“You’ve already done that, Mira. You’ve tried flying under the radar for a lot of years and it was a disaster. Now maybe you can, you know, spread your L’Air du Temps wings and soar a little. Matt would want you to. Your husband-to-be would want you to. You can go back to Chicago and knock all those snobby rich bitches off their platform heels.”
“Temple!”
“Just saying. Pride can often go in drag as false modesty.”
Tears made Mira’s eyes sparkle like those signature blue topaz earrings. She looked away. Briana appeared and took a perky pose, two soft, luscious silk dresses hanging from either hand.
Mira looked back, her spine straightening. “The one on the right,” she said. “Possibly.”
Briana was actually going to have to “sell” this client.
Temple bit back a smile and sank back in her cushy chair with a sigh.
Chapter 52
Here Comes the Bride
For church weddings, Temple knew, the bride was usually with her girlfriends fussing over her apparel in one room, and the groom was with his cronies in another.
Here at the Circle Ritz, Mira prepared in Temple’s condo and Philip changed into his wedding suit at Matt’s place directly above.
Temple’s fairy godmother duties were almost done. She changed into a saffron ’80s dress with a full pleated chiffon skirt and puffed-sleeve fitted jacket. She’d been tempted to wear the Midnight Louie pumps, being they were black and white, but decided that pavé Austrian crystal shoes with black cats on the heels were too scene-stealing for a wedding.
She gave Mira a last, fond inspection. “Those beige silk sling-backs that go with your Chicago suit are perfect with the new outfit,” Temple said.
The “something new” dress was divine, or Devine. The bodice was pleated chiffon, the waist emphasize by a soft ruffle above it, and the skirt’s slanted tiers of alternating lace and chiffon bands flared out below the knee to tea-gown length. The high neck ended at the back in a lavish bow with tails to the waist. And the lace jacket ended with marabou cuffs below the elbow, which would look smashing in the bouquet-at-waist position all brides made on their entry.
Temple knew the guys wouldn’t have a clue about these high-design details. They’d just think Mira looked like a movie star.
She gazed at herself in the full-length mirror in the condo’s second bedroom that served as Temple’s home office. “This looks … nice.” She sounded surprised.
“And so do you. Now, bend over from the waist.”
Mira obeyed, completely on program. Temple ran her brush through Mira’s Chicago-set hair from nape to tips.
“Straighten up and shake your head.”
Mira checked out her fuller, looser hairstyle, which also showed off the blue topaz earrings better. “You’re an amazing woman. Where do you learn these things?”
“Girly School. TV news makeup departments, at repertory theaters, in Allure magazine. I always had to scrounge to get my girl on, having all older brothers at home. Now, I collect my heels and we’re ready to go downstairs and knock ’em dead.”
Temple raced across the condo’s living room to the master bedroom on the other side, Mira trailing her like a duckling.
Since the Stuart Weitzman Austrian-crystal pumps were off the menu, Temple had chosen a dainty pair of ’80s-vintage silver satin pumps with ankle straps buttoned by gold crystals. Only one was standing upright in front of her ajar closet door.
“Darn! I do not want to go digging on my knees in the closet in this outfit.” Temple searched the bedroom, finding no mate for the shoe. “I could have sworn they were both standing paired together like soldiers on parade. Louie?”
A meowed protest came from the floor beyond the far side of the California king-size and ended abruptly as Louie landed on the zebra-pattern coverlet. He sat to lift his hind leg and scratch at the band of vintage white silk bow tie around his neck.
“Meet your ‘something borrowed,’” Temple told Mira. “Louie will be the ring bearer. Don’t worry. It’s his second wedding gig. I tie the ring to his collar like a tag.”
“Is he all right?” Mira wondered. “He’s recovered from his ordeal in Chicago?”
“Fit as a Stradivarius. He lost a couple of nail sheaths, that’s all. Well!” Temple put her hands on her hips. “I’m just going to have to wear different shoes. Let’s see. White is too gauche, black too somber … so it’s the white-and-silver print Weitzman’s with the bows on the back of the heel. They’ll match your blouse bow.”
“Whatever you say, Temple.” Mira shook her fluffed-out hair. “You’re such a dynamo, I don’t even have time to think about being nervous about the ceremony.”
“Then I’m doing my maid of honor job.” Temple pulled out the new pair of shoes and donned them, glad to do a last survey from her usual height.
“Wait!” Mira ordered. “Look at the floor.”
“You’ve spotted the missing shoe?” As Temple bent down, Mira stepped close and drew the hairbrush from Temple’s nape to the curling ends of her hair.
“Now you’re fluffed.”
“Tricky lady.”
“Oh. What pretty earrings you have too.”
Temple touched the delicate webs of tiny rubies and diamonds. “Your son is a really good judge of earrings. And rings. So. Let’s go down and cause dropped jaws.”
“What about the cat?”
“Oh, he’ll come along in his own way and his own time. He always does.”
Temple winked at Louie and took Mira’s arm. “Let’s get married.”
Chapter 53
Evening in Paris
Max couldn’t decide whether he was at work as an ace agent or not at work at all as a Los Lonely Guy when he abandoned the black Maxima from Garry’s garage to the Paris Hotel parking attendant.
It was still daylight, yet entering the casino immersed him in the always-nocturnal landscape of velvety black punctuated by a couple galaxies’ worth of supernovas.
No one stood in line for the single elevator to the Eiffel Tower restaurant at this unfashionably early hour. Tourists ran on a schedule hotel hours subtly established. About now, the women were still moving from baking in the hotel pool areas. The pools closed early to shoo the women back inside to dress for a long day’s night on the town in the restaurants, shops, and casinos. The men were still killing time at the blackjack, baccarat, and craps tables.
Revienne was already primed for the night. She perched on a stool beside a nearby bank of slot machines. Her blond hair was sleeked back into a bun the size of a doughnut hole that emphasized her swanlike neck and shoulders.
She wore a loose-knit sleeveless top woven with beige and iridescent yarns, braless, and a short white-silk pencil skirt, both highly seduction-worthy. He’d expected no less.
He came up behind her and produced a twenty-dollar bill for the slot machine before her hand could slip in another ten. “You’re losing. Try my money.”
She stood and slipped his bill into the toy purse set beside the slot machine, along with a casino card for the Paris consortium. “We can gamble later, dine now.”
“You’d never know you were new to Vegas,” he commented.
“I’d never have known you were here if you hadn’t visited the campus,” she answered, eyeing his newly shorn hair with the bit of gel nonsense at the top. “I hope that’s not a result of brain surgery—?”
“Heat exhaustion preventive.”
“Then you’re new to this so very hot climate.”
“As you know, I’m a world traveler. Nowhere is entirely new.”
He escorted her to the elevator that whisked them up a mere eleven stories to the first stage of the half-scale replica of the Eiffel Tower. The hostess and the bar were straight ahead, so they were swiftly escorted to the prized corner table in the glass-walled restaurant, facing northwest into the mountains and directly across from the Bellagio’s famous dancing fountains.