Cat In A Topaz Tango

“You can practice your new steps with me. That’ll give you an edge. Extra rehearsal time.”

“Sorry. All my free time must be devoted to rehearsal eight to ten hours a day with La Tatyana. Given my night-owl working sched, I’ll have no time or energy for fiancées.”

“Tatyana?”

“You can talk Dancing With the Stars, but you obviously don’t watch the show closely enough.”

“Guilty,” Temple admitted. “I’m too busy to catch a weekly TV show, but I’ve seen clips.”

“Most of the pro dancers are Russian. I guess the baton has passed and the great Russian dancers of today have gone from ballet to samba.”

“So what’s Tat-yan-ah like?” Temple asked, deciding it was time to flex her possessiveness.

Matt winced. “A Gestapo officer in rehearsal and a Lolita on stage.”

“Heavily bipolar. Sounds more like a blue movie than a dance contest. I’ll have to come to the broadcast every night of the competition to act as bodyguard.”

“I’m more worried about missing a step than any domineering sexpot.”

“‘Domineering sexpot.’ Now there’s a role I could aspire to.”

“Don’t even try.” Matt tousled her luxuriant red-gold curls. “Sexy sprite is my speed.”

Temple laughed and snuggled into his arms, glad to have Matt in her life and a subdued version of her natural fiery red hair color back after having a blond bleach job foisted on her for an assignment.

Into this premarital merriment a large black shadow descended.

Midnight Louie lofted over the sofa back onto their semitwined laps, earning protests.

“Louie! You weigh a ton,” Temple said. “Off!”

Matt hefted the big cat with one hand under his belly and set him on a sofa arm. “He must be protesting being left out of the wedding plans.”

“Oh,” Temple cooed, “Louie was so cute as the ring bearer wearing that black bow tie collar with the ring box attached.”

“You could see he hated the bow tie as much as I would, but he did relish center stage, as usual.”

“You’ll have to do ring bearer act again for our wedding, Louie,” Temple threatened her feline roommate.

He showed his fangs but stifled a hiss of contempt and jumped down to the parquet floor.

“I sometimes think he’s trying to come between us,” Matt said with a frown Temple found adorable.

Matt must have driven women and girls crazy when he was in the priesthood, Temple thought, enjoying watching her beloved interact with her panther-personality alpha tomcat. He’d kill ’em on Dancing With the Celebs. He was classically good-looking in a blond, matinee-idol way. That he never used it made his charm even more devastating.

But looks were deceiving, as usual. Matt’s unhappy childhood, first with a beaten-down unwed mother and then with an abusive stepfather, had driven him to become the perfect “Father Matt” he’d never had. He liked the anonymity of radio. She was hoping the dance competition would bring out his extroverted side.

She wriggled her bare toes against his stomach, making him seize her feet to stop the teasing and eye her with unsanctioned intentions. He’d worked hard to overcome his sad early history and was more than ready to start making some promising fresh history with her, except for the occasional qualm about fornication without benefit of matrimony.

She was a lucky girl. Temple sighed again, this time with an odd combination of contentment and excitement. She sure hoped trouble would stay out of their way until they could do something official to end these prenuptial nerves.

Louie Left Out

Ring bearer.

Who do they think I am?

Frodo?

I am short and I do have hairy feet, but do I look like I eat seven meals a day?

Well, maybe a wee bit.

Anyway, it was bad enough I was shanghaied into my Miss Temple’s maternal aunt’s wedding party recently. After all, the event was over the top to begin with, just in having eight legendary Fontana brothers for groomsmen, not counting the eight good-looking bridesmaids they squired.

And, granted, I got a little local publicity for being Johnny-on-the-spot, but I got no credit for outsmarting the murderous individual who almost ruined the wedding beforehand by taking out the maid of honor, my very own Miss Temple Barr.

All this wedding talk and reminiscence is making me gloomy. My Miss Temple was “this far” from being the matron of honor. The way a maid gets to be a matron is by marrying someone, as she and Mr. Matt Devine are discussing so often these days.

I do so miss my previous rival for turf on the royal bedspread here at the Circle Ritz.

Mr. Max Kinsella was the perfect boyfriend for my Miss Temple.

He lived and slept somewhere secret off the premises.

He customarily arrived discreetly by the patio doors, which is my usual modus operandi.

Although he gave lip service to a future of marital bliss, he led two to three lives and his past career as a magician and undercover counterterrorist kept him on the run and single.