Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Topaz Tango

“I don’t know how you walk in these things,” Matt said, complying.

“Years of being a shrimp and suffering.”

He smiled and moved her other foot from his lap to his shoulder. “For a shrimp you have some provocative moves.”

“For an ex-priest, you catch on fast.”

They grinned at each other. Then yawned.

“That was a rough twenty-four hours in the desert,” Matt commented, “then the big wedding ceremony came right after it.”

“You were the kidnapping victim,” she pointed out. “I was only a member of the rescue party.”

“I wasn’t the target. I was just along for the ride.”

“And what a ride! Murder in a Nevada cathouse. It may not have been in Vegas proper, but it would sure make a great movie. Eight vengeful women, eight captive groomsmen, assorted associates, almost all of the last identifiable mob “family” in Clark County. Uzis, limos, hookers.”

“Not likely for my bachelor party,” Matt said, laughing. “I hardly know anybody here.”

“You’d be surprised, buddy. I think the Fontana boys plan on doing just that when we finally do get hitched.”

“No, a fate worse than a Vegas wedding with Elvis,” Matt said, still laughing, and then tickling the bare soles of Temple’s feet to make her join in.

She was easy and giggled away on cue. “Stop that! I’m really ticklish!”

He was no fun. He stopped, then frowned. “I really don’t know about committing to that charity fund-raiser for all of next week.”

“You wouldn’t bow out?”

“Ballroom dancing isn’t exactly in my résumé.”

“Just why you need to brush up before we do the wedding waltz at our reception. Not to mention you’re committed to taking Mariah Molina to her freshman father-daughter dance in high school this fall.”

Matt groaned at the reminder. “I have a lot of sympathy for single working moms rearing a teenage daughter, but who named me proxy daddy of the week? And Mariah’s in that embarrassing hero worship of older guys stage.”

“Who’s more embarrassed, you or her?”

“Me. Teen girls don’t get embarrassed, they embarrass everybody else. I’m already freaked. This Dancing With the Stars wanna-be show isn’t all wedding waltzes and dad-daughter shuffles. Those ballroom routines can be pretty risqué.”

“You’re out of the priesthood, Matt. You can do risqué. And kids today want dads who can rock out in the school auditorium like cool dudes. Doesn’t Ambrosia think it’d be good for your radio career?”

“Ambrosia’s in favor of anything that makes me a visual. She believes the world wants a Web presence, a Facebook profile, a YouTube persona, rather than just a voice in the night.”

“Let’s face it. Ambrosia knows how to market radio today. You make a socko visual. Remember that billboard of you on the red suede couch? I sure do! Blond, handsome, and horizontal.”

“Yeah, and all those screaming fan girls.” He made a face. It didn’t hurt his looks a bit.

“Ambrosia’s your producer. Your ‘Midnight Hour’ is syndicated in a lot of major markets, but there are more to be won over. You can go farther than the usual radio shrink, maybe become the next Dr. Phil.”

“Spare me.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“That’s what I get with an ace PR woman as a fiancée. P.T. Barr -num. Dr. Phil’s avuncular act is not only bullying, but superficial. I hope my ‘Midnight Hour’ digs a bit deeper.”

“It does.” Temple’s voice lowered to a dramatic whisper. “You are the most insightful, sincere, and sexy guy on the airwaves. Dr. Phil should be quaking in his Big and Tall Man suits.”

“Dr. Phil isn’t a dancing bear.”

“You won’t be a dancing bear.”

“I’ve been rehearsing already, so don’t bet on that.”

“ Ooh . Who’s your teacher?”

Matt hesitated. “No six-feet-tall Strip chorus girls to steer around the floor, thank goodness. Most female proballet and ballroom dancers are petite. She’s a brunette.”

“Should look dramatic with your fair coloring.”

“She’s the dramatic type, all right, but she’s just the instructor. I’ll actually perform with the other celebrities.”

“Don’t glower. Men are so afraid of a little social dancing. Look at all those macho athletes who aced Dancing With the Stars . Football players, Olympic skaters.”

“Temple, my only ‘sport’ is swimming. Not exactly a couple’s pursuit. Besides. You overlook the sleaze factor. The winning ballroom dancers are all sexy.”

“And you’re not?” she asked indignantly.

“Not for a mass media audience.”

“Nonsense! This will be good for you,” she decreed, “and good exposure for your show.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“You can practice your new steps with me. That’ll give you an edge. Extra rehearsal time.”

“Sorry. All my free time must be devoted to rehearsal eight to ten hours a day with La Tatyana. Given my night-owl working sched, I’ll have no time or energy for fiancées.”

“Tatyana?”

“You can talk Dancing With the Stars, but you obviously don’t watch the show closely enough.”

“Guilty,” Temple admitted. “I’m too busy to catch a weekly TV show, but I’ve seen clips.”

“Most of the pro dancers are Russian. I guess the baton has passed and the great Russian dancers of today have gone from ballet to samba.”

“So what’s Tat-y an -ah like?” Temple asked, deciding it was time to flex her possessiveness.

Matt winced. “A Gestapo officer in rehearsal and a Lolita on stage.”

“Heavily bipolar. Sounds more like a blue movie than a dance contest. I’ll have to come to the broadcast every night of the competition to act as bodyguard.”

“I’m more worried about missing a step than any domineering sexpot.”

“‘Domineering sexpot.’ Now there’s a role I could aspire to.”

“Don’t even try.” Matt tousled her luxuriant red-gold curls. “Sexy sprite is my speed.”

Temple laughed and snuggled into his arms, glad to have Matt in her life and a subdued version of her natural fiery red hair color back after having a blond bleach job foisted on her for an assignment.

Into this premarital merriment a large black shadow descended.

Midnight Louie lofted over the sofa back onto their semitwined laps, earning protests.

“Louie! You weigh a ton,” Temple said. “Off!”

Matt hefted the big cat with one hand under his belly and set him on a sofa arm. “He must be protesting being left out of the wedding plans.”

“Oh,” Temple cooed, “Louie was so cute as the ring bearer wearing that black bow tie collar with the ring box attached.”

“You could see he hated the bow tie as much as I would, but he did relish center stage, as usual.”

“You’ll have to do ring bearer act again for our wedding, Louie,” Temple threatened her feline roommate.

He showed his fangs but stifled a hiss of contempt and jumped down to the parquet floor.

“I sometimes think he’s trying to come between us,” Matt said with a frown Temple found adorable.

Matt must have driven women and girls crazy when he was in the priesthood, Temple thought, enjoying watching her beloved interact with her panther-personality alpha tomcat. He’d kill ’em on Dancing With the Celebs. He was classically good-looking in a blond, matinee-idol way. That he never used it made his charm even more devastating.

But looks were deceiving, as usual. Matt’s unhappy childhood, first with a beaten-down unwed mother and then with an abusive stepfather, had driven him to become the perfect “Father Matt” he’d never had. He liked the anonymity of radio. She was hoping the dance competition would bring out his extroverted side.