Broken basted-on lavender threads sprouted like blades of grass from Oz on the red velvet top. Temple ripped off the glued-on purple braid around the lid, and lifted the red velvet. Beneath lay a snowy mound of printed paper.
Oleta’s manuscript.
She’d brought a copy with her. To show it, sell it, or use it for blackmail?
Didn’t matter. Temple had the whole story in her hands now and an all-night reading assignment that even Matt couldn’t interrupt.
But that was later. This was now, and she still had a lot of tasks on her to-do list.
Chapter 51
The Flirting Fontanas
“You see the woman in the green shoes?” Temple asked. “Yes,” Emilio said. “She Irish?”
“I rather doubt it,” Temple said. “Those are six-inch platforms and she always wears them.”
He stared. “Isn’t that excessive?”
“Darn right. Especially for covering a convention on these hard floors all day.”
“Agreed. I don’t wear high heels and my feet are killing me from this guard duty. So why would she do that?”
“I thought all Fontana brothers knew all women inside out.” Emilio’s dark eyes grew wary. He knew women well enough to realize that Temple was angling for something. This innocent game of Twenty Fashion Questions was the lead-up to the jaws of the trap crashing shut. On his fine silk-clad Italian calf.
“Like you, Miss Temple, she wishes to be taller and show off her ankles, which are not as world class as yours.”
“Nicely put. What is it with men and ankles anyway? Surely they’re one of the most awkward parts of the human anatomy, along with elbows.”
“It’s always a matter of what you do with them.” His eyes narrowed at Natalie Newman’s high-rise footwear. “Those are much too high for anything other than Milano runways or entering and exiting limousines.”
“I know that six-inch heels are the coming thing in In Style. That’s not real life, though, and Miss Newman is a working journalist and filmmaker, doomed to be on her feet all day. Do you think Michael Moore would wear shoes like that to out a politician?”
Emilio choked discreetly at the idea of Michael Moore’s three hundred pounds on Natalie’s high platform shoes.
“You are leading, Miss Temple, but I’m not following, although this is a most enjoyable ride.”
“That woman is wearing those ridiculous stilts for the same reason that I like my three-inchers. She needs to be taller to see.”
“But she’s already tall for a woman.”
“Exactly. She doesn’t need her eyes to see, but something else.”
Emilio digested that one. “She does lift that handheld camcorder over the crowd frequently. It’s clever, actually, to make herself into a giraffe the better to film the convention.”
“What about the tote bag?”
“Not even a Gucci knockoff,” Emilio noted with a slight sneer. “Otherwise not much different from your ever-present bag of the same sort, sensibly purchased at T. J. Maxx.”
“You do know women inside out,” Temple marveled at his accurate call.
He looked down at her through sexy, half-closed eyes. “I can get you a great deal on the real Gucci if you yearn to go upscale.”
“Sony, Emilio, shoes are my thing, not bags. I’m happy with Target or Steinmart in that regard.”
Emilio winced to hear such anti-Italian talk.
“No,” Temple went on, craning her neck at the Newman woman as she moved through the crowd, “it’s what is in that bag that I want a good look at. That I want copied without her knowing it. Of course not even the fantastic flying Fontana brothers could manage that.”
“Such a thing is impossible. When do you want it?”
“It would have to be done without alerting her, and it would require special equipment.”
“All of us Fontanas have special equipment,” she was told fiercely. “And we all can move like leopards if necessary.”
“I’m happy to hear it for my aunt Kit’s sake:’ Temple continued, unflustered. “Because I know in my bones that there’s a second camcorder in that tote bag and I want the video in it copied and returned to the camera with Natalie Newman completely unaware of that.”
“Hmmm. I’ll have to consult the family. A simple seduction might be the easiest way”—he glanced at Natalie’s severe features—“but, despite the sexy shoes, her ankles predict that she’s a plate of cold spaghetti sans sauce in bed and even Fontana brothers can’t sacrifice themselves to a pleasureless charade. I’m afraid we can’t rely on charm in this instance. Let me get back to you on this.”
“Of course:’ Temple said. “But make it snappy.”
Temple returned to the Crystal Phoenix the next morning to find Red Hat ladies eagerly lining up to the right of the lobby.
She was about to walk around the impediment when a Fontana brother appeared with the smile of the maitre d’ at the Bellagio’s Le Cirque restaurant on his handsome face.
“ ‘Scuse, miss. Hotel security. Due to recent unfortunate events that are the talk of the convention and the town, we are conducting a spot check on items being brought into the hotel. Your most attractive tote bag has been selected for further looking into:’ he murmured in a way that would lead one to offer tote bag, body, and soul to the inspector if she was not careful. “Please join the other ladies awaiting inspection. We promise to be thorough, but, alas, quick.”
“Just like a man,” the Red Hat lady who was last in line chuckled as Temple fell into place, mad with curiosity.
She spotted Natalie Newman’s hatless dark hair eight places ahead and realized the genius of the plan. Another Fontana brother was looming over the reporter despite her extra-high heels and slathering on Fontana brother charm an inch (of Alfredo sauce) thick as he slipped the precious bag from her custody.
“There’s camera equipment in there,” she protested, quite rightly.
“Exactly why my brothers in hotel security will hand-check your bag. We will handle everything with the most delicate of touches, and return it to you in perfect working order.”
An 000h from the entire line of women within earshot made Natalie look like a cur—or worse, a frigid fool—for objecting to anything a Fontana brother might wish to do with her bag.
“Do you think they do pat downs?” the woman in front of Temple giggled.
“Only of bags,” she replied, “and of course you don’t want to be taken for a ‘bag.’ “
Natalie had been plucked from the line to be queried on the exact nature of her job and her work here, as if that were a rare and special activity of tremendous interest to the interrogating Fontana brother.
Her sunken cheeks began to pinken at such intimate and solicitous attention. She didn’t even notice that the other women shuffled past, allowed to proceed far more quickly than she.
Temple was soon the only woman behind her. No others had been recruited after her.
Everything was very airport: the beige wall dividers. The sounds of a big machine churning out of view.
Natalie turned to watch Temple’s tote bag being whisked out of her custody with the same charming patter as her own had been.
“This is ridiculous,” Natalie whispered to her, suddenly a partner in being subjected to bureaucratic idiocy.
“It looks like they’re targeting oversize bags,” Temple whispered back.
“These other silly cows seem to actually like being examined by these greaser gangsters!”
“Well, they’re here to have fun and I suppose this adds a bit of drama.”
“These are the same silly, stupid women who watch soap operas and read romance novels. They’re making idiots of themselves and don’t even know it.”
“Isn’t it hard to record the convention when you despise the attendees?”
Natalie’s pale lips pursed. “I’m not a PR flack like you. I’m a journalist. I can … be objective about anything.”