Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Topaz Tango

“Jumping around in that monkey suit must be worse than having shingles,” Rafi said, “but even Molina shut up to watch you. You must be doing something right.”

Matt momentarily shut the unexpectedly brown eyes that made his enhanced blond hair look so electric. “That’s right. This is not radio anymore, Dorothy. Everybody will be watching me. I just ask that my performance be passable, and the kids’ leukemia fund gets lots and lots of money.”

“Don’t let that dance machine hear you say ‘passable,’ ” Temple warned, eyeing Tatyana. “She is a Russian bear down to her size-five jackboots. Besides, you were great! Unbiased reaction from a Goth brat totally unimpressed by anyone and anything. All right?”

“All right,” Matt answered. “You better spread your unbiased sunshine elsewhere for a while, but not on Mr. Leer near the door.”

“He is so lame,” Zoe Chloe said. “Hitting on a teen babe like me. I mean, I go for younger guys, like those Los Hermanos hotties. Speaking of which, I gotta peel to see what the deal is with my crew in the junior division.”

“Mariah okay?” Matt asked, his eyes darting from Temple to Rafi.

“Super,” Zoe answered. “I’m leavin’ my man Raf here to watch all you big, bad boys, and will be hangin’ with my homeys down dressing-room row. Mariah is in her girlie element, believe. I will have her running off with a Hermanos brother before Mama Molina can say ‘Amber Alert.’ ”

“Poor Molina,” Matt said.

“You watch the kid,” Rafi ordered Temple. “This isn’t all fun and games.”

She left them, Rafi standing uneasily by Matt, eyeing the guys being fed and primped down the mirrored line, looking like a visitor from another planet who’d like to level this one.

Wardrobe

Malfunction II

Temple was beginning to understand how proud mothers felt as she sat beside Rafi and Molina on her left and Mariah on her right. This was the real, live show. They’d been asked to view the show on the huge greenroom monitor.

Temple was near the door, so Zoe Chloe could anticipate her entrance and hop up discreetly to take the mike and do emcee duty.

Matt and Glory B. had glided through their opening waltz like a couple atop a wedding cake. Glory B. looked gorgeous in her wedding white gown but Temple wasn’t jealous. Poor Glory B. was too obviously one crazy mixed-up kid to regard as a rival.

In a way, this swaying, smooth, adult dance with Matt was reinventing her before Las Vegas eyes. She clearly adored him, and Temple guessed it was more than his Prince Charming looks, it was the Prince Kind personal attention he gave everyone on his radio call-in show and everyone, period.

He made “nice” seem necessary, as it was in this cold, anxious, raw-edged world. Young women who acted out needed a steadying hand, and Matt was a master at that. Shoot! Zoe Chloe was tearing up; couldn’t have that.

The applause was thunderous, so the judges couldn’t give their opinions for a few moments. Never mind. Danny Dove was beaming like a middle-aged cherub. When he could speak, he was almost giddy with praise, obviously relieved that his personal friend and counselor had acquitted himself well.

“Perfecto. Both of you. Glory be!” he added with a grinning play on the girl’s name. “Discipline becomes you, young lady. You floated like a butterfly, and better yet, like a beautiful, graceful bride. The Viennese waltz should be supernaturally smooth. It was for both of you. And, Matt, you were the perfect partner. The set of the man’s arms and shoulders in formal routines like this is critical and very unnatural to the untrained. Tatyana gave you the ideal frame.”

“Splendid,” said Leander Brock in his turn. “An excellent start to the evening and the show. Matt, your lead was impeccable, but, of course, Glory B. is a bewitching wisp of a thing to steer around. My dear, you were glorious! I expect great things from both of you as the competition continues.”

Glory B. was blushing like the bride she reminded everyone of as she and Matt hugged with relief and glee.

Then it was Savannah Ashleigh’s turn. Temple held her own and Zoe Chloe’s breath. Temple had recently inveigled Matt to moderate a panel Savannah thought she should have had the spotlight on. Would she bear a grudge?

“Well, I don’t usually like waltzes too much,” Savannah began, fanning herself with the judge’s scoring card. “It’s too easy for the girl to get away with sloppy footwork under all those swaying skirts, so I kept my eye exclusively on our friend, Mr. Midnight there, because men can’t get away with anything in pants, if you know what I mean.”

Everyone onstage kept a smile pasted to their faces at the syntax verging on the risqué.

“But his shoulders and his feet were right where they should be every step of the way, and Glory B. did keep up with him well. Nice job.”

Mariah was nudging Temple with excitement, even at the last, lukewarm review. Zoe Chloe, though, had to appear neutral, so she just smiled and nodded.

After the pair tripped hand in hand up the steps—Glory B. was wearing the usual high heels and Temple figured all the men would try to assist their high-heeled partners on the treacherous stairs—the judges flipped up their rating cards. A nine from Danny, an eight from Leander, and a seven from Savannah. Temple guessed she was still a bit miffed, and hoped she’d mellow by routine two tomorrow night, especially if Matt looked like a winner.

Crawford darted forward, mike at his lips.

“Matt Devine and Glory B. waltzed down the aisle into the judges’ and audience’s hearts. Now we’ll see what our second couple, Olivia Phillips and the Cloaked Conjuror, can do.”

The Cloaked Conjuror and Olivia Phillips made a dramatic entrance down the curved staircase in their black and scarlet costumes, and swept into a less agile but still stately waltz.

Only thirty seconds into the routine, crisis struck when Olivia’s red-satin spike heel snarled in the yards of her tulle skirt, almost jerking her backwards off her feet as if she’d been garroted.

The crowd oohed with horror at the impending crisis.

Molina and Rafi leaped to their feet.

Midnight Louie rolled out from Zoe Chloe’s tote bag. He raced out of the greenroom and around the corner to go skating and skidding onto the adjacent dance floor.

Then came one of those amazing, almost Maxlike “saves.”

The Cloaked Conjuror bent at the knees and swept the falling Olivia into his arms, turning with her in a circle, her gown trailing them both like a spectacular comet.

No one had expected the graceful gesture from this huge man in his cumbersome disguise. Everyone in the audience stood then, and whistled and shouted and applauded the potential disaster turned into a magical moment as he set her gently down and they resumed their dance.

That was why these dance competition shows were so popular, Temple mused as she sat again to watch a disgruntled Louie trot back to her. She was sure he had already plotted some dramatic move to save the day . . . and make him the hairy black hero of the hour.

A Maxlike move to save the day and the dance.

And hadn’t that been a Max “save”? Disaster magically changed at the last moment into triumph? Could it be a real Max moment? Both CC and Max at six-foot-four were tall and virtually interchangeable, and magicians. Anybody could hide under the Cloaked Conjuror costuming—any body—and CC’s separate dressing room to conceal his identity and increase his security could also cover a switch.

Max had always said naked was the best disguise. The Cloaked Conjuror was a friend of his. A switch would be easy, and Max could move faster and dance better than CC any day.