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

Temple tried to peer over the top of the clipboard the woman was consulting, but she whisked it out of view.

"If you haven't bothered to find out," she said sternly, "it's too late now."

"No, it isn't. Look, can't I just see what costumes the guys might be wearing, so I could figure who I'm likely to work with?"

Her white hair, cropped close to her head, shimmied as she indicated no, but Temple edged to the side to read the paper clipped on top anyway.

"Oh, all the guys have little titles too," Temple cooed. "Such a clever idea."

"I can't have great long lines of costume description, can I, and still end up with one sheet for thirty-three guys? Here's one you might be a match for: Mr. Romeo."

"Renaissance Italy," Temple said, nodding. She peeked further down the roster. "And Mr.

Lancelot, that's mine. I imagine that some of these guys must be wearing gloves."

"Gloves? Whatever for?"

"Accurate period costume."

"In all my days as a pageant Wardrobe Witch, I have never heard anything so funny." She put her head back and roared, displaying a filling-free mouthscape of false teeth.

"No ... gloves?"

"No, my dear. They'd get in the way during the pose-down-- and, besides, the audience wants to see as much of the contestants as the law allows. Gloves don't quite fit the bill."

"Oh. I suppose mail gloves would be a little chilly." Temple shivered daintily.

"Don't you worry, Miss Melisande. No gloves, no gauntlets." The woman ran an expert eye up and down the two-column list. Then she frowned. "Except--"

"Except?"

"Well, he's way ahead of your period anyway, so I wouldn't worry."

"What period is he?"

"Viking raider. He goes with that ferrety girl in the see-through chiffon."

"But he wears gloves?"

"The only one, and only one glove, like Michael."

"Michael, that's his name?"

"No! Like Michael Jackson." The woman held up a fist, spread her fingers and pantomimed pulling on a glove. "Only his glove isn't white, it's black. Black leather. Because of the bird."

"The bird." Temple was really lost now.

"The bird. He's supposed to come on with this hawk on his wrist. So he needs the glove. Keeps it backstage, or rather that PR girl of his does, all hooded. Not her, the hawk. Kind of creepy. Haven't you noticed the cage?"

Temple shook her head numbly.

The costume lady smiled, certain and satisfied. "That's the only guy with a glove. The Birdman, so to speak. And he won't be in your vignette, not unless you move back a century or two, or he moves forward, and the pageant isn't a time-travel novel."

"Who?" Temple asked patiently.

"Who? Who what?"

"Who," she repeated, beginning to sound like another bird of prey, an owl, "who is dressing for pose-down as a Viking raider?"

"Why the big blond, of course. Fabrizio."

Fabrizio. Of course.

Chapter Interlude

It's Hystery!

Deadlines, deadlines.

That word is so appropriate for this convention of happy, dancing G.R.O.W.L.ers, now that someone has knocked one of those over advertised hunks out of the running.

But murder is not my game; romance is. I'll give those contest judges something to growl about. Now it's time to pull out all the stops and make some organ music here. Sensual scene, coming up! Millions, here I come. Ye old Demon Dagger had better get to it.

The Demon Dagger of Devonshire leaped into the carriage and ordered the bound and gagged driver to make haste to

Can that driver drive bound and gagged? Sure. Reins aren't much to hold, just some leather straps.

Where to? Ah . . .

Dover by morning!

"My relatives will hunt you down, Sir," the fair Arianiola warned, "for this impertinence."

"You will be sorry if they do."

"Oh, and why is that?"

"Because, my charming renegade, I am about to change your life, to sweep you to the stars."

With that, he

Just how far can we go here? Better scan a couple more sex scenes from some of these hot numbers over here. Let's see . . . talk, talk, talk . . . escape. . . more talk. . . servants talking -- hey, where s the boudoir business when you need it? You re falling down on the job, ladies. Come on, inspire me. A kiss, for three paragraphs? Get real. Okay, I'll show you how to do it.

With that, he grasped Ariania's shoulder and smashed her into his manly arms. Instantly she responded to the awesome masculine charisma that radiated from the muscular form of the Demon Dagger of Devonshire. She was a wildcat. She began purring and spitting in pretended disgust, but the Demon Dagger knew what effect his physique had on women of all kinds, from tavern wench to top-drawer duchess.

Soon she was gasping and undoing the buttons on his

Is it doublet in this period? Why not?

doublet. Meanwhile the Dagger thrust his powerful tongue into her mouth, causing her to moan.

And still the carriage driven by the bound and gagged driver drove on through the night, as lightning snarled in the sky and fireworks exploded on the cushions within.

Ariana had no chance. She was putty

Did they have putty then? Dont want to strain the judges' credulity here.

in his maddeningly sensuous hands, and soon he had worked her clothes into a lumpy pile on the carriage floor, as his own soon joined them, and they were joined in a jolting, mad dash over the moors.

Finally he had mercy on her and revealed the mightiest weapon in his arsenal. She seemed much impressed, if not surprised. And so the wild ride went, in a hurtle of two hearts through the night, two bodies twined by impetuous desire and true love found on the floor of the Baron's best carriage.. ..

When the moon was a pale an albino pumpkin in the dawn, the carriage rested at the brink of the white cliffs of Dover, the steeds weary and drooping, the sweet Arianail weary, the Demon Dagger of Dover drooping. The confiscated coachman had long since tumbled to some wayside rest, and the lovers lay happy and satisfied in each other's arms.

Bluebirds swept up into the clouds as the waves crashed on the shore below, and the Demon Dagger's vengeful heart knew peace for the first time in years, now that the carriage had stopped, the impetuous passion had lulled, and the lovely Ariania was safe in his arms. She was forever safe from his vengeance now, if not from his charms.

How do I end one of these scenes? Or a so-called "proposal, " for that matter? Hey, the dawn is good enough. The next chapter can always start with tomorrow. Now to run it through spellcheck, and make sure the dumb broad's name is spelled the same way twice. Think I'II do the next one in real time.

Chapter 30

Undressed Rehearsal

From the wings, the Incredible Hunk pageant set looked almost as imposing as the MGM Grand's Emerald City layout.

White pillars recalling the glory that was Rome towered over a squat medieval arch of rough gray stone. Next to Gothicland stood Westernworld, represented by the crude wooden supports of a livery stable, complete with haystack. The late Cheyenne's pageant getup, and his horse, would have been in clover here.

Temple studied the construction from the rear, then promptly nicknamed the three pose-down settings "the Good, the Bad and the Ugly" from left to right: first the vaguely celestial soaring white columns; the definitely down and dirty gray stone keep; and finally a barn scene about as romantic as a roll in the barbed wire.

Temple saw that her vaguely medieval costume (and the lamb-to-the-slaughter in it) doomed her to the creepy Gothic dungeon. Lacey's sleazy harem silks fit the schizophrenic associations of faux white marble: classical purity versus the decadence that was ancient Rome. Quincey, the gilt-edged saloon girl, would inherit the haymow. Temple didn't envy her comfort quotient.