so shocked. We’re looking for multiple platforms today. Even multiple personalities. That you could invent such a zany Internet persona on a whim is quite intriguing.”
“I was doing undercover investigative work to protect a vulnerable teen on that reality TV show,” Temple said, trying not to sound huffy.
“Better and better.” The man eyed his wife. “Daughter of Dr. Phil. Daphne, please interrogate Miss Barr on her fascinating online sidelines. And ask her about the cat.”
“The cat?” Daphne beamed. “I have a bichon frise I adore.”
Temple couldn’t resist saying, “Oh, I’ve been considering that haircut myself. Would you mind giving me the name of your stylist?”
Daphne bristled, then snapped, “Fifi’s Fashionable Fursians.” Her narrowed eyes studied Temple. “You were just kidding.”
“Yes, but now I know the name of the primo pet groomer in Chicago. You know, I’m surprised that the reality TV craze hasn’t gotten to animal companions and their service industry.”
Daphne blinked her false eyelashes. “That’s not a bad idea. Care to come up with a concept for my husband to kick around?”
Temple was thinking she’d probably discover she’d rather kick the network veeps around.
Did she have the makings of a docile corporate wife?
Probably not.
Could she rejoice in Matt’s success and reinvent herself in some interesting and fulfilling way?
Definitely.
Could Midnight Louie handle a big rough-and-tumble city like Chicago?
No contest.
Chapter 28
The Post-Midnight Hour
“You’re a regular human fly,” Rafi Nadir said, hanging over the Bull’s rail to watch Max inch along the ship’s sides to the prow.
The night was dark and the moon was yellow and it reflected—along with the Strip neon—in the otherwise dark and silent artificial cove.
Before they’d started the assault on the deserted ship mock-up, they’d come up with a good excuse for being here.
“If anybody challenges our presence,” Rafi had told Max, “I can say you’re a rigging expert checking out an equipment problem with the last show.”
“I really am one of those.” Max had grinned. “Darn. I could do a lot of grunt jobs in this town now that I have no career as a headlining magician.”
“You’ve got the guts for high-wire work, I can swear to that. Your Neon Nightmare crash was … ‘Cirque du Soleiclass="underline" Suicide.’”