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

Danny had been forced to fill in her pose-down program with a couple of odd hunks. Very odd, she thought. Why was this guy just lying on top of her like a weight, no wonder she couldn't breathe!

" La Rossa ," the impinging hunk whispered in a strange voice. Oh, no! Why had Danny let Fabrizio, of all hunks, into her safe cage of Fontana brothers?

His features twisted with some extraordinary emotion. "I-- sorry."

He dam well should be sorry, Temple thought in rising panic.

His hands rested on her shoulders, thumbs pressing against her neck. One dug into her carotid artery until she could feel her pulse bucking under the fleshy pad.

His mouth hung over hers, a smothering not-quite-kiss.

But she still couldn't breathe! And he didn't know it. He could crush her to death with clumsy theatrics!

Then his hands tightened around her neck, huge hands that had promised to pick her up and never drop her. Her back slid half-off the window seat. Still she was trapped in an airless silence, her rib cage crushed by the hot, heavy weight of Fabrizio's three-thousand-dollar chest.

She felt her throat arching back in the long, flowing line so beloved of romance cover artists, the pose that always reminded Temple of a woman in extremis, not ecstasy.

Now that she was in that exact position herself, she could ... not . . . breathe . .. ever again. And Fabrizio thought he was so sexy, his hammy hands on her throat, his hot breath panting into her mouth!

He was killing her. He. Was. Killing. Her.

The hands tightened, with palpable purpose. Fabrizio's too-close blue eyes squinted shut in a face his perpetual tan had deserted.

Black spots danced before Temple's eyes. From staring up at the spotlights . . . no, she didn't see spotlights or any light at all, just black spots and a narrowing tunnel of vision, tunnel vision, with a bright light at the end, like so many near-death experiences. ... No!

Temple twisted, fought to fall off the ledge that half-held her, to slither out from under the crushing weight, to escape the hands circling her throat. Fought to breathe! Fabrizio grunted in his own battle to seal off all breath forever, as if he were a Samson whose strength was ebbing. But she felt his long hair brush her shoulders. He was invincible. ...

One gasping inhalation took ragged hold. Rushing air dried her oxygen-starved throat and lungs as it drew deep into her chest, then reversed itself and burst outward with a rapid whoosh.

The shuddered breath, violent as a dry heave, jolted Fabrizio's hands loose. Temple inhaled again, another wrenching spasm of her entire torso, like giving birth. Giving breath. As she exhaled a turbulent hiccough, she twisted her body with all the life-fighting might in her.

Fabrizio tumbled to the stage floor on his back. Temple pushed herself up on one arm. She hung gasping above him, the ends of her long false locks mixing with the corona of yellow hair around his surprised face. No matter the embarrassment, he deserved it.

A few false crimson strands pooled on Fabrizio's smooth, golden chest. Some even curled around the knife hilt pressed tight against his washboard stomach.

Now that Temple could scream, she didn't dare.

The lights dimmed on cue.

Luckily, someone had glimpsed something amiss. Someone with power.

"Lights full up, dammit!" Danny yelled like an oncoming berserker.

Feet clumped toward them from all directions, but Temple still couldn't talk yet, and Fabrizio--?

Fabrizio wouldn't ever hear again.

Chapter 31

Murderous Suspicion

"I suppose you'll claim self-defense," Lieutenant Molina suggested sweetly.

Actually, Temple just pretended that Lieutenant Molina had spoken sweetly. Any other interpretation was too scary.

"He tried to strangle me," she said hoarsely, in her turn.

"So you killed him in self-defense, with a dagger you just happened to have in your garter."

"I don't know where the garter--the dagger--came from, but I know it must have been in his chest when he got to me."

"Then someone killed him before he could kill you."

"I suppose that person or persons unknown could claim credit for saving my life."

"Why would this"--Molina glanced at her notebook and sighed--"Fab-rizz-io want to kill you?"

"Maybe because I mispronounced his name."

"How is it said?"

"Fabreezio, as in Breezy."

"Why would this Fabreeezio want to kill you?"

"I don't know, but I do know that he went out of his way to do it. He wasn't supposed to be in my area. Danny Dove would never have assigned him to me--" Temple broke off.

"Because," Molina continued implacably, "according to witnesses, Fabrizio has picked on you since the conference started."

"He picked me up; there's a difference."

"You hated his attentions, though."

"But not enough to skewer him like a prosciutto ham. Besides, when he first landed on me, he knocked my breath out. I was ... paralyzed. I couldn't do anything."

"So you suspect that he was stabbed offstage, like Charlie Moon, then stumbled out in the dark, not fully aware of what had happened. Therefore, he could have arrived at your ... stand ... accidentally."

Temple raised her eyebrows expressively. "Or he could have meant to kill me and, like Cheyenne, was so revved up while he waited to enter that he couldn't feel the killing blow."

"Knife wounds can fool a victim," Molina admitted.

"Besides, planning to kill someone onstage, with witnesses, would wind Fabrizio up beyond belief.

That's why I think he meant to come to my area. He almost carried out his plan despite the fatal wound."

"Maybe." Molina was not convinced. "I don't see a motive. Well, I see a motive, but I just don't believe anybody will kill someone for being annoying."

Temple ignored the gratuitous put-down in the face of an inspiration. "Wait a minute! Who had Danny really assigned me for that time? Why didn't he show up as scheduled?"

Molina examined her notes. "A Jake Gotshall."

"Oh, no! Mr. Comedy Central. What happened to him?"

"Someone had 'borrowed' the bottom half of his costume."

"Or stolen it, so he'd be late. Ah, what was the bottom half of his costume? I need to know what I. . .

missed."

Molina's intimidating blue eyes stayed on her notebook pages. Temple had a feeling that she was trying very hard not to laugh. "Fur shorts."

"Fur shorts? What was he dressing up as?"

"Every woman's secret fantasy, he claims: Santa making a special Christmas Eve delivery to the lady of the house. He said he planned to wear nothing but white fur shorts and a white wig and beard. And some mistletoe in appropriate places."

"Ooohh," said Temple. "He would have tickled!"

"I've never heard of anyone being tickled to death. Yet," Molina added cautiously. "I'm sure you'll run across one of those someday. Anyway, Gotshall couldn't go on without the key part of his costume and was scrambling around the dressing rooms looking for a substitution. It was just a dress rehearsal, and he figured the fur shorts would show up."

"So Fabrizio stole them to make Jake late." Temple put a hand to her neck.

Talking hurt her throat, and Fabrizio's last manual contractions hadn't helped. It was hard to prove that he had meant to hurt her, instead of simply blundering over to her and lashing out in his death throes. He certainly knew who she was. Why else say he was sorry?

Temple glanced at a coterie of supporters sitting in the theater's front row: Danny Dove, immobile for once, Electra and Kit huddled like fairy godmothers bereft of their magic wands and even Midnight Louie, lured away from his platinum ladylove by a roommate in distress. Word had gotten around fast.

"Why would Fabreeezio attack you?" Molina asked again.