Temple waited by the baggage-claim area as people surrounded the carousel, jumping up every now and then to compensate for her lack of height. The light started blinking, and baggage came banging over the end of the conveyor belt onto hard metal, but no blond head she recognized appeared on her high jumps.
The first tick of alarm reverberated deep in her stomach. The Amanda Show flew Matt first class for his appearances. No sense in having travel-frazzled guests. He was usually first off.
Temple started circling the people clustered thick as vultures around the rotating carousal, peering through akimbo elbows, around big indifferent shoulders, avoiding successful bag grabbers who turned so fast to leave they could mug her with their hard-shelled Samsonites.
Life was a cabaret when you were short.
Over what appeared to be a tattooed linebacker, who had no business being in Las Vegas since it was one of the largest U.S. cities without any Major League teams, a still-unfamiliar head of highlighted blond appeared and circled her way.
Temple backed out of the crowd and started waving her left hand, her engagement ring attracting sudden interest ranging from awe to avarice.
Before anyone with criminal intent could accost her, Matt pushed the linebacker and his matching-size bag out of the way to capture her hand in his and bring it down in his custody.
“You’re here,” Temple said. “I was beginning to worry.”
“You should worry about letting your ring cause a feeding frenzy.”
Matt grabbed her in a hard “I’m back” embrace. Nothing too Public Display of Affection.
“I missed you.” He shook his head. “The insanity. The show. My family. I’ve had it with solo schlepping from Vegas to Chicago. You’re coming along as my personal assistant until we get married.”
“And then?”
“I’ll leave you at home so I can flirt with fame.” He grinned.
“Hmph. You think. What are we waiting for? And what kept you?”
“Small roll-on and a suiter. I was too beat to bring anything on board. And … the crew wanted me to sign autographs before I deplaned.”
“That happen before?”
“No. It’s just as Ambrosia and the radio station management dreamed would happen. That silly Dancing with the Celebs reality-TV show made me instantly recognizable. A new crown of thorns for the local media freak show.”
“Speaking of crowns of thorns,” Temple said, leaning back to eye him, “looks like The Amanda Show wants to build on your dance-show redo. Blonder hair, tanner skin, whiter teeth.”
“Yeah, I look like a Baywatch rerun escapee. Don’t you pick up where my family left off.”
“Next they’ll want to give you aquamarine contact lenses. That I put my foot down on. Your brown eyes do not make me blue.”
“It’s all very head spinning,” he said, interrupting his report to grab the last two lone pieces of luggage. “This’ll put your Miata to the test.”
“Nope. I brought your Crossfire. Still not the trunk-space king, but roomier.”
“What would I do without you?”
“Don’t even think about it.” Temple grabbed the rolling bag, but Matt resisted.
She was an equal-opportunity helper, but men needed to keep building their upper-body strength, she supposed.
“It seems like I’ve been gone an age,” he said as they trotted and escalated through the vast airport. “How am I going to update you on so much so fast, when all I want to do is—”
“Ditto. My problem exactly. Which is why I’ve booked dinner at the Crystal Phoenix. Almost a home away from home, but a good place for us to come back to earth and catch up.”
“You’re brilliant, Temple. I’m starving for some one-on-one time on a scale that lives up to the way I’ve been wined and dined almost blind in Chicago. When I wasn’t being berated by family.”
“Poor, suffering media hottie. You need a private PR person to make it all better,” Temple said, wincing even as the words came out of her mouth.
What Matt needed was a couple glasses of wine before she told him of her … their … new reclamation-and-redemption project. The PR whiz did reclamation every day in her job. The ex-priest hopefully had a few more freelance redemptions left in him.
One thing she did know. She and Matt, and now Max again, knew separate pieces of a years-long puzzle that could redeem—or destroy—every one of them and what they most held dear.
* * *
“You look wonderful,” Matt said, when they were seated at the isolated table they’d requested in the Crystal Carousel rooftop restaurant. “Purely objective opinion.”
