Cat in a Vegas Gold Vendetta Read online

  “Oh! I must be running along. I’ve got an important pickup at the airport.”

  They agreed to meet at Violet’s house on Aloe Vera Drive the next day. In the late morning, Savannah stressed. Violet would be feeling better then and Captain Jack would have had his walk and playtime.

  Temple skittered through the Crystal Phoenix crowds, Louie’s claws scratching marble underfoot behind her, letting Savannah and her poor aunt fade into the mist of must-dos on her schedule. She could easily get to the airport, but she needed time to dress appropriately to face the most mixed-feeling moment of her life.

  Welcoming Max back from the dead.

  Chapter 4

  Dead Last

  Midnight Louie lay curled atop the bedspread like the dark center of a daisy. Making the colorful petals scattered around him were half the items in Temple’s entire wardrobe, it seemed.

  He still looked miffed from overhearing Savannah Ashleigh play fast and loose with his unique, entrancing street name. Or maybe, Temple thought, he remained in a state of high dudgeon over the cavalier way Yvette and Solange had been passed from flaky niece to possibly delusional and seriously ill aunt.

  Temple drove the afternoon’s distractions from her mind.

  Normally, she wasted no angst on what to wear. She enjoyed being a girl, as the petite female usually can. Being a freelance public-relations professional required more business suits and heels than the average Sunbelt wardrobe, but “business” in Vegas could be flashier than the whole navy-blue Elsewhere beyond it.

  No, she was agonizing over remembering what Max Kinsella had seen or might remember seeing her wear or not, and whether she should try to jog or confuse his missing memory of her when she picked him up at McCarran Airport in … her wristwatch’s inescapably bold dial told her, seventy-five minutes. A PR person is on perpetual deadline; she can’t always be digging out a cell-phone face for the time.

  “Louie,” she exhorted in a blend of aggravation and plea, “must you exercise squatter’s rights on my bed every day? If you’re going to lie there like a lump, pick something for me to meet Max in, then.”

  He slit open his blasé green eyes, yawned to show much tongue and teeth, and stretched a lazy foreleg to a chartreuse polished-cotton suit.

  “He’ll sure spot me in a crowd if I wear that,” Temple admitted, “and it matches the lighter streaks in your eyes—not that you’re going with me this time.”

  With the outfit determined by a clawing instead of drawing lots, Temple next had to confront a deeper problem. To wear her Miracle Bra or not, as she usually did with that figure-flattening suit.

  No. She should dress as if retrieving a maiden aunt … although her aunt Kit Carlson, now Mrs. Aldo Fontana, was much too chic for the role. A Miracle Bra would be … calculating … could be misinterpreted. In no way would it be actually inciting, despite her foolish hopes when buying it.

  Red patent high-heeled sandals and matching tote bag lifted her spirits if not her bustline. She surveyed herself in the mirror. A petite woman can wear just about everything that is not voluminous or large-patterned. At least her longer, dark strawberry-copper hair color softened the red-and-lime-green, escaped-from-a-jelly-bean-jar look.

  Max was not the jelly-bean type. He could spot her easily and then go, Ick, I could never have slept with that woman, even in my right mind. And it was true; they’d made an odd couple—the tall, dark, mysterious master magician and the short, firecracker-red-haired PR hotshot.

  You’re supposed to know me.

  Those were among the first words she’d heard on her cell phone only moments after she’d finished talking to Matt just last night. She hadn’t instantly recognized the voice, but the call was from Northern Ireland, and the caller admitted he’d been drinking.

  Temple was not used to hearing from melancholy, drunk ex-boyfriends. She didn’t have that many, for one thing. For another, Max had been far more than a boyfriend.

  She glanced at the glittering Art Deco ring on her left hand. Matt had bought it where the movie stars shopped (and borrowed for the Red Carpet), Fred Leighton’s Vegas vintage-rocks store. Matt had gone from a vow of poverty to making enough money to needing an agent. He’d rather give it away and knew she cherished vintage things, but sometimes she didn’t wear the valuable ring going out alone, for security reasons.

