Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A White Tie And Tails

“Wait.” Philip put a hand on Matt’s forearm. “You say she loves me?”

“Yes, but we all need to make sure she can put that Romeo and Juliet thing behind her.

“Then…,” Matt said.

The brothers were sliding out of the banquette to make way for Matt and Temple to exit, a mutual expression of dumbfounded hope on their faces. Now they looked like brothers. Temple jammed her feet back in the high heels and prepared to scoot out.

“Then, what?” Jon asked.

“Someone call me in Vegas and let me know what happens. Nice to meet you. Thanks for lunch.” Matt handed out two business cards and took Temple’s elbow to head for the exit.

She was still breathless as they waited for the elevator to the street level. “Wow. Mr. CEO of reconciliation,” Temple said. “That was … like a takeover bid, Matt.”

“I knew it would be all right the moment I saw Philip.”

“He’s a pretty likable guy.”

“That’s not it,” Matt said. “He doesn’t look anything like his brother.”

Temple gazed at him blankly for a few moments.

“Oh. You mean your mother didn’t fall for the family resemblance, but the real man.”

Matt produced a Cheshire cat grin. “Smart girl. You and her.”

* * *

“Our last night in utter Luxe coming up in about six hours,” Temple announce lazily, staring up at the ceiling, which was bordered by white enameled decorative molding on a glossy white surface that discreetly reflected them in bed.

It was not so discreet that it didn’t reveal He and She in the altogether with a tangled sheet in the general vicinity and a big black blot at the foot of the huge mattress.

“We look like Hollywood stars from the bedroom-glamour thirties on the Big White Set,” Temple said, stretching luxuriously. “I feel so Jean Harlow. Bring on the satin sheets tonight! Do you think room service will accommodate us?”

“We just acted like that,” Matt said, rolling over to replace the Big White Ceiling in her view. “We don’t need satin sheets, and we’re running way behind schedule.”

Temple put her hands on his jaws and smiled into his eyes. “You were just so hot, the way you manhandled the situation with the older, richer, guiltier guys. Prince Valiant, only blond. Your mother could not have had a better champion and I could not have been prouder. I love you.”

Well, that comment didn’t exactly make up for any lost time on the getting-ready front, and Louie was forced to flee to the floor again.

* * *

“Dinner.” Temple groaned as they were dressing and duding up for the dinner with the “network people” forty minutes later. “Can one actually tire of five-star food? I crave a simple Happy Meal.”

Temple turned from the suite’s full-length bedroom mirror. “Does this look sufficiently enough like what these guys’ wives would wear?”

Matt peeked in, topless, from the bathroom clasping a buzzing electric razor. “I’m no expert, but that must be an exquisitely expensive suit.”

He eyed the short pale gold silk dress under a bolero jacket with glitz-dusted cuffs.

Temple shimmied her shoulders twice and spun to show off the subtle glitter woven into the outfit’s classic Coco Chanel lines. “I figured your possible future bosses would notice. St. John’s knit.”

“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.