“Thanks.” She had tossed the tissue-thin circle coat she’d worn to the airport over the back of her chair. “I spent two hours before I decided on this fifties ballerina dress.”
“What do they call that color? It matches your eyes perfectly.”
“You’re going to have to learn all this arcane stuff to live with me and my wardrobe. Changeable taffeta. Goes from lilac to blue.”
“Yeah, they do. Your eyes. And that neckline?”
Temple shrugged. “Off the shoulder.”
“Your bare shoulders are sexier than Angelina Jolie’s … you know.”
“The fifties was a more gracious, flirtatious, feminine era. And, frankly, I can compete on shoulders and waistlines. On bustlines, not so much.”
“So why are you regaling me with the competitive you and keeping me at table’s length?”
“I’ve been making the rounds of the vintage-clothing shops while you were gone and wanted to show off. And … we have a lot to talk about.”
“Yes, I know,” he began, contritely.
That’s where she needed to have him before it was her turn to be contrite … big-time. He of all people would understand guilt.
“This Chicago media stuff is sudden, I know,” he said. “It was all show-and-tell. Nothing will get serious until my agent gets in on it. I was in phone contact with Tony Valentine all along. He told me to bask in all the perks and pretty talk and commit to nothing.”
“Oprah already retired.”
“Just from network TV, so everybody’s still trying to fill the gap.” He named a mouthy female celeb.
“And for a vote in favor of only one, I’d bet,” Temple said, “she’s abrasive.”
“Humor often is.”
“But Oprah’s appeal is being a sort of overlady of everything family and psychologically dysfunctional and physically healthy and fashionable.”
“That’s a wide swath to follow in,” Matt said. “A lot of new shows will try until something clicks.”
“Or someone.” Temple smiled as a waiter wafted a couple tall, footed glasses in front of them.
“The newest house signature cocktail,” he announced, “compliments of Mister Fontana.”
“Which Mister Fontana?” Temple asked, craning her neck, though it was most likely the owner, Nicky.
But the donor had deserted the dining room.
“What is it?” Matt asked, more to the point.
“A Silver Zombie,” the waiter said, happy to have a bit part. “Silver tequila, of course, lime vodka, Blue Curaçao, et cetera.”
“It’s those ‘et ceteras’ that get your head turned around,” Matt commented.
Temple was thinking that a zombie was the perfect drink to numb Matt’s sure-to-be major reaction to her news about Max.
“Smooth move,” Matt said, making Temple start. Was he reading her mind? “The drink matches your dress and your eyes.”
They clicked rims and sipped. Not bad, Temple thought. Like a Moonlight Margarita on steroids.
“Before we order,” she said, “I need to … address a certain change in status.”
“Believe me, Temple,” Matt put in, “this Chicago talk-show notion is just that—all talk so far. I’ve had time on the plane to think straight, and I realized I couldn’t just whisk you out of Las Vegas, where your business and home are now.”
“Yes, you can. In fact, I’d prefer to be out of town and with you in Chicago right now.”
“You’re serious?”
She nodded. “While you were gone, there was a murder connected to the Crystal Phoenix.”
“You’re right.” Matt had sipped the Silver Zombie a third down. “You do need to leave this town.”
“It also involved the … Synth. I found their hidden headquarters at the Neon Nightmare club. And Kathleen O’Connor may still be alive, Matt.”
“Kitty the Cutter? Can’t be. I identified the body.”
“You saw her, what? A couple times, and she sliced you with a razor on one of the occasions. Besides, she may have had a … body double.”
The waiter wafted a sampler tray of hot and cold running hors d’oeuvres down on the middle of the table.
“Somehow,” Matt said, “this is not the most appetizing conversation.”
“Dig in or drink up,” Temple warned him; “this is going to be a bumpy night.”
“Why?”
“Max is back.”