Before Temple could shake her head, or shrug her gown back on her shoulders, Fabrizio strode over and caught Temple's itty-bitty hand in his great big paw.
He led--dragged--her to center stage, not her idea of undercover work.
Apparently, it wasn't Danny Dove's idea of how to run a rehearsal either.
Danny jumped up and spun Temple out of Fabrizio's ham-handed grip before either of them could blink.
Now Danny pointed imperiously. "You. To the risers with the rest of the chorus line." He turned to the assembled hunks.
"If you must have a demonstration of the finer points of a pose-down, I will give it. Now, you must remember that although you are dealing with a person who may weigh as little as half your own poundage, she is liable to feel heavier than you think, especially if you try too-heroic maneuvers without a careful rehearsal. For instance, no Taming-of-the-Shrew sack of potatoes over the shoulder shtick . . .
unless you've rehearsed it."
Danny demonstrated by bending and rising with Temple draped over one shoulder, his arm around her knees the only thing that kept her from tumbling to the hard stage floor.
Temple tried to gasp, but the corset ruled out all emergency breathing techniques. Danny had spun so she faced the empty house, and a good thing, too; gravity was pulling her bodice to depths that Quincey and company could not dare dream of. She crossed her arms over her gaping decolletage (and crossed her fingers on her shoulders) while eavesdropping on Danny's crisp lecture on her rear ... er, at her rear.
"In this position, the woman's weight is mostly over my shoulder, but gravity makes even the lightest one like lead. Let go of her legs, and you drop her. Lean back too far, and you drop her. My advice is: don't try it. If she ends up on her ass, you end up looking like one. Not very romantic."
Temple felt her world shake as Danny bent and she once again touched terra firma, feet-first.
Not for long.
"I know, gentlemen, that during pose-downs you are fond of executing a maneuver known as a 'dip.'
" Danny's scathingly precise enunciation made the act of a dip sound like . . . well, the act of a dip.
"Bear in mind that the female torso bends, but it does not break."
Danny turned and bent again. Temple suddenly was staring at the hems of curtains suspended in the flies. She felt she was lying head down on the grounded half of a teeter-totter. Speaking of totter, she felt that she was going to slide headfirst and backwards off the edge of the known world . . . which-did-too-have-one!
"Not to worry." Danny's reassuring tone soothed as he maintained their difficult position and continued his lecture.
"This looks easier than it is. Notice that my supporting arm is lengthwise as much as possible beneath the lady's spine. Notice, too, that I leaned back a bit as I bent her and myself over, so her feet are not churning to keep braced on the floor. You do not wish to make your lady fair look like a hyperactive gerbil. If you must dip, and I do not recommend that you try this in your own home, practice slowly and safely. Get it right. Otherwise, you will have her flailing in your arms ... or falling to the floor. Then the only dip you have to take is your farewell curtsy as you are hooted offstage as an unromantic boor."
Danny pulled Temple upright as if she weighed six pounds and dropped custody of her hand. "Any questions?"
Temple had one. She knew she had been heaved around like a side of beef, but she had never really felt out of control, despite her fears. And Danny probably weighed a hundred and forty pounds with his hair wet.
A slow, ponderous wave of clapping bestirred the becalmed hunks, who understood the weight problem, if nothing else. Danny took Temple's hand and stepped away. She recovered fast enough to take a shallow (due to the dress) bow, and smile like a trouper.
"My hero," she whispered wryly as Danny bowed and kissed her hand.
"Better than being a hero sandwich," he muttered, rolling his eyes at the risers, where Breezy pouted like the world's largest five-year-old.
Danny's angelic grin as he regarded Fabrizio sobered to a director's sternness. Temple ambled offstage, trying not to feel dizzy.
"Spotlight-hog," Lacey greeted her. "Too bad you got stuck with the wimpy director."
"I'll tell him you said that," Temple answered sweetly. "I know he'll make sure that you get all the dorkiest guys as pose-down partners."
"Right on, Batgirl!" Quincey grinned at Temple.
Together they watched Lacey slink away to wave at the guys on the risers.
"You did okay," the sixteen-year-old told Temple in a hurried, hoarse whisper. "But don't be such a nerd about the damn neckline."
It was, Temple realized sadly, excellent advice.
Since the worst, for now, was over, she realized her subconscious had been playing tricks during her mental sojourn in Historical Romance Heaven. The least of them was the unlikely handle of Tempest Storm: it had come to mind so quickly because it was the stage name of an infamous stripper.
Did this fact offer an omen for Temple's fate during the real, live dress rehearsal and actual performance still to come?
Temple decided to distract herself from forthcoming indignities with another shoe hunt.
Chapter 27
Witch Switch
I am more than somewhat worried about Miss Temple Barr.
After witnessing her odd behavior the other day at the MGM Grand theme park, which resulted in her being swept off her tootsies not once, but twice, by dirty, greasy pirates, I fear that her recent emotional upsets have also swept off her sanity.
So I resolve to keep a weather eye on her (in keeping with the nautical theme of her recent expedition).
And what do you know? The very next time I find her slipping away from the Crystal Phoenix for a little R&R (Wrest and Wreckreation) it is the dark of evening, and where do her size-fives head but back for a return engagement with the Big Guy at the MGM Grand? Does she not get the picture? She is not safe on these nasty, neon streets.
I amble after her, wondering what sort of aerial antics she is up to tonight.
Once again I risk life and lateral limb nipping through the awesome glass doors, which would like nothing better than to snap shut on any part of my anatomy in arrears. These casino doors are hungrier than a loan shark on a diet.
On this occasion, Miss Temple appears to be playing the role of innocent tourist. She immediately heads for the quaint little kiosk with the cabbage-size Technicolor flower blooming all around it at the back of the "Wizard of Oz" enclosure just inside Leo's welcoming paws. I note that an admission fee is charged, so I slink into the ersatz greenery and belly-crawl on the skimpy dirt until I am a mere whisker away from the Yellow Brick Road.
(By the way, do you have any idea of why the Yellow Brick Road is yellow? This is real insider stuff, so listen up. Toto. Yup. For a pipsqueak, he was mighty powerful in the elimination department. Dogs will do it anywhere, you know. And that goes for other matters, as well. An inferior species from start to finish, but they do have their occasional uses.)
I wait impatiently for Miss Temple to catch up to me. There are many disadvantages to being human, but having to pay admission must be one of the worst. Not only does Miss Temple have to slam down five bucks for this insider tour of the Haunted Forest and the Emerald City at its center, but she has to wait until showtime while a mob of tourists jostles and stomps behind her.
According to a sign on the gingerbread kiosk, the Emerald City houses a magic show. I could show her some real magic: just belly-crawl under the fence and you are in free of charge. Of course Miss Temple might claim to find the notion of crawling into an attraction rather undignified, but--given her recent shenanigans in the rigging with the pirate scum and her new role as wench--she is hardly one to plead dignity as an excuse for not doing something.