Unknown - 19_Cat_In_A_Red_Hot_Rage

“Damn right,” he said, tipping his black hat without rising.

She just knew his long legs in cowboy boots were stretched out under the conference table. Temple shrugged her acquiescence. It wasn’t her hide the media would nail to the wall if someone tipped them off about his marital record. She was act-ing as a PR person and a friend now, not a so-called objective reporter.

If these Black Hat Brotherhood guys were too smug and naive to finesse their big media opportunity, tough. Which, of course, was their whole raison d’être. In their minds, Real Men would rather bomb than be caught being reasonable.

“Hey,” Matt said, walking up the short hallway to his door at the Circle Ritz late that afternoon to find Temple holding up the wall with a pitcher of something pale, cold, and alcoholic.

God, he looked good!

Oops. Sorry, God, I know he used to be all yours, but you made him this way.

Since they’d broken the sex barrier something tentative in Matt had vanished, given way to a new ease and confidence that was as sexy as hell. Sorry, God! Again. She supposed releasing his held-back feelings had done that. Now he looked her deep in the eyes, ready to see everything she could show him. A guy couldn’t glow, but he could simmer, and Matt simmering for her was irresistible.

She smiled back at him, and they just stood there basking in each other’s pleasure with the other.

Then he pulled her close for a long, deep kiss. Not a word said. Not a word necessary.

“You’ve been waiting for me?” he asked, sounding a little smug and a lot satisfied. “How long?”

What girl couldn’t play along with a moment like this. “All my life.”

He paused, then laughed. But his brown bedroom eyes were melting like the ice in her pitcher. “And you want—?”

“You. When was it ever different?”

“For a lot of months when you were busy elsewhere, but let’s not count that.”

“I thought so too.” Temple edged away from the door so he could get his key in the lock.

He started to open the door, then paused. Took her and the pitcher into close custody again. “What do you want?”

“Number one or number two?”

Matt’s eyes squeezed shut to consider. “Number two?”

“Shucks. Your help.”

“That’s it? My help? Not my love, my support, my endless passion.”

“You asked for `number two.”

“So I did. Come on down then.” He opened the door to let her eel through.

She put the pitcher on the nearest kitchen counter. Her hand was icy and it was heavy.

“What am I being bribed with?” he asked.

“Margaritas. You brought two to my door when we first met, remember?”

“I remember when we first met, but not the Margaritas.”

“It was after I solved my first case, when you altered my TEMPLE BARR, PR card to read TEMPLE BARR, PI.”

“You’ve got a long memory.”

“You’ve got a long … never mind,” Temple said, getting out a pair of vintage martini glasses she’d given him with frosted Art Deco bubbles etching the clear glass bowls. “I could use a drink:’ he admitted. “It’s hot out there.”

“It could be hotter in here,” she said, pouring.

“Temple, you are gorgeous and I can’t resist you worth a darn, but you’re sometimes as transparent as glass. What do you want?”

“Oh, too bad:’ she purred. “You could have milked this one for at least twenty minutes.”

“I’m guessing neither of us has the time right now.”

She handed him a glass, then lifted her own to chime rims. “Okay. I’m in a really, really tight spot. It could cost me the Crystal Phoenix account.”

Matt stopped sipping, his forehead corrugating with worry. “That’s not possible. They love you. Almost as much as I do.”

“Yeah, but one disastrous round of bad publicity, and love ain’t enough in the PR biz. I am hoping, praying, it is in the Personal Relations biz.”

“ ‘Praying’?” You must need me bad.” He sounded pretty pleased about that.

“Matt, I promise, just this one time!”

“Really bad.”

“I’m on record about it. Sorry! The cameras were rolling, I had to do major spin control. You just popped into my mind. Maybe because you’re always on it.”

“Sure, flatter me. Into what?”

“A great media gig. Really. It’ll be huge for your radio show.”

“My radio show doesn’t need to be huger.”

“You can always use the right good publicity. The crowd just oohed when they heard your name.”

“This crowd heard my name because—?”

“I gave it to them. I needed an instantly recognizable moderator for a live debate tomorrow on the roles of aging men and women in our society.”

“Temple!”

“You’ll be perfect. The media are chomping at the bit. Your radio station will love it. Better phone ‘em to start hyping it now. They’ll probably want to cover it live.”

“Temple.”

“Five nights.”

“What?”

“Tied to your four-poster. You can do anything you want.”

“I’m new at this. I don’t have five nights’ backlog.”

“I’ll help.”

“You don’t have to bribe me. You just have to explain the situation.”

She did, while they sipped the first Margarita.

Matt heard her out. He finally nodded. “I’m thinking a week.”

“Whatever. I’ll pull the whole thing together. Get you a list of possible questions, panelists, everything.”

He glanced at his watch. “In less than twenty-four hours?”

“That’s why I gotta get going. I can count on you, then? Salud! Skoal! Cheers! ‘Bye now. Adios. Au revoir. Ta-ta. Gotta fly .” She pecked him on the lips. He caught her before she could dash away and made a minute of it.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “The Phoenix lobby, I:00 P.M., to get you up to speed. I’ll be the ‘little blond filly’ in the pink hat. Thanks a million!”

She skittered away on her festive slides, heart flying too.

This was the first time that Matt, and not Max, would be assisting her, not only in a skin-saving PR capacity, but maybe in a crime-solving one. Who knew what could come out in a heated debate between these warring men and women?

Temple hit her own place, kicking off her heels and skating barefoot over the slick wood floor to her office, where she riffled through her trusty Rolodex and started making a list and checking it twice. Everything was on computer, but the Rolodex kept her grounded.

Her first calls were to her best sources, so it was easy to slip in a casual question about who alerted them to the protest.

“One of the Red Hat women,” Sunny Cadeaux, a sister PR woman-around-town, said. They hadn’t talked in ages, but it was instant girl chat.

“You’re sure?”

“She didn’t leave a name. Just said they were all meeting there and it was very upsetting.”

The anonymous Red Hat tipster proved to be a universal source, until Temple got tired of hearing it. She punched in a number she usually didn’t have much reason to use.

“Pete,” the woman on the phone yelled to a passing colleague, “how’d we end up sending a videographer to that nothing mini-protest at the Crystal Phoenix?”

Temple held her breath as she heard a muffled answer. “One of our stringers,” the reporter reported, sounding disgusted. “Usually is more reliable.”

“You have a name?”

“You flack the Crystal Phoenix. I don’t want to get an associate in trouble.”

“Actually, I’d like to thank whoever it was. I’ve set up a debate between the Red Hat Sisterhood and the Black Hat Brotherhood moderated by Matt Devine, Mr. Midnight at WCOO-AM.”

“No kidding. Mr. Midnight, hmm. Nobody ever gets to see him in person. When is it?”