Cat In A Quicksilver Caper

“There was a lot they used to say before I was born, such as ‘Excuse me?’ Matt? A bachelor pad?”

Danny came closer. Despite his curly blond hair, which made him look like a cheerful cherub when he wasn’t behaving like a chorus-line Nazi, Temple saw that his eyes were sunk in blueberry stains of fatigue.

“Well, that’s not a permanent condition, I understand. Why don’t you pop up and have a look once the delivery apes have finished destroying the pieces and have clumped their way down the service stairs?”

“No. I can’t. I have a huge new client.”

“Darling, everything is huge in Las Vegas. Except some well-advertised personal accouterments.”

Temple ignored the racy reference. Hard. “It’s the New Millennium and their White Russian exhibition.”

“That is huge.” Danny found the idea so intimidating that he plunked his wiry frame down on her Big White Sofa. Busby Berkeley at home, Temple thought recalling the sublime Hollywood choreographer of the thirties. “How’d you nab that account?”

“I know the New Millennium PR guy, and he has his hands full, plus.”

“I would think so. White Russians can be so terribly autocratic. Almost as bad as the bureaucratic Red Russians.”

“You make Russians sound like varying bottles of wine. You know something about them?”

“Ballet is theirs! Easter eggs are the Ukrainians but they’re only peasant paintings. I prefer the Fabergé eggs the Russian czars commissioned.”

“The exhibit will have the bejeweled eggs, including some borrowed from the Forbes collection.”

Danny whistled. “You’re going to need major security.”

“Not my responsibility. I just have to make sure that the media I attract aren’t jewel thieves in disguise. Of course the real prize is the Czar Alexander scepter.”

“How are they going to display that?”

“In a bullet-proof clear plastic Lexan box.”

“Last I heard it was worth eight million.”

“That’s not replacement value. It’s priceless. Alexander was the grandfather of the last of the czars, Nicholas Romanoff. My problem is that the sheer worth of these pieces will turn off the national high-culture press.”

“Sure. Those arty pencil pushers adore things like yak-spine paintings from the caveman days.”

“Reporters are as likely to use PDAs these days as notebooks and pencils.”

Danny shrugged. “Speaking of priceless objects, you want to pop up and see the divine Matt’s new crash pad?”

When Temple hesitated, he added in a seductive singsong, “He’s just come back to view the formal installation and has no one to show it off to.”

Temple still wanted to dither, but Danny was looking animated for the first time since Simon’s death. Flexing his creative muscles, even on something as trivial as the redo of a friend’s decor, was a good sign.

An acquaintance, rather. And not just a room, a straight guy’s bedroom. A straight guy acquaintance’s bedroom. The bedroom of a straight guy acquaintance who happened to have formally declared an interest in her, Temple Barr.

This was really crowding her comfort zone.

“Dear one, do tell me that what little I can do is worth at least a look,” Danny said.

Danny was dear, devastated, devious, devilish, divine.

She caved.

Bedtime Stories

Temple trudged up the stairs one floor, skipping the elevator to give herself time to think.

She was a friendly neighbor, interested in supporting Danny’s recovery after a dreadful loss and Matt’s graduation into a fully secular life. Cheerful, helpful. So Doris Day it would make your teeth decay from fifty feet.

She was not a curious, edgy, way-too-turned-on possible partner inspecting a hot new venue: Matt’s investment in a big new bed after sleeping on a monklike cot for God knew how long.

That was the trouble. God did know. What would He think of her?

Temple paused in front of the familiar door, then knocked. Of course Matt was here. Danny had just left and told her so.

They hadn’t spoken since their incendiary “prom” night on the desert. She hadn’t seen him since then. Too late to take the knock back? They weren’t ready for this.

She wasn’t ready for this.

“Temple.” Matt stood in the doorway, looking surprised, then as uncertain as she was.

“I saw Danny on the way out.”

“Right. He just left.”

“I didn’t know you were working with him.”

“He insisted.”

“On counseling?”

“No, on . . . redecorating.” Matt shook his head. “I guess one man’s counseling is another man’s therapy. It’s helped him, I think.” Matt’s smile was rueful. “He feels sorry for me.”

“Do they call that transference, or what?”

“No, not that. I figure if it gets his mind off the past, who am I to refuse to spend big bucks?”

“Well, let’s see what big bucks buy.” Temple peered past him, which was hard, into the rooms beyond. Matt was wearing the usual soft warm colors that made his blond hair and brown eyes pop, although he didn’t know it. Khaki, beige. Like vanilla caramel pudding. Warm vanilla caramel pudding. “This is the first I’ve heard of a therapist having to spend big bucks to help a client.”

“Danny isn’t just any client.”