  To wear or not to wear. Rubies matched her red shoes and tote bag. Diamonds matched everything. Wear. Max had always been a realist.

  So. She’d do her duty, shepherd him back into town, and then get as far away from him as fast as possible … except duty, she knew, had a way of slopping over established borders of behavior. If only Aunt Kit had returned from her honeymoon a day earlier than she had to advise her! She was sure Kit would be there to lap up the gory details afterward, though.

  Temple marched out of her condo to follow the circular hallway to the single elevator, not reveling in its touches of burled wood and chrome as she usually did. The fifties-era round building had an eccentric array of differently laid-out units. It was only five stories at the penthouse level, and the small lobby was usually deserted at midday.

  “Well, don’t you look spiffy, kiddo!”

  Oops. Today of all days, Electra Lark, landlady, would happen to be waiting for the elevator. Or just lurking to make trouble for Temple.

  “Um, thanks,” Temple said. “You don’t think this outfit is too … garish?”

  “Since when did ‘garish’ bother you or me or Vegas, Temple honey?”

  Electra’s halo of white hair was zebra-striped today, with black glitter. Her capacious muumuu was leopard print, and her lipstick was orangutan orange. She was a zoo gone amok.

  “Silly of me to worry,” Temple said. “I’ve got to run.”

  “Oh?” Nosy landlady was a cliché Electra took pride in living up to.

  “I’ve got a quick pickup at McCarran. Kit’s back,” she semi-lied. “Can’t wait. I’m late, I’m late.”

  And she clattered out the door, her spike heels echoing in the high, empty space.

  The sun-softened parking lot asphalt forced her to dig in those heels at a sober pace and don her sunglasses before she reached her red Miata. She decided to leave the top up. Some vague notion about not messing her hairdo, or maybe about not being seen going to pick up Max.

  You’re supposed to know me.

  The voice repeated pitch-perfect in her mind. Every word of that one-way conversation was etched on her memory. No amnesia on this end, unfortunately.

  You’re supposed to know me.

  That works two ways, dude, Temple thought, starting the Miata. If he didn’t recognize her, that might be the best solution.

  Forty minutes later she was in Terminal D, wandering among the famous desert-wildlife cast-concrete sculptures crouched on the shiny terrazzo floor. All five sand-colored critters were larger-than-life enough to dwarf kids and most adults. Temple couldn’t decide which one to station herself beside.

  The sluggish bulk of the desert tortoise really wasn’t her speed. The black-tailed jackrabbit hunched into his awesomely long rear legs was the only furry one and reminded Temple that she presently felt like Alice plunging down a dark and mysterious hole.

  The scorpion’s upraised stone stinger looked too hostile, as did the low, long Mojave rattlesnake.

  The horny toad was spined and spiked like a punk rocker, so ugly it was cute, but had an unfortunate name under the circumstances. Luckily, there were no nameplates on the critters, and the horny toad’s foreleg was just the right size for Tiny Alice to sit upon, so Temple did.

  Her watch told her she was twenty minutes early for the first passengers exiting Max’s flight to get through the security checkpoints for arrivals from foreign countries. She began scanning the people pouring from the terminals toward the baggage-claim area anyway, mentally phrasing how she’d explain this to Matt, in person, when he arrived on his flight from Chicago in three days.

  He was stranded in Ireland
without a memory, but with the IRA after him again. Or somebody. His traveling companion was dead. No, I don’t know “Why me?” Someone must have told him about me. I couldn’t just … leave him out there. Christian charity.

  “Only redhead sitting on a toadstool. You must be Temple,” said a voice behind her.

  She jumped up and spun around at the same time. “How’d you get through so fast, and past me?”

  “I’m told I was a magician.”

  They stared at each other, strangers.

  “You look…” she began.

  “Ghastly?”

  She almost retorted, Ghostly.

  His skin was washed out, not just pale, despite the deliberate smudge of a three-day beard. His expensive wrinkle-shedding clothes weren’t the invariable black, but a designer shade of ultradark moss green. He seemed even taller, maybe because he was even thinner. A huge duffel bag crouched like a giant desert lizard at his feet, and he was leaning on a cane like Dr. House of House, the TV show.

