"You're just avoiding the inevitable, and insulting us both."
"I know. But it feels like I'm sparing somebody's feelings, like mine."
Max pushed off the wall, relaxed again. He dabbed at her cheek with the lukewarm washcloth.
"I think you'll like the contact lenses, but why did you chicken out on getting a wild and crazy color?"
"Don't be so sure I did. These are temporaries while I'm waiting for the prescription."
Max looked intently into her eyes; she wasn't getting sleepy. He took her hands, held them up like Exhibit A on the strong tented surface of his fingertips. The ring he had given her was missing.
"Temple. I know you wouldn't be waffling on telling Devine the truth if you didn't have deep feelings for him. I'm not putting a name on them, but they're there, and they won't get out of our way until you tell him that we're together again."
"But are we? One night doth not a relationship make. Or mend."
Max reached behind her neck to undo the tiny black hook at the neckline, then ran the back zipper open to her tailbone, his fingers tracing the route with the same featherweight touch.
"Why don't you slip into something comfortable and sleep on it? Tomorrow evening, when you've had a chance to rest up and concoct a new set of waffles, I'll pick you up so you can come on over to my place," he whispered into her ear in a bedroom voice. "I could use an amateur sleuth and an editor in the worst way."
Then he grinned and left her sitting on the sink to jump down on her own.
She followed him as far as the bedroom door, shouting after him as he vanished onto his favorite exit, the patio.
"Max, you want to lure me over to your place for editorial services?"
He didn't bother answering, so she shut the door, pointedly, and did as he suggested.
Amateur sleuthing at the former Orson Welles house? Editing? Curiosity killed the cat, and apparently it had driven Louie out for the night as well.
Temple felt relieved to drop her glittering carapace of a dress and peel off the concealing pantyhose. She actually felt relieved to be alone at last, bereft of all masculine company, human or feline, passionate or purely platonic.
Sometimes you, yourself and I were all the company one could stand.
Chapter 9
Flamingo Memories
Temple only needed a liquid powder foundation by the next day to disguise what the old-time gumshoes called a "mouse."
As black eyes go, it was a fading charcoal gray; her mouth only felt like it had been to the dentist, and she was beginning to simmer in anticipation of Max's forthcoming mystery night out ... in.
And entering the Crystal Phoenix's understated entrance drive was like returning to Manderley again, sans Max de Winter.
Van von Rhine had insisted that a New Year's Day appointment would not intrude on family or business plans. In fact, she had added over the phone yesterday, the holiday was especially appropriate to the renovation project and the wonderful . . . donation that it had received.
Donation in Las Vegas? Temple wondered. Money was wagered and lost and--
occasionally--won here, but rarely was it simply given away. And never to commercial projects.
So Temple crossed the Phoenix's navy-and-camel casino carpeting Tuesday morning and barely heard the frequent chimes of slot machines as she headed to the executive offices behind the reception area.
Lines of registering guests snaked obediently through the roped-off maze in front of the long front desk. Apparently the Phoenix wasn't suffering despite lacking some of the latest gimmicks on the Strip, such as a Jurassic Park theme park or a roller coaster shaped like the Loch Ness monster. They could have a baby Nessie for the kids. Hey, not bad ideas, either of them, although a bit pricey for the Phoenix.
She kept an eye out for lurking Fontana brothers, Nicky's nine darkly handsome littermates.
They were touchingly protective of her but rather overwhelming en masse, both sartorially and for an undeniable air of Gangster cologne. Fontana Inc. was always impeccably tailored and accoutered by Cerutti and Beretta, though somewhat rough around the behavioral edges.
She spotted neither the Fontana brothers' Armani-suited silhouettes nor their less conventional post-romance-convention attire, Elvis jumpsuits. No doubt they had rung in the New Year until their fine Italian heads had also rung.
Nicky Fontana, though, sleek as a black Maserati with camel-colored leather interior, was waiting in his wife's outer office to usher Temple into the inner sanctum.
"Sorry to have played hooky over the holidays," Temple told Van, who rose from behind her glass-topped desk to join her husband in front of it.
They were living proof that opposites attract and make an attractive couple: Nicky with his sienna skin and vibrant dark eyes and hair; Van a Nordic blond with a demeanor as cool as her husband's was heated.
Nicky leaned against the thick glass and crossed his arms. "So how was New York? Did the cat take it by storm?"
"He took the advertising agency by storm, though that was all of Manhattan he saw, except for my aunt's glamorous condominium in a miniature flatiron building. Oh, and a railroad flat in a part of the Village where only the lonely live."
"Uptown, downtown," Nicky said. "That's what makes New York exciting. Sophistication and sleaze side by side."
"Thank God our hotel isn't going for the New York-New York look, then," Van put in, shuddering genteelly.
Nicky liked to scratch his discreetly manicured nails across the blackboard of her fine sensibilities. Van had been reared in the hushed, hothouse atmosphere of the European luxury hotel industry and found Las Vegas trying at times.
"So what is this surprise?" Temple asked, not feeling up to spending too much time at the Phoenix today, despite her fondness for Nicky and Van.
Van, wearing one of the exquisite Escada suits that were her trademark, stepped dramatically away from a long side table.
That's when Temple spied the cityscape -in-miniature of an architect's model.
She edged toward it, taking in a jumble of shapes and color. The thing looked like a Miro or Matisse painting in 3-D. And it was fully accoutered with . .. flamingos. Lots and lots of flamingos.
"But. . . this is Crystal Phoenix Hotel and Casino. Shouldn't they be phoenixes?"
"Not when Domingo himself has designed the new children's petting zoo. It will be partly a permanent installation of his recent headline-grabbing conceptual art hit with the plastic flamingos, and partly a zoo."
"I think they're both the same," Nicky muttered in Temple's ear, donning an angelic expression as Van shot him a suspicious glance.
"And Domingo is giving us the free use of his design, 'if his friend Miss Temple Barr approves.' Isn't that wonderful? You must have made quite an impression on him."
Temple shrugged modestly.
"And all he wants," Van went on, "is that we dedicate it to 'Brother John.'"
Temple let her jaw drop. And instantly regretted it.
"What's the matter?" Van looked concerned.
"Saw the dentist yesterday. She was open half the day and I'd booked the appointment before I knew Louie and I would be the toast of New York during the holidays."
Van nodded, still admiring the colorful model. "I don't know who Brother John is, but I'll put his name up in neon if it's adequate thanks for getting a children's park designed by an internationally renowned artist."
"Brother John," Nicky ruminated. "It must mean something. I don't have a brother Gianni, hard as that may be to believe, but I'll adopt this one gladly."
"A simple flamingo-pink plaque somewhere should be all that's needed," Temple said demurely.
"I suppose it could be a Brother, as in order of brothers," Nicky speculated. "Domingo could be Spanish."