Cat In A Topaz Tango

“You still want the small civil ceremony here at Electra’s wedding chapel first?”

“I don’t know. We did meet here. Electra’s our landlady and would love to marry us in the Circle Ritz’s attached chapel. We’d be legal but we’d still be sinful in the eyes of your church. Would legal make you feel any better?”

“The only thing that makes me feel any better is you,” he said, his golden-brown eyes darkening.

Temple hiked a shapely but short leg onto his shoulder. “Untie my shoe straps and then we can discuss more important things.”

“I don’t know how you walk in these things,” Matt said, complying.

“Years of being a shrimp and suffering.”

He smiled and moved her other foot from his lap to his shoulder. “For a shrimp you have some provocative moves.”

“For an ex-priest, you catch on fast.”

They grinned at each other. Then yawned.

“That was a rough twenty-four hours in the desert,” Matt commented, “then the big wedding ceremony came right after it.”

“You were the kidnapping victim,” she pointed out. “I was only a member of the rescue party.”

“I wasn’t the target. I was just along for the ride.”

“And what a ride! Murder in a Nevada cathouse. It may not have been in Vegas proper, but it would sure make a great movie. Eight vengeful women, eight captive groomsmen, assorted associates, almost all of the last identifiable mob “family” in Clark County. Uzis, limos, hookers.”

“Not likely for my bachelor party,” Matt said, laughing. “I hardly know anybody here.”

“You’d be surprised, buddy. I think the Fontana boys plan on doing just that when we finally do get hitched.”

“No, a fate worse than a Vegas wedding with Elvis,” Matt said, still laughing, and then tickling the bare soles of Temple’s feet to make her join in.

She was easy and giggled away on cue. “Stop that! I’m really ticklish!”

He was no fun. He stopped, then frowned. “I really don’t know about committing to that charity fund-raiser for all of next week.”

“You wouldn’t bow out?”

“Ballroom dancing isn’t exactly in my résumé.”

“Just why you need to brush up before we do the wedding waltz at our reception. Not to mention you’re committed to taking Mariah Molina to her freshman father-daughter dance in high school this fall.”

Matt groaned at the reminder. “I have a lot of sympathy for single working moms rearing a teenage daughter, but who named me proxy daddy of the week? And Mariah’s in that embarrassing hero worship of older guys stage.”

“Who’s more embarrassed, you or her?”

“Me. Teen girls don’t get embarrassed, they embarrass everybody else. I’m already freaked. This Dancing With the Stars wanna-be show isn’t all wedding waltzes and dad-daughter shuffles. Those ballroom routines can be pretty risqué.”

“You’re out of the priesthood, Matt. You can do risqué. And kids today want dads who can rock out in the school auditorium like cool dudes. Doesn’t Ambrosia think it’d be good for your radio career?”

“Ambrosia’s in favor of anything that makes me a visual. She believes the world wants a Web presence, a Facebook profile, a YouTube persona, rather than just a voice in the night.”

“Let’s face it. Ambrosia knows how to market radio today. You make a socko visual. Remember that billboard of you on the red suede couch? I sure do! Blond, handsome, and horizontal.”

“Yeah, and all those screaming fan girls.” He made a face. It didn’t hurt his looks a bit.

“Ambrosia’s your producer. Your ‘Midnight Hour’ is syndicated in a lot of major markets, but there are more to be won over. You can go farther than the usual radio shrink, maybe become the next Dr. Phil.”

“Spare me.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“That’s what I get with an ace PR woman as a fiancée. P.T. Barr-num. Dr. Phil’s avuncular act is not only bullying, but superficial. I hope my ‘Midnight Hour’ digs a bit deeper.”

“It does.” Temple’s voice lowered to a dramatic whisper. “You are the most insightful, sincere, and sexy guy on the airwaves. Dr. Phil should be quaking in his Big and Tall Man suits.”

“Dr. Phil isn’t a dancing bear.”

“You won’t be a dancing bear.”

“I’ve been rehearsing already, so don’t bet on that.”

“Ooh. Who’s your teacher?”

Matt hesitated. “No six-feet-tall Strip chorus girls to steer around the floor, thank goodness. Most female proballet and ballroom dancers are petite. She’s a brunette.”

“Should look dramatic with your fair coloring.”

“She’s the dramatic type, all right, but she’s just the instructor. I’ll actually perform with the other celebrities.”

“Don’t glower. Men are so afraid of a little social dancing. Look at all those macho athletes who aced Dancing With the Stars. Football players, Olympic skaters.”

“Temple, my only ‘sport’ is swimming. Not exactly a couple’s pursuit. Besides. You overlook the sleaze factor. The winning ballroom dancers are all sexy.”

“And you’re not?” she asked indignantly.

“Not for a mass media audience.”

“Nonsense! This will be good for you,” she decreed, “and good exposure for your show.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”