  “You look … not like yourself,” Temple finally answered.

  “Good,” he said.

  Max wore sunglasses, so she couldn’t see his blue eyes, but she sensed him looking her up and down, too. Someone needed to say something next; it might as well be her.

  “I, ah, wanted to make sure you couldn’t fail to spot me.”

  “Your eye-catching ensemble does remind me of a Christmas ornament that’s gone terribly wrong … but this is the first time I’ve smiled in four days. Your hair color alone would have done the recognition job, Red.”

  “You never called me that.”

  “What did I call you?”

  Your paprika girl.

  “Temple. Doesn’t allow for nicknames. And you’ve never seen my hair this color.”

  “What color was it?”

  “The natural, really red.”

  “You needed a new look?”

  “I needed a disguise. Long story.”

  “At least you have one. What are you going to do with me?”

  Good question. Luckily, she had an answer. “I thought you’d want to see if the Strip rang any bells, and at least eat something other than travel food.”

  He nodded as they joined the crowds flowing around them. Temple was used to keeping up with taller people, but she found herself slowing her pace.

  I’ve got two recently broken legs that will ache in this blasted damp weather for the rest of my life if I stay in the damned country.…

  “I’m in the parking lot,” Temple said, “but I drive a … Miata.”

  She saw the fine lines at the outer edges of his eyes wince.

  “You own a Maxima,” she reassured him.

  He winced again. “Am I that egotistical, or do I just have a corny sense of humor?”

  “A bit of both.” She smiled. “The car is black, like what you always wear.”

  “I had a feeling I was drawn to the color too much for my own safety.”

  “I’m … taking you to dinner. An orientation exercise.”

  “I suppose I owe you whatever explanation I can remember. Will that restaurant have a bar? This could be a ‘bumpy night.’”

  She smiled again, this time at the famous Bette Davis line. He remembered some things just fine.

  “You’ve had a long flight,” she said. “I planned on stopping for an early dinner so you can stretch your legs. Or would that be too much right now?”

  “I’ve been alone for four days. I could use some apparently familiar company.”

  “Aside from the awkwardness,” Temple confessed, “I’m dying of curiosity.”

  “Me too,” Max said.

  * * *

  “Why are you doing this, curiosity aside?” Max asked ten minutes later. He’d folded himself like an origami napkin into the Miata’s front seat after jamming his crushable duffel bag into what passed as a trunk.

  “I’m supposed to know you.” Temple paused in unfastening the convertible top.

  He didn’t recognize the near-quote as his. She got out of the car to fold down the top. As she’d anticipated, not enough headroom for Max. He’d never ridden in her Miata, although she’d been a frequent passenger in his cars.

  His head turned to follow her around the small car. “You’re ‘supposed to know me,’ but now you don’t, I see. I don’t even know ‘me.’”

  “Do you … remember … know … me at all?”

  He shook his head. “Oh, wait.”

  Temple’s breath caught in her chest as she stood still.

  “I know you’re a generous woman to do this,” he said.

  Letdown.

  “Girl Scout,” she agreed.

  They were back to banalities, which was a relief, Temple thought, as she returned to the driver’s seat.

  McCarran Airport was on Wayne Newton Boulevard, and you could see the multinational panorama of the major Strip hotels on the flat desert landscape. Temple drove up the Strip, passing the landmarks: the Luxor, the MGM Grand, the Goliath, the Crystal Phoenix, Caesars Palace, the Bellagio, the Paris, the Wynn, and the Venetian. She turned around and cruised down the Strip’s other side. Max’s sunglasses gazed at the exotic views on both sides, but his mind seemed a continent away.

  “I made dinner reservations at a steak house,” Temple said at last. “I know it was an ungodly long flight. I can cancel.”

  Her words seem to jolt Max out of his spell. “Yes, but no. Long flight, don’t cancel. A prime, rare American steak is just the medicine I need.”

