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

"Maybe you had better not try writing a romance. You don't make sense when you get excited, and that's fatal in the sex scenes."

"Fine," said Temple. "I'm more interested in fatalities than sex at the moment, anyway. Now let's find Electra so we can watch this show get on the road."

Kit kept meek silence as they do-si-doed around the room, stopping whenever someone recognized Kit or, more likely, the pseudonym on her name badge.

"Sulah Savage! I love your books!" the typical greeting would begin, an approach guaranteed to put a seraphic smile on the face of the hailed author. "When's the next 'Love's Inquisition' book coming out? I loved Reynaldo's story."

"My Spanish epic," Kit murmured modestly to Temple as they moved on, leaving an excited fan in their wake flashing Kit's phony signature at all her friends.

"Doesn't it feel funny to sign a made-up name?" Temple asked.

"Heavens no! I made it up myself. Besides, it's like playing a role.

When I appear as Sulah Savage, I'm in character as Sulah Savage. It's liberating to have an official alter ego."

"This is all about role-playing, isn't it?" Temple said.

"I told you, this is bookselling. Hype. Theater."

"Maybe the murderer was playing a role too. Or Cheyenne was. One he hadn't counted on playing."

"Of course Cheyenne was playing a role. That was his job."

"His job." Temple thought about that too. "I need to see more of what a cover hunk's job is like."

"Well, forget that for now and grab a chair, because Electra has been nice enough to save a couple seats at that table just ahead, and I hear the podium mike being tested by amateurs." A horrible screeching momentarily froze the assemblage before fading. "Showtime!"

"I've got to work on a good pseudonym," Electra said as soon as they sat down. "I've been talking to readers and they all say the name is very important."

"Electra Lark is a fabulous pen name!" Kit argued indignantly. "Not so long it will run off a book cover, but different as well as pretty."

"Everybody says it sounds like a pseudonym." Electra took a heartfelt slurp through the straw in her Blue Hawaii. "Besides, it isn't alliterative."

"All that alliteration is regarded as hokey today," Kit said. "You forget that I've been doing this for ages. I'd never use Sulah Savage now, but it's too late."

"What were you thinking of using?" Temple asked Electra.

"I've always wanted to be a Vivian."

"Well," Kit said, "we all know I didn't want to be an Ursula." She eyed Temple. "Did you ever cherish visions of another name?"

Since Temple Kinsella was the only speculating Temple had ever done in that area, and it was hardly a harmonious name, or appropriate to mention now, she kept quiet. Then some imp of unconscious invention put the name Temple Devine in her head. She swallowed her wine wrong, laughing the entire time as Kit and Electra pounded her on the back.

On the low, long staging area, spotlights were brightening.

"I think I'd keep Temple Barr," she whispered when she could talk again.

They both nodded, no longer interested, eyes focused on the narrow area of light in the darkened ballroom.

There followed the usual opening ceremony rituals at conferences everywhere, only with a romance novel twist. The president of G.R.O.W.L. welcomed the authors and readers. The president of Fabrizio's fan club came up and presented him with a sterling flacon for his new cologne, "Macho Man."

"Temple's been picked up by him," Kit leaned across her to tell Electra.

"No!" Electra leaned across Temple from the other side. "I've heard that he accosts women in elevators." She frowned. "I've also heard that he really doesn't care for women at all. So I guess both rumors can't be true."

By the time the two had finished hashing over Breezy's inclinations and/or lack of them, the model himself was gone, golden locks, silver flacon and all that muscle.

By the time Temple had realized that there was something very different about this opening ceremony--all the officials at the mike were women--the few obligatory speeches were over.

Another woman bathed in the spotlight, only she had the Barbie-doll hair for it. Temple blinked, and then a breathy monotone hyperventilated into the microphone.

"Ladies and ... ladies. And laddies." She glanced coyly to her left. Temple could just see the shining crowns of a long line of male models.

"Oh, no," Temple moaned to her wine glass.

"My official duties don't begin until the pageant Saturday night, but I'm proud and pleased to introduce the contestants." A furious rustling of papers came over the mike.

"Who is she?" Kit was asking, dumbfounded.

"Looks like we didn't listen to the introduction. That has to be Las Vegas's version of Norma Desmond, the film star Savannah Ashleigh."

Beside her, Electra jolted into life from a long reverie. "That's it. My pseudonym. Great name."

"You can't use it, Electra. It's already her pseudonym, whatever her real name was."

"And besides," Kit put in consolingly, "it's much too long for a book cover. I've never heard of her,"

she added.

"You're lucky. I had to interview her during the Stripper Killer case. I would have gotten more, and more sensible information, out of her cat Yvette."

"Yvette? For a cat?"

"You should see it. A Persian, of course, a silver thistledown with tiny little teeth and claws. She keeps it in a pink canvas carrier."

"Savannah Ashleigh did what in a pink canvas carrier?" Electra demanded.

"Never mind. We better hush up while she's talking. I guess that's what you call it."

With another wicked giggle, this time shared with Kit, Temple settled down to serious listening. A clue might pop out from the mouths of babes. It was possible.

The mouth of this babe, though, continued to stumble over the models' names and vital statistics.

Perhaps Savannah needed reading glasses and was too vain to use them. Or perhaps she had never been able to read and talk at the same time.

Once called, the men bounded onto stage with the same eagerness as if they were about to be introduced to Sharon Stone. Confident, charming, each with a prepared off-the-cuff comment, they made Savannah Ashleigh look like the aspiring performer.

Female heads nodded approval all over the room, and each contestant was ushered off with enthusiastic applause, especially the blond-white-haired surfer male nurse who flung heart-shaped wrapped candies into the audience.

While the audience was sizing up the men for the coming contest, Temple was watching and listening with different criteria in mind. Any bit of background suggestive? Any link to Cheyenne? No one's biography mentioned the stripper contest, but that wouldn't be something they'd emphasize. Although most of them were professional or aspiring models and actors, they didn't want to project too raunchy an image before this house of middle-American women.

Temple contemplated the fact that these men walked a fine line. Yes, they were sex objects. Yes, they had to court and charm convention attendees in order to succeed and win followings. But they also had taken care not to cross over into any behavior that could be considered sexual harassment.

That was a charge that female sex objects didn't have to worry about.

Not all the men were pros. Some were dedicated amateurs. Those with everyday professions were particularly applauded: chiropractor, car salesman and lawyer (he was hissed first and then applauded).

Those with perceived sexy job descriptions, cop and forest ranger, were hailed with roof-raising hoots and applause.

"It's nice they have under-forty and over-forty age categories," Electra commented between introductions.

"Thirty-three," Temple said contemplatively.

"No, dear. Thirty-three isn't the break point, though it would be as good a place as any."