Cat In A Topaz Tango

Rest and Recreation

Matt was beginning to know what a sultan would feel like.

He’d been established naked on his back in the thousand-thread-count sheets on the huge double king-size bed in Temple’s bedroom. (Getting him pajamas at this wee hour hadn’t exactly been a priority.)

His left arm was positioned on a feather pillow beside him to feel the least stress. Another feather pillow supported his head and a satin soft cotton sheet covered him to the shoulders. On his right side, a satiny soft Temple, clothed in some skimpy slip thing, cuddled against him.

The lights were all on rheostats and dialed down to a peaceful glow. On one of the elaborate bedside tables rested a room service tray of sirloin tips. Temple would feed him one bite-sized piece from time to time. The doctor had recommended eating protein, but had not prescribed the soft kisses that bracketed its administration.

How wonderfully decadent, Matt thought, to lie here while Temple doted on him, unable to keep her hands and lips from constant caresses. It wasn’t passion; it was an expression of love and fear.

The danger had drawn them closer.

“You don’t really know,” she whispered, “how much you love a person until you realize you’re in danger of losing him.”

“I couldn’t stand to think of dying without seeing you again, saying how much I love you. The thought of you kept me alive, Temple.”

Their mutual smiles of complete understanding felt like a soul kiss. This seemed like a honeymoon.

Matt closed his eyes and drifted into sleep for a while.

He opened them a few minutes later to find her still there, right there for him. “It might not have been a man,” he said.

“Zorro, you mean?”

“Wandawoman is about that size, and strong.”

“And trained to fight. But why her?”

“José is too obvious a suspect. Still, neither one of them have motives.”

“You forget José’s your closest rival for the men’s championship, and you beat him at his own game, the pasodoble. It may not seem like a big deal to you, but he’s an Olympic champion already. They live to win.”

“Hmm. For a small-time dance contest? I don’t think this has anything to with that. Whoever it was bellowed, ‘Die, bastard, die!’ in such visceral hoarse tones it didn’t sound human, the rage was so intense.”

“How could you evoke that emotion in anyone, Matt?”

“Maybe it’s not me personally. Maybe it’s what I represent.”

“An ex-priest? A radio shrink. That’s pretty far-fetched. Still, you really shouldn’t perform the tango tonight,” she said. “It’s only twelve hours away, and it makes you a target again.”

“The police and hotel security are determined to end this tonight. As for the dance, we all rehearsed steps from all the dances the previous week before the competition. Each number is just ninety seconds. Tatyana will figure out a way to help me memorize the steps without walking through them full tilt over and over.”

“I know you can do it, but should you? Other performers have been attacked, maybe not as obviously, and they’re real celebrities. In fact, if you think of it, several of them have been celebrities behaving badly. I wonder—”

He was following his own new line of thought.

“The loaded prop pistol incident was just before me, and that was the most serious so far. Until now. Olivia’s broken heel could have been a repaired shoe that malfunctioned, or minor sabotage, and Keith Salter’s illness could have been ordinary food poisoning.”

“It’s escalated from a sabotaged dancing slipper to a sickened performer to a drugged one, to a shot one, all onstage during the dances. You were lured here to your attack, alone, at night. That was one-on-one with a deadly weapon. You must have done a heroic job of fighting off a surprise assault like that.”

“Amazing how the life force kicks in. Whoever it was should have some pretty good body bruises. Once I had the . . . person—can’t say ‘bastard’ back, could have conceivably been a woman—temporarily disarmed by rolling ‘Zorro’ up in that curtain,’ I did my best to disable the attacker with martial arts blows. But I was already weakening.”

“So if it’s another dancer, he or she might move a bit stiffly.”

“Wandawoman was a victim herself,” he objected, going back to the earlier suggestion.

“Self-administering too many antianxiety meds would put her out cold and remove suspicion. And she could control the timing.”

“I suppose you’re going to suggest the Cloaked Conjuror as a suspect too.”

“Good idea. Just because we know him a little . . . who can tell what size and build he is under that costuming?”

“He doesn’t need a mask for something like this, though. Going maskless would be a better disguise.”

“True. Brilliant, in fact,” she said. “Apparently you have plenty of blood to the brain despite it all.”

“Yeah. Other places too.”

“Oh?” Temple looked deliciously wicked at the moment. “Maybe I’m as good as Tatyana at figuring out a way to help you go through the steps without having to go over and over it again. But I’m aiming at a bit more than ninety seconds.”