  “We’ll be the first seating, so the place will be quiet at this hour. It’s white-tablecloth expensive but four-star. And I reserved a banquette table for four, so you can sit on cushy leather and stretch your legs out under the empty seat kitty-corner.”

  “And I let you get away?”

  Temple didn’t answer. She couldn’t. He had let her get away, probably for her own safety, judging from what had happened to him.

  “That was too … too flip,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “Wait’ll you see this place and the menu, then you’ll really be sorry,” Temple said, her usual composure back and sassy. “I need to … orient you to some things. We can answer each other’s burning questions over dinner while you get a break from riding in my pip-squeak car.”

  “Thoughtful, but don’t let this cane mislead you. I stopped using one, then I … reinjured myself a little recently, and then came the endless flights. You’re right that explaining myself and your explaining me to me should be on neutral ground.”

  “Gosh, you’re way more agreeable than you used to be.”

  He grinned for the first time. “I was hoping to learn I was a cantankerous bastard.”

  She just smiled and concentrated on her driving.

  He read the giant “ph” sign as she turned off the Strip into an entrance driveway. “Isn’t that something to do with skin care?”

  “Planet Hollywood.” She nodded at the building’s top that spelled out the words in uncapitalized white neon, understated for Vegas.

  “It’s an entire hotel now,” he asked, “not just a restaurant?”

  It had been for four years, and Max had only been gone a couple months. She felt a sharp interior wrench to realize how much personal history he’d lost in such a short time.

  “Yup,” Temple said. “I find this the classiest interior on the Strip, aside from the Crystal Phoenix. We’re a bit early because you came through faster than I anticipated, so we can have a cocktail at the Living Room bar.”

  “Sounds cozy,” Max said, struggling to exit the Miata while the doorman held out a hand for his cane. The parking valet saw Temple out.

  “Do you remember any Vegas hotels?” she asked as they entered and were instantly immersed in a gigantic, dim, cool space where even the gaudy slot machines looked primped for a Red Carpet stroll.

  “The Crystal Phoenix rang a bell,” Max said. “Lots of high-end crystal.”

  “A client of mine,” she said.

  “
This place too?”

  “Not. I’m a one-woman operation. I just like the ambiance here.”

  “Aha. That’ll betray a lot about you.”

  “Not hard. I’m wearing a fifties-vintage suit and this place is understated Art Deco, unless it’s overstated Art Deco.”

  “Vintage is your thing, really?”

  He had to study the damn suit, of course. Temple felt an unreasonable pang for her missing Miracle Bra.

  “Chartreuse was hot in the nineteen-fifties,” she said, “and classic suits are classic suits.”

  “Chartreuse is hot in twenty-somethings, too.”

  No comment. Temple bustled across the busy patterned carpeting all casinos demanded for maintenance to a pair of escalators set between towering, color-changing rectangular lights.

  “I forgot. Can you do escalators?” she asked, looking back. “Where’s your cane?”

  “Sure. Saves steps.” He patted the side pocket of his long, European-styled blazer. “The cane is collapsible.”

  They glided up, surveying the subdued casino below, nearing the solid ceiling blocks of marquee-shaped neon lighting that kept shifting colors.

  “I commend subtle,” Max said.

  “I’m not,” Temple said.

  “I like honesty better.”

  “You must be drawing on memory to venture opinions.”

  “I know what I like,” he said. “I just don’t remember why or who or when or where. Or what.” He slipped his sunglasses into his inside breast pocket.

  Even in the muted lighting, she could see his features’ new gauntness and a healing forehead gash the frames had obscured. And a haunted look of loss in his eyes.

  Or what with whom. Temple diverted herself back to the tour-guide role. “Come into my fave parlor on the Strip.”

  They turned left and they were there. Venetian glass-framed mirrors seemed to float on hanging walls of red velvet curtains. The Living Room was furnished with low bronze leather sofas and tiny bronze metal–sculpted cocktail tables. A spectacularly gilt-rimmed dome hosted a glittering chandelier that reflected in the metal and glass bar.