Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A White Tie And Tails

“Sure.” Krys sounded stunningly unenthusiastic. “Why shouldn’t I shop and schlep for the cat? I’m an artist. I have no money, but all the time in the world.”

Matt’s hand lighted on the briar rose tattoo on Krys’s right wrist. “We’d really appreciate that, and it’s in a good cause: to get the cat out of your hair and apartment.”

That was the magic touch. She melted. “ He’s all right. Just the usual spotlight hog.”

Temple did not miss noticing it was much easier for Krys to accept her cat than to accept her as Matt’s fiancée.

Family matters! She and Matt were getting a double dose of it tomorrow and finishing up the day by dining with network executives.

All Temple wanted was to get her boys back from Chicago and on the trail of Cliff Effinger and a shopping list of other Las Vegas cold cases that would finally get those she loved out of clear and present danger, including Midnight Louie.

Chapter 25

Angst à la Carte

Temple appreciated one advantage of living in a city like Las Vegas with its spine of world-class hotel-casinos and shopping and entertainment. She could walk into a five-star Chicago hotel for lunch with awkward relatives or relatives-to-be—or dinner with network execs—and feel not one whit intimidated.

Minneapolis–St. Paul had been the metropolitan oasis for all the Upper Midwest states of the Dakotas, Minnesota, Iowa, and Wisconsin, but Vegas mimicked the crème de la crème of the country and the world.

She hadn’t realized that before and knew now that she owed that confidence to Vegas moguls Steve Wynn and company and … Max Kinsella.

Matt had always been a “people” person like her, and despite the evolution he’d worked through, his innate interest in other people and the common good would always allow him to mix equally well with the high and mighty and small and meek.

But personal business offered more emotional minefields than business-business, so Temple linked arms with Matt as they moved through the lavish Water Tower Place toward the elevators to the hotel high above Chicago’s Miracle Mile.

“Do you look like your dad?” she asked.

“Not yet,” he answered wryly. “We’ll see what the male-pattern baldness odds are on that side of the gene pool if we ever glimpse his brother.”

“They’re … uneasy with each other?”

“Who knows? This is pioneering territory. I doubt either one of them can appreciate what my mother went through.”

“You too.” She shook his arm slightly.

“I’m the mediator here. My issues are off the table.”

“Can you do that, Matt?”

“Supposed to be good at it.” He smiled and folded her hand into his as they waited for the elevator. “Your presence will lower the territorial testosterone.”

“I see. I’m a mother substitute here.”

“Kinda.” He grinned. “You’re a very versatile woman. These midlife men will be on their best behavior in front of a hot young chick like you.”

“You’ve planned all this out.”

“Darn right. On the radio I have to improvise. It’s made me adaptable under pressure. On TV or here, I’ll need an underlying plan, to be more in control. The producers and I have talked about that. The audience needs to identify with both the host and guests.”

“‘The producers and I,’” she whispered affectionately in the elevator as they streaked up at stomach-swooping speed. “I feel like I’m engaged to Prince William.”

“Now, that’s a male-pattern baldness family history I’d rather not have for all the jewels in the Tower of London. Also the paparazzi. Kate Middleton is a brave woman.”

“Oh, you’ll get the paparazzi, brother,” Temple said.

By then the maître d’ was showing them over a carpet where the soft hush of hundred-dollar bills falling had been replaced by the sweet chime of seventeen-hundred-dollar-an-ounce gold rings clinking against the finest French crystal.

A stocky blond man stood at Temple’s arrival for Matt’s introduction.

“Miss Temple Barr, this is Jonathan Winslow.” Matt waited for them to shake hands.

Then the waiter pulled out Temple’s chair and—as waiters everywhere did, from pretentious low-end to plushest high-end—pushed it in not quite far enough for a woman as short as she. Darn! On this thick carpet, trying to inch the seat forward would be more awkward than a father and his bastard son having lunch together, which, double darn, was happening right under her nose.

“Temple owns a PR business in Las Vegas, including the Crystal Phoenix account,” Matt told his father, “and her problem-solving talents sometimes extend to murder.”

His father’s snow white eyebrows lifted above the reading glasses he’d donned. “Murder she wrote. How interesting as well as attractive. I’m a garden-variety businessman, I’m afraid. No special talents except managing the money other people made before me.”

“Sounds like a good trick these days,” Temple said.

“I’m delighted to meet the lovely Miss Barr. May I call you Temple?” he asked. “I really like the name. I have a daughter named Torrence.”

“Of course. What does Matt call you?” Temple asked.

The men’s exchanged looks went from surprised to rueful.

Matt answered, “We’ve managed to avoid addressing that issue so far. I’m Matt, of course, being younger.”

“And I’m Jon,” his father said. “I travel in circles where nothing is abbreviated, including names, and I’m damn weary of being Jonathan.”

Temple decided “Jon” was a clever diplomatic way to find a “special” name for just Matt to use, skirting any adoption of a role—“Dad”—both would regret and couldn’t use in front of others anyway.

“Jon without an h. ” She almost tasted the spelling. No unnecessary elements. “It suits you, Mr. Winslow.”

“And you will now use it forthwith, Temple?”

“Of course, Jon. As a PR person I’m a great believer in the right name for the right occasion.” Actually, her using the familiar form of address before Matt did would help ease him into the new relationship.

Meanwhile, their water glasses had been swiftly and silently filled by the technique of pouring from the ewer’s side, not its spout. The spa water bottle remained on the table for refills.

Temple had worn her highest heels, the David Letterman female-star strutters that were pretty much as hobbling as bound feet … and still the linen napkin wanted to slide off her lap. The “lovely Miss Barr” could use bib clip.

“I think drinks are in order,” Jon suggested when the waiter reappeared.

The drink menu was an abridged version of War and Peace between an obesely padded leather jacket.

Temple ordered an obscenely expensive glass of white wine whose vintage and vintner she didn’t recognize. Jon ordered single-malt scotch, the kind Max favored. Matt surprised her by asking for a Bombay gin martini.

“Unfortunately,” Temple said of her wine, “I’m the designated walker.”

“Yes.” Jon grinned. “What is with the women wearing all these extreme high heels? They can’t be comfortable.”

“Temple’s always been a footwear connoisseur,” Matt said. “Don’t worry. She works at home in bare feet most of the time.”

“In my case,” Temple added, “I got the short stick in the genetics lottery. Also, the heels make excellent defensive weapons.”

“It’d be better to run,” Matt said.

The menus came next, just as padded as the liquor ones but larger. They all studied them as if needing to pass a test.

“You are my guests, of course,” Jon said. “So how are you?” he asked Matt. “How’s the trip business going?”