Carole Douglas - Cat in a Red Hot Rage

The Mystifying Max, as his stage name promised, had been in—and out—of Temple's life for so long that the stifled attraction between her and Matt finally had flared. And how. Matt breathed hard each time he recalled every word, every kiss, every touch, every move. With more to come. He'd been infatuated with Temple since they met, but now the cat was out of the bag and it was ravenous.

And still his happiness didn't feel guaranteed. Max was a powerful presence even when he went AWOL . . . and Matt?

It was past midnight in Las Vegas. Matt had a $48,000 vintage engagement ring in his coat pocket because his betrothed didn't want to wear it "yet" and he couldn't bear to inter it in the new floor safe in his newly redone bedroom . . . where he'd done and redone his betrothed even though that was against every rule for an ex-priest maybe on the road to becoming ex-Catholic.

Come to think of it, "Mr. Midnight," on-air shrink extraordinaire, had plenty problems of his own.

And still freight cars full of free-floating anxiety and angst poured in from the featureless night. From phones in cheap motel rooms and in ticky-tacky box houses, at bars, in dark living rooms, dialed secretly.

“He/she is running around on me."

“No one can know I'm pregnant."

“No one can know I had an abortion/adoption/stillbirth."

“Why does he hit me if he says he loves me?"

“Why doesn't he boff me if he says he loves me?"

“Why does she run around with every dude on the block?"

“Should I marry him/her even if he/she is physically/sexually/verbally abusive?”

Sometimes, lately, Matt, the most levelheaded of men, wanted to scream, "How should I know?”

But they thought he did, so he tried to give them honest, supportive advice. Sometimes he hung up the oversize foam-padded earphones for the night feeling that he had.

Not tonight. He got into his Crossfire outside the station and drove back to the Circle Ritz on autopilot.

He needed to confront Temple about what wasn't happening between them. Two-thirty in the morning was a lousy time to do it, but he needed to know.

Besides, he ached to see her again. He'd spent so long subduing all the crazy throbs and fevers of first love, and now it was combined with the wonders and passion of first sex. He was glad they'd been forced to be just friends so long, so they knew each other deep down. Now she'd become a drug he couldn't get enough of, and that felt so right.

Matt stood in the dim hallway, wondering whether to knock.

He sure wasn't about to ring the old-fashioned doorbell. That would wake the whole floor.

Max Kinsella, he knew, had made a habit of coming and going unannounced via the patio doors, an unpredictable and dazzling second-story man to the end.

Matt still felt he ought to knock, which was maybe a pretty bad sign. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Temple's number, feeling like a fool.

The ringing stopped. She sounded groggy, of course. "Yes?"

“It's me." Stupid line.

“Matt? Oh." He could hear the rustle of sheets as she settled up against her pillows. "It's been so crazy. I'm so glad to hear your voice.”

He could have admitted he'd been crazy too but that didn't seem wise at the moment.

“Where are you?" she asked. "Just home?"

“Yeah. Just home." He leaned against the wall. Her wall. "I've been running around all day at the Crystal Phoenix.”

“Still chaos there?"

“A convention of five thousand divided between the Phoenixand the Goliath? Yes. And . . . well, the usual, at the Phoenix, unfortunately. Listen, if you're not too tired, and could come down for a while—?"

“I am down."

“Down?"

“I'm at your door."

“Oh." There was a silence. Had he overstepped his bounds? "Oh! Well! Wait just a sec. I need to put something . . . off." The cell phone died in his hand, but he'd definitely detected a perk in her interest level.

Two minutes later the door opened. Temple was wearing something long and red and filmy and dotted with rhinestones that was amazingly deficient at covering her breasts.

She couldn't miss his appraisal. "One great thing about being a blond now is I can wear red. Vintage fifties nightie. We femmes fatales knew how to do it then. Come in, wandering voice of the night. I could use a sympathetic ear."

“Your aunt isn't here?"

“Apparently she has found a roost elsewhere for the duration of her visit. Can you spell F-o-n-t-a-n-a?”

Matt raised his eyebrows, but was rather glad to hear Templewas home alone again. They settled at the stools by the kitchen eating counter. Temple's gaze settled on Matt, and it was unsettlingly fond.

“It's so good to see a sane face."

“Um, 'sane' isn't the adjective I was looking for."

“It's so good to see your handsome, wise, sexy face. Can a girl these days just say, 'Kiss me'?”

Matt found his niggling doubts vanishing as he complied. He wondered if a guy could just say, "On the couch, the floor, or the patio under the stars?"

“ Hmmm." Temple smiled at him from six inches away, so her eyes were as adorably crossed as a Siamese cat's. Speaking of which?

“Louie?" Matt asked.

“Kind of you to inquire, but he's not in. Not on the couch. Not in my bed. Anywhere else of interest?"

“I was thinking the patio overlooking the pool."

“You know I loved to watch you swim from there. Lustfully. Maybe there," Temple said.

“Electra would see.”

Temple sighed. "Not nowadays, lover boy. That's what I needed to tell you."

“Something about Electra?" Matt was confused. He still expected every other sentence out of her mouth to be about Max,not a good sign in her or him.

“She was discovered leaning solicitously over a dead body at the Crystal Phoenix yesterday."

“You mentioned that, but come on, Electra a murderer? She was Just trying to help someone, obviously."

“The victim turned out to be the woman who took her third husband away from her, so the 'help' defense is a bit thin.”

Matt bit his lip. "Not good, but I stand by my first diagnosis. Electra wouldn't kill a fruit fly."

“I agree. But that's something to worry about tomorrow, Rhett." She leaned forward and took his worried bottom lip in her own. "You tell me: on the plantation porch, by the plantation pond, or in the master bedroom?”

Matt's heart stopped beating for about twenty seconds. She meant it. Here. Now. Them. The bedroom once co-owned by Max.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out the ring. "You've been carrying this around?"

“I couldn't leave it in a cold metal safe when my whole heart's in it."

“Mine too." Temple beamed and put it on her third finger, left hand, but her eyes never left his.

Matt made his choice. It was late. They were both a littleweary. They deserved a pillow-top mattress. Max was gone.

Louie was out.

Matt led Temple into her very own bedroom to make it into a marriage bed.

At five in the morning they awoke. Temple laid her head on Matt's shoulder and her left hand on his chest while she got something off hers.

“He's really gone this time," she whispered, relating all the details about the complete changing of the guard at Max's former home. "He'd been hinting that this was it, but with Max you never knew."

“So you can't ever tell him it's over?"

“I think he knew. Maybe he had somewhere urgent to be. Maybe he thought cutting the cord was the kindest thing to do. The thing is, I don't owe him an apology. I did my best to offer him one, but he's gone again, and I have a brand-new life to live with someone I've always loved very much."

“Always?"

“From the moment we met. I just didn't dare know it then.”

“Me neither"