Cat In A Topaz Tango

Red Hot Chili Peppers

“Capsaicin in her shoes? That’s red pepper, isn’t it?”

Temple pretended to be stunned by this news, despite relaxing with a glass of sangria in Zoe Chloe’s suite. Rafi had used his position as assistant security chief to order up a pitcher.

Molina, looking more in the mood for a whiskey sour, had even permitted him to pour her a glass.

“It was a prank!” Temple didn’t so much ask, as exclaim. She couldn’t pin the prank on Mrs. Smith for sure, despite Louie’s valiant detecting efforts. Lots of women carry pepper spray.

“A nastily effective prank,” Molina said. “The hotel doctor said the girl’s feet are swollen and tender, but guarantees they’ll be normal by morning.”

“What’s the treatment?” Rafi asked.

“Think you’ll have another case of capsaicin poisoning at the Oasis soon?” Molina jeered.

“I can ask the doctor.”

Molina swallowed the sangria as if it were hemlock. “Don’t bother. I got the routine. They try shampoo or other soaps first, then oils or creams. This was an extreme enough case that he ordered milk-soaked rags from room service, as well as ice to relieve the burning symptoms. Poor little kid was severely unnerved and in real pain.

“Still, I think what hurt her most was that her dance number was ruined.”

“They’ll let her repeat it another night,” Temple said. “Mariah thought so, anyway. If she recovered.”

“The Smith girl is moving to another hotel room with her mother. Now that we know how competitive they are, not a bad idea. I wish Mariah hadn’t ever bunked with those other girls.” Molina eyed Rafi as if the show rules were his fault.

“I pulled in more female security guards from off duty,” he said. “One will be in the hotel suite with the two remaining mothers and daughters at all times. And the costumes are now under guard.”

“Mariah said,” Temple put in, “that Sou-Sou was ‘a little bitch.’ ”

“She didn’t learn that word at home,” Molina assured, bristling.

“This smacks of a malicious trick,” Rafi said. His dark eyes seemed ringed in charcoal. It wasn’t just his daughter’s safety involved, it was his ex sitting here on his recently acquired turf, judging every move he made. Or didn’t make.

So far, he’d maintained his cool better than she had.

“How does this tie in with the death threats?” Molina mused out loud. “With the seriously homicidal kooks the Caped Conjuror always attracts? With the threat of the Barbie Doll Killer? With the tension and jealousy of the adult competition?”

“I don’t know,” Temple said. “It could be the junior rivalry is hotter than the senior.”

“You’re putting your own true love in the ‘senior’ category?” Molina asked acidly.

“Relatively speaking. Actually, there’s more rapport building among the adult contenders than the teens.”

“Adults know how to lose gracefully, or at least to pretend to,” Rafi put in.

Molina shot him a sharp look.

Temple shivered internally. Everything exchanged between these two had an unspoken double edge. Being with them was like acting as the net during a killer championship tennis match. Something had to give, eventually. Hopefully, it was not her, the separating agent.

Volleys of unspoken recriminations were bouncing over her head.

And yet she detected a certain heat.

It was hard to think of Molina having a sexy bone in her body, but the lieutenant’s iron professional control was probably a challenge to certain overly macho men.

Not Max. He was too smart to act macho. Rafi came by his Mideastern macho culturally and was trying to overcome it. Dirty Larry was another case entirely. She didn’t think she or Molina quite knew what he was about. Temple guessed that Molina unwittingly posed a challenge to these men that she really didn’t want or need.

Life was funny. People often attracted the people who were worst for them. She herself was a case study in attracting a daring lone ranger like Max and a supportive sweetie like Matt. If only she could compress them into one delicious totally perfect boyfriend.

Eek! Zoe Chloe Ozone stomped a black lace-up oxford worn over fishnet hose down hard on Temple’s ruminations. Was she even speculating that women didn’t really know what they wanted? Or needed? And men too?

Her head hurt, and her feet ached in sympathy with Sou-Sou’s. The girl was obnoxious, but young girls often got confused about which way to go, Wicked, as in the Broadway play, or nauseatingly “good.” Either extreme was an overdose.

Witch way would this crazy dance competition go now?