Unknown - Cat_In_A_Hot_Pink_Pursuit

Just as Temple was about to ask where, he picked her up by the purple taffeta waist and set her atop the Crossfire’s warm hood.

“A rough road trip out into the deep desert,” she observed. “Serving as an impromptu buffet table. That’s a heck of a way to treat an expensive new car, Devine.”

He sat on the other side of the hood, so they were facing in opposite directions, like on those old Victorian seating pieces. Courting sofas.

She held her flute up for a bubbly infusion. The music on the CD pulsed softly.

“Won’t the battery die?”

“I put the headlights on parking. They’ll last for hours. Long enough, I hope.”

Long enough for what?

But the shrimp and salmon and cream cheese and all the chilled appetizers were a piquant contrast with the thick soupy warm desert air. And the dry champagne went down like very sophisticated Sprite.

Temple was swinging her feet against the front tire tothe rhythm of Rod Stewart’s romantic anthem “The Rhythm of My Heart.”

“Great soundtrack,” she said when the edge was off her hunger and the champagne flute was on its third refill. “To whom do we owe the pleasure?”

“Ambrosia of WCOO-AM.”

“Your boss? The Queen of Late Nite Music to Sigh By?”

“Yeah. I asked her for the appropriate background music. Some of it’s thirteen years old and some of it’s today.”

“And all of it’s classic.” Temple set her flute on the Crossfire hood, mellow enough not to worry about maltreating a hot car.

“Shall we dance?” Matt asked.

She was ready to jump off to the ground herself but he was there to catch her, and before you could say “Canadian Sunset” they were slow dancing, swaying to the music.

No. That was on the radio. The car CD, rather. Temple’s corsage-bearing left hand (with Max’s emerald ring on the middle, not the third, finger) was resting on Matt’s shoulder. She and Max had danced around the marriage question a few times, but that was two years ago, when their romance was as fresh as a daisy and as hot as a hibiscus and anything seemed possible. Not lately. Max was married to the mob lately. The counterterrorism mob. Danger was his sole dancing partner. Temple had defended him to Molina and every other corner, excused his absences to herself, accepted his apologies, and understood and understood and understood until she took the word for her middle name.

Suddenly, she couldn’t see or touch the past. Only the present. She could see only Matt. Feel only him. And nothing about that seemed wrong, only absolutely, infectiously, incontestably right.

The gardenia scent enveloped her, enveloped him. It swirled on the dry night air like a drug.

Something brushed her temple. An insect. No. Someone’s lips.

Her cheek. Her chin. Her lips.

They were kissing. And kissing. Separating and touching. Tilted this way. That way. Again. Scent and sound. Feet stepping together. Apart. Lips together apart. Always new. Testing. Tasting. Slow dancing on the desert. Surprise and collusion. Collaboration in rhythm. No missteps. Perfect harmony.

Slow dancing.

Just me …

And my .. .

He lifted her up on top of the car hood again. Better.

Liquid gardenia moonlight. Radio at the midnight hour.

Temple knew better. But she couldn’t think of a better way to be. Matt matched her. Motion for motion. Surrender for surrender. She thought of hovering humming birds darting at blossoms. So swift. so graceful in their elegant hunger.

Separation. Intermission. When it came, it seemed unnatural.

“I’ve thought about it,” Matt whispered.

Whispering in a desert was ludicrous but it was the only appropriate response to this infinitely delicate, devastating situation.

“I want it to go fast. I want it to go slow.”

Seconded. Jimmy Buffet was singing about a slow boat to China. He knew sailing ships.

“I decided slow.”

“Slow,” she repeated. Dutifully. Running a very slow tongue tip along his upper lip.

And she had to wear this balloon of a dress meant to keep her from feeling anything below the waist. That was then, this was now.

She pushed her upper teeth into his lower lip and felt his hands convulse on her waist.

A finger, or thumb, ran down the long zipper at the back. Desert air struck her spine with the shock of hot water. His hand was hotter.

“Slow,” he said.

Oh, yes. Oh, no. Vive la difference!

“So,” she said, remembering certain concerns, very remote. “What about your religious whatever?”

He let them pull apart.

“I am not going to mention you in confession.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.”

“No. I’m serious. I won’t deny what happens with us. But—”

But. Always but. Temple opened her eyes. She was staring up at a lot more stars than she’d ever glimpsed in the overlit city she called home. Because Matt’s hair was brushing her cheek, and his lips were on her throat, her shoulder, her small claim to cleavage.

“So I’ve figured it out,” he said, lifting his face to hers. She breathed softly onto his mouth. “How? You still can’t sleep with anyone outside of marriage.”

“We get married.”

“Married?” That snapped her out of Foreplay 101.

“Yes. Civilly. Electra could do it. Would love to. I finally realized: this is Nevada. People marry instantly here. If you’re not satisfied—”

“Shut your mouth. On me.”

“We can divorce.”

“Divorce?”

“Or … if not, we marry again. Church ceremony. Catholic. Unitarians are easy when it comes to ecumenical. In the Twin Cities or Chicago or Milwaukee halfway in between. White gown, ring bearer, relatives, everything.”

“You’d marry me civilly first so I can have a test run?”

“Right. No strings, no obligation. You said modern women needed free samples. Of sexual compatibility, I assume. I can’t blame them. I am something of a freak.”

“Freaking nuts. In a very sweet way.”

And having said the word sweet, Temple needed to taste it again.

“What about your Catholic conscience?” she asked finally.

“We’d be married in the eyes of the law. I think I can fudge a bit. I spent so many years not fudging.”

“Matt.” She pushed him away. That was against her religion, which was easy, he said, but she pushed him away with a surge of self-control.

“I’m on the pill. That’s against your religion, right?”

“Right. But your religion isn’t my religion. I suppose in the name of ecumenical tolerance … You’re on the pill?”

This appeared to give him either pause or an infusion of fresh motivation.

“We have a lot of issues, Matt. Children. Like I may not be ready. Or … not.”

“I may never be ready. People work that out. Forget the this or that. That’s what had me all screwed up. You want to be my mother and father in thirty-some years? Afraid to face each other because they can’t admit that what they had was lost? That it was really something?”

“You want to marry a bottle blonde?”

“I want to marry you, whatever shade you’re wearing.”

“Then this is a proposal.”

He thought for a moment. “No, this is a free trial offer. A proposal would be much better than this.”

“Can’t believe it could be,” she said, curling her fingers into the lapels of his jacket.

That ended discussions for a while.

Temple’s heart was beating like the Rod Stewart—advertised drum but her mind was racing too, from the moon to the dizzying scent on her wrist that blended with the champagne and the music into an altered state.

To a low-profile emerald ring on her hand and a wrench of regret in her heart.

To a certain knowledge that there was no going back from here, no slipping away into separate Edens.