Carole Douglas - Cat in a Red Hot Rage

“Traitor!" the woman in question now spat at Temple. "I beg your pardon?"

“You named a man moderator. Why not me? I'm much better known nationally than some local radio personality.”

“The title is 'moderator.' You're not moderate."

“I'm as modern as the next Teen Idol."

“Moderate. Like the weather."

“Oh." Savannah trout-pouted, which collagen treatments to her lips had well qualified her to do. "You mean dull, boring. Bland."

“Exactly," Temple said.

“Well, I certainly am not that!"

“I agree," Temple said with a broad smile.

HRH spoke next. "This could be a good publicity opportunity for our message," she said, "but I'm worried about lowering ourselves to debate these rowdy protesters. This is our convention. We were violated.”

Temple sighed. "I agree, but protesters have a habit of tak- ing over the news media. At least a debate will even the playing field.”

Temple then set up the debaters: HRH Jeanne Johnson; "clown princess" Candy Crenshaw, recommended by HRH; Kit; and Phyll, one of the two Red-Hatted League librarians. (Never argue with a librarian; they know too much.) She designated Savannah Ashleigh as official emcee and note-taker. The ersatz actress would know how to pose and fidget to draw thecameramen's attention. It would still effectively gag her. That was fighting dirty, but Temple worked for the Crystal Phoenix, not the Black Hat Brotherhood or Savannah Ashleigh.

Speaking of fighting dirty, Temple next headed to the roundup of Black Hat Brotherhood members.

Armando and Julio Fontana were concerned about allowing her entrance.

“These men have been drinking beer for an hour and a half," Armando warned.

“I've been binge drinking upset-stomach acids," Templeanswered. "We're about even.”

She went in, bowled over by a yeasty reek. About fifteen cowpokes glowered at her from under the brims of their black felt hats. Holy Hopalong Cassidy! One was Elmore Lark.

All Temple could think was that this headgear must be mighty hot in a Las Vegas spring. At least the women had been inside and air-conditioned.

Temple introduced herself. "I need four candidates for the debate team, pronto," she said. "You can draw straws or duke it out.”

The men murmured approvingly at her brisk directions. "I'm the head man," one said. "The BHB founder." He stood and nodded at her. "Mike Crenshaw."

“Oh. That's the same last name of the lead singer and jokester of that group, Candy Crenshaw and the Red Hat Candies."

“They call me Cal, and the Big Hat Breaker:' Crenshaw said with a tight grin.

Temple had lost her smile, suddenly realizing that she had another pair of warring exes on her hands. Crenshaw was a burly man in his sixties. Having plunged into a whirlpool, Templethought it might be interesting to muddy the waters. "And Mr. Lark, I see you're a member. Want to the join the debate?”

She was thinking he'd never do it, not with bigamy charges against him. In fact, coming down here had put him into the teeth of his two ex-wives and risked bringing up his dicey marital history. Was he really that ticked off at a group that encouraged older women to embrace their ages and not "act" in the ways society expected? Maybe. The Black Hat Brotherhood was a strong reminder that a lot of men of a certain age didn't like change, especially in their wives.

“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."