Unknown - Cat_In_A_Hot_Pink_Pursuit

“Rain check? Ciao.”

It almost never rained in Vegas but when it did, it was a gully washer.

Temple floated in the spa’s programmed turmoil, feeling her internal boiling point mounting.

Odd. The blue lagoon waters now reminded her of something less pleasant than tropical nights: Lieutenant C. R. Molina’s sharp, ever-watchful laser-blue eyes.

But no one they knew was here. Now. Temple let the water roll her over as she turned to watch Max’s back disappear into his house on his way out.

Magicians did that. Disappeared. For a living. Sometimes lovers did that too.

Bitter disappointment made Temple rain two teardrops into the sizzling spa water. They instantly eddied away, lost in the sea of foaming warmth. Temple knew better than to feel rejected, but she did, dammit.

Selfish Temple! She knew how hard Max worked at both of his professions. Now, at last, he was reclaiming the public persona of magician instead of being consumed by the invisible cloak of spy. Times were more perilous worldwide than they’d ever been and Max had been out there, was still out there, trying to prevent disaster.

A game little woman would stand behind her man, even when he wasn’t there. Especially when he wasn’t there.

Still … Her hand slapped the water. This time droplets jumped up at her eyes, stinging them into blinking.

Blink. And Max had been gone without explanation. Blink. Lieutenant Molina had come asking brutal questions, painting the missing Max as a likely murderer. Blink. Enter Matt Devine, ex-priest, new neighbor, always there to help or tempt through no fault of his own.

Love and fidelity were great … when a couple actually spent time together now and then. But Temple was no longer feeling loved, even if she was, and Matt—God, Max! Wake up and smell the latte!—was finally outgrowing all those years of celibacy and coming on to her with Intent to Commit Relationship.

Temple laid her chin on her hands on the spa’s hard-shelled rim and let the swirling eddies float her body up, up, and away.

Men! They were maddening. Eve must have wanted to strangle Adam when he’d blamed the Apple Incident on her! Temple bet Eve had missed becoming humankind’s first killer by … this much! Justifiable homicide, in her opinion.

Like the song says: a total eclipse of the heart.

Chapter 9

Bling-Bling Babies

Molina sat, sober as a judge, on her comfy old living room sofa, reading for the fourth time the entry form that Mariah had filled out.

She’d reached the fiction part now, Mama Molina’s own creation: Julio Sanchez, heroic off-duty cop killed helping a citizen change a flat tire on the side of the notorious Los Angeles freeway system.

Would the TV-show staff research the contestants’ family histories? Or take them at face value?

“You’re still not mad at me,” Mariah said hopefully from the armchair, where she lounged on her tailbone, petting Caterina.

“Not mad. Disappointed.”

Silence. Mariah was still new enough to teenhood to cringe a little at that word. Disappointment.

Molina tossed the entry form aside, making a mental note to fax a copy to TempleBarr. Had to give the kidcredit; she’d beat out a lot of candidates to get a chance at the reality show slot.

Molina sighed and checked her watch. Mariah surreptitiously checked her mother’s face.

Standing up, Molina stuffed her bare feet into moccasins. “Come on. The mall’s open until six. A Teen Queen wannabe will need some new duds for her stay at the Teen QueenCastle. In fact—” Inspiration hit. It was a galling inspiration, but then the whole situation was galling from the get-go.

She drew her cell phone and hit a preprogrammed number. To this she had sunk.

Mariah watched, blinking.

“Yeah,” Molina told the phone when the ringing stopped. “Mariah and I are hitting the mall for some drop-dead Teen Queen garb. Maybe you’d better come along. Yes, it’s ‘kinda an order.’ Half an hour. Right. We’ll meet you at—?” Molina lifted interrogative eyebrows at her daughter.

“Junior department at Dillard’s.”

“Junior department at Dillard’s.” Molina flipped the phone shut and grabbed her buckskin hobo bag. “Who was that?”

“Image consultant,” she said.

“Who’d you know that I’d want having anything to say about my clothes?”

“You’d be surprised.” Molina shot a smile Mariah’s way as she snatched the car keys from the kitchen countertop. “You go to all the trouble of being on a national TV show, no matter how tawdry, you ought to get a little help.”

Molina felt naked as she followed Mariah into the dark garage. She wasn’t carrying tonight, for the first time in a long time. It would have been too awkward. Mama needed a new pair of shoes, and then some too. She just hoped to heck that tonight was not the one some gang member decided to go postal in the mall’s Hallmark Card Shop.

Temple Barr appeared to know the junior department as well as Mariah.

In fact, Mariah had about three inches on the woman. Molina hoped she’d stop growing soon. But maybe too tall was no longer a female liability.

Molina stood uneasily in the main aisle, eyeing rows of skirts the width of cummerbunds and see-through mesh tops skimpier than sports bras. The color and glitter were showgirl seductive, but there were so many clothes, and so little of them.

For the first time she felt like her own mother.

Red head and espresso-brown head bowed together over the racks, pulling out selections and tossing them over arms or thrusting them back onto the chrome poles, rather like blasé strippers.

“Cool color.”

“Oh, too rad.”

“To die for.”

The murmurs were both vapid and excited. Molina smiled, maternally, as she observed Temple and her daughter together. Temple acted like an older sister, caught up in the same girly ritual but far more sophisticated than Mariah with her cherubic halo of baby fat still intact, thank God.

Good pick, Molina told herself. TempleBarr was exactly what she herself always had lamented not ever being—petite and pretty enough to pass as a teenager.

Temple looked up as if Molina’s speculation about her was tangible and she’d felt it. Good instincts for an amateur. “Mama have a budget for this extended prom party?”

“Whatever you think she needs.”

Temple’s eyebrows raised, borrowing that tic fromMolina. She consulted the two stapled sheets advising “contenders” on “what to bring.”

“We are in plastic heaven, kiddo,” she told Mariah. “Let’s rock.”

Two hours later they emerged from the dressing room, giggling like classmates on a spree. Temple’s arm held almost as many draped items as Mariah’s. That’s what Molina had hoped for: Mariah’s taste would clue in Temple on current hot teen items, and Temple’s PR influence would guide Mariah to what worked on TV.

If Molina had cherished any reason but bodily safety to encourage a relationship between the two, she might even have found their bonding … sweet.

If they made the show, Mariah would have to know that Temple was there as a stooge before the charade began. No way would she be fooled. Hey, the kid would probably get off on being part of an “undercover” team.

How had a smart homicide dick like her ended up in such a mess? Daughter dearest and her mad, hopeful, predictable, determined desire to be somebody five years older than herself.

Molina played her prime parental role: she laid plastic on a checkout counter and watched the LED numbers hit the mid four figures. Yikes.

Temple Barr, she was pleased to note, had done as well. Molina supposed she should reimburse Temple but let that be a surprise after the ball at the Teen QueenCastle was over. If there was one for her.