Douglas, Nelson - Midnight Louie 05-Cat in a Diamond Dazzle

Electronic flashes exploded along the registration line, but a hotter, more dazzling light went nova on the sidelines. Temple knew that blinding brilliance from days of old, though at that time she had been the tormenter hiding behind it.

"Looks like America's favorite male cover model, Fabrizio, has found a maiden fair already." Crawford Buchanan's oozing baritone rose from beyond the nebula of wattage. "How does it feel, miss, to be where every woman in America wants to be? How does it feel to be in the great Fabrizio's arms?"

The great Fabrizio was nuzzling her neck and swinging his gilded locks into her nose, which itched.

"Like ... like, my friend Flicka," Temple said brightly. To the Great Fabrizio, she was less creative. "I have a terrible fear of heights," she murmured fretfully. "I may be sick to my stomach any second. Put me down."

She emphasized her wishes by doing what she would try with an errant horse who had rudely cantered off with her. She kicked him in the washboard belly with one long, sharp spur of high heel.

"Oof." Fabrizio swung her to the floor faster than a square-dancing partner. But he was still grinning.

Apparently huge size muffled the sense of feeling. So much for the sensitive nineties kind of guy.

Women had deserted their places in line to cluster around the monument in their midst, squeezing Temple out of the picture, thank God. All of them carried black canvas bags emblazoned with the hot-pink letters of G.R.O.W.L., which made them seem quite fierce.

"Quick!" Electra's foot nudged their piled luggage forward over the smooth marble floor. "We can slip ahead in the line."

"Don't you want to stay here and ogle Fabrizio?" Temple wondered in a hoarse whisper.

Electra cast an interested look over her shoulder and past her swinging earrings. "Too much competition right now. He certainly liked you."

"I was easy to pick on and pick up. Look, there goes another one."

A slender woman with long, braided hair, wearing a country-print smock, was giggling in the grasp of Fabrizio. More electronic flashes popped as more women deserted the line to ooh and ahhh.

"Bet he won't pick up that one." Electra jerked her head to a heavyset woman in an olive-green jogging suit painted from wrist to ankle with violets. "You're right. That big galoot doesn't tax his torso unnecessarily."

"It's probably insured by Lloyd's of London against sudden hair growth, yellow waxy buildup and drool," Temple said wickedly. "I already regret being here," she added as they stepped up to the registration desk

"Maybe, but imagine what the boys back at the Circle Ritz will think if they happen to catch Hot Heads tonight."

"Never happen," Temple predicted with confidence. "Matt will be on the job at ConTact by ten-thirty P.M., and who knows where Max will be? Not before his nearest television set, I'll wager."

Temple felt odd about checking into the Crystal Phoenix. In their eighth-floor room, she and Electra took turns hanging up their duds. Electra had whipped articles out of Temple's closet without waiting for their owner's advice and consent. And, in truth, Temple didn't much care what she wore.

She threw herself tummy-down on the window-side double bed and began leafing through the usual tourist attraction guide. "I almost never see these things. Maybe it'll give me a clue to the whereabouts of the shoes."

"You're not going to gallivant all over Las Vegas and miss half the convention, I hope," Electra said, laying out an impressive arsenal of hair products on the long dressing table surface between bathroom and bedroom. Temple had enthused about the Midnight Louie shoes all the way over in the car.

"Maybe, this really isn't my thing. I only came along to use your extra ticket."

"Then maybe you could hop down and pick up our registration materials while I finish unpacking."

Temple glimpsed Electra wrestling a cloud of chiffon and glitter into the narrow closet. It seemed to be dueling the brocaded train of her lavender velvet Renaissance gown for privilege of place.

"Okay." She pulled the wallet on a string from her tote bag, made sure she had the room entry card, then headed down to the ballroom floor.

Electra was humming happily off-key as she left.

This "getaway," Temple mused in the familiar elevator on the way down, was more for Electra's sake than hers. Presiding at weddings night and day must become quite a grind. No wonder Electra was a dedicated romance reader, given her profession. Seeing all those dewy couples must create an artificially sweetened view of life, love and lust.

More women melded in the ballroom lobby, swamping the registration table. Luckily, the designation A-L was less lightly patronized than M-Z. Temple slipped into line and shuffled forward dutifully. At first she tried to decide if crowd control could be improved by any rearrangement of the premises. She had, after all, a big stake in the Phoenix's operations now that she was its official updating consultant. Then she found herself concentrating on fragments of conversation.

"I love those big, bad boys."

"Too juvenile. I'll take the strong, silent type."

"Alpha males are where it's at, ladies."

"But not on the covers. Beefcake is boring."

"Oh, look! There's Sharon Rose. Hold my place in line."

At a side table, authors were displaying promotional materials for their books. Temple didn't recognize any of the women, though her line-mates certainly did.

"Shannon Little," a nearby voice whispered reverently. "The Lightning Lord Saga."

Temple realized that Shannon Little must be the spectacularly large woman attired totally in purple, down to the ostrich-plume pen she carried like a wimpy scepter. She was fanning out a sheaf of four-color posters when another woman made a beeline for her.

"Where are my promo materials?" the newcomer asked. "I put them out half an hour ago."

"Oh, I adjusted the layout," Shannon Little said with vague, airy waves of her pudgy fingers and fluffy pen. "Everyone expects to see my books here in front, next to my dear friend Misty Meadows."

Even Temple recognized that name. Misty Meadows was such a perennial bestselling author that she had starred in a memorable TV ad. The ad, which supposedly showed her relaxing at home, featured a site that resembled Kensington Palace and gardens.

"You just swept my stuff away?" The other author was younger, smaller and more polite than Little, but equally unidentifiable to Temple

"Surely you don't mind?" Shannon Little sounded ever so slightly put upon. "Misty and I always display together."

"Misty's stuff was already out when I came and used the available space for mine. If I can find another free spot, I'll move, but--"

"Never mind!" Shannon Little swept her flyers into a ragged pile. I'll go someplace else if I must."

A slight woman with hip-length brown hair glided serenely past the tense scene.

"Misty Meadows," murmured a woman ahead of Temple in line.

Temple eyed the famous bestseller: middle-aged, middle-sized, well-dressed and totally oblivious to her "dear friend" Shannon Little.

The territory-defending author pulled her materials from the jumbled pile at the table's rear and began laying them out--again. Shannon Little sailed away like a Spanish galley, ponderous and stiff, her flyers clutched against her generous purple bosom, which had nothing in common with her selfish spirit.

Temple heard a wave of chuckles agitate the women around her.

"La Little got caught making too much of herself again," the woman behind her muttered.

"You must be a veteran of these things," Temple said, turning with a smile. She was startled to find herself eye to eye with the woman. Usually she had to look up. So she looked down. Yup, the woman was wearing high heels, too. Hallelujah, another shrimp on stilts in the world! Let's hear it for "littles"