“I’ll eat the lettuce,” she told Louie. “I’ve got to watch my figure even if you don’t.”
Approaching feet echoed down the hall. They stuttered to a pause, then rounded the corner into the office.
“Temple! Thank God you’re still here!” Lorna Fennick cried rapturously.
“What now?”
“Lanyard Hunter wants to talk to you.”
“Haven’t you got that backward?”
“No. After his media interview this afternoon I mentioned that you wanted to speak with him. He immediately asked if you were ‘the cute redhead’ he kept seeing with me. Naturally, I said yes. He said dinner tonight would be fine. I think he likes you.”
“Oh, Lord. That’s all I need. A mashing murderer.”
“Temple, you don’t think—?”
“No, I’m just tired and irritable and surprised. Why’d a famous author want to waste time on me when he could be wined and dined by his publishers and assorted hangers- on?”
“Look, this is Sunday evening. After tomorrow, it’s virtually over. Maybe he’s just attracted to you.”
“Why? I’m not a hospital.”
“That’s below the stethoscope, Temple. Aren’t you PR woman enough to take advantage of an interview you wanted when it drops into your hand like a plum?”
“More like a plumb bob,” she complained. “That’s what I don’t like. Hunter is playing too easy to get.”
“Well, you don’t have to.”
“Okay, what’s the deal?”
“You pick him up here at six-fifteen. Take him wherever you figure is the best setting for prying information out of him.”
“Are you suggesting I use my feminine wiles?”
“I’m suggesting you use your public relations savvy.”
“Okay. I gotta scram this place, then get Louie home and ... sob, freshen up ... to get back here in”—Temple consulted her watch, whose minute and hour hands seemed to have shrunk or stretched to a matching length—“fifty- five minutes.”
At that she fished her car keys from her tote bag, drew the handles over her shoulder and swooped up the lounging Midnight Louie in one uninterrupted motion.
“ ’Bye,” Temple called to Lorna through the key ring between her teeth on the way out. “And thanks. I think.”
Not even Wile E. Coyote can move faster than a PR woman on the run. Crisis is the profession’s middle name. Temple’s aqua Storm darted like a dragonfly through the five p.m. traffic, its glittering sides snaring reflections of a searing red sun melting like strawberry syrup over the chocolate ice-cream peaks of the western mountains.
At the Circle Ritz, Temple sprinted for her apartment, Louie’s legs dangling like furred pendulums from under her arm. The cat was plopped onto the parquet and presented with a fresh mound of tuna before he got his sea legs.
Temple showered before he finished it. She was redressed, remade-up and ready to rush into the torpid evening by the time he’d finished his postprandial ablutions and had settled by the French doors, keeping one sleepy eye cocked on the patio.
Temple sped from the bedroom, cramming necessities from her tote bag into a small, dressy purse. Her flame- colored floaty dress was a tribute to the heat, the sunset and Lanyard Hunter’s apparent weakness for the color crimson.
After waving goodbye to the cat and turning her air conditioner up to 80 for the evening, Temple slammed her mahogany front door locked. She was back in the car, the air-conditioning on Max as in maximum, or Max the bum, her shoulder-length red earrings swinging maniacally, at one minute to 6 p.m.
By six-twelve, she was in the long line of vehicles queuing up the semicircular drive at the convention center’s Rotunda entrance. Lanyard Hunter’s silver hair and patrician height were readily recognizable. So was Lorna Fennick, to whom he was talking as they waited. Temple zoomed the Storm to the curb, waved at Lorna, who waved back as she spotted her own ride, and leaned across the seat to open the door.
Hunter bent down with a charming smile. “Miss Barr, I presume. Lanyard Hunter. I wouldn’t want you accepting a strange man in your car without a formal introduction.”
“How thoughtful. Do come in, Mr. Hunter. I thought we’d dine at Dome of the Sea at The Dunes, unless you hate seafood?”
“Perfect,” Hunter said obliquely enough that the comment could apply to anything, including the driver. “After all the bloody beef dinners it takes to maintain the strength to deal with one’s publishers, I’d prefer something subtler.”
Temple lifted an eyebrow and eased the Storm into the traffic. She’d be willing to bet that she was “something subtler” than Lanyard Hunter expected.
The geodesic Dome of the Sea restaurant offered an aquatic dimness into which it was possible for the neon-weary diner to sink like a peaceful pearl. In tanks surrounding the upholstered banquettes, tropical fish massaged illuminated azure waters to the accompaniment of a harpist plucking liquid melodies.
“Very nice,” Hunter said, the object of his compliment again ambiguous but his eyes resting exclusively on Temple. He had a compelling, platinum-gray stare that sliced past normal social barriers as intimately as a hot scalpel.
Temple took refuge behind a long, glossy menu specifying double-digit prices. A slice of the adjoining casino was visible behind Hunter. One of the many crystal-hung chandeliers haloed his dramatic silver locks like a diamond-toothed circular saw.
He’s no angel, Temple reminded herself, but a skilled and shrewd con man equipped with the smarmy charisma and florid handsomeness of a televangelist. She’d had enough of the type, plus Hunter was a little past her age limit. She was apparently not out of his.
‘‘Charming,” he murmured again.
“Thanks so much for making yourself available, Mr. Hunter,” she said briskly. “I’m sure your insight will be helpful in creating a correct picture of the late Mr. Royal’s achievements. It’s a big responsibility to generate an obituary on a stranger, and an out-of-towner to boot.”
“Lorna said you wanted some information, but could we order drinks and appetizers first?” He regarded her with an understanding tolerance, well aware that his practiced charm made her nervous.
“Certainly. Everything, of course, will be on my PR tab, so order as lavishly as you wish.” That ought to reestablish control, Temple thought. Independent career woman picks up the check.
“I will.” Hunter’s smile broadened into an amused grin. “And the bill is mine; I insist. Experience before beauty.”
She saw little point in playing the liberated career woman in the face of Hunter’s determined role of gracious host. Temple smiled back and proceeded to order a martini, the crab pâté appetizers, scallops, a twice-baked potato with cheese and shrimp sauce, and a Caesar salad.
“That’s a little rich for my blood,” Hunter commented. “High cholesterol.”
“Mine’s one hundred sixty-eight. How’s yours?”
“Well enough. I’m curious; how can I help you with anything involving Chester Royal?”
Temple’s martini had arrived, brimming, a stemmed glass almost wider than it was tall. She managed to lift it without spilling and sipped the level down.
“I’ve heard fascinating things about you, Mr. Hunter, your medical savoir faire included. Surely you, more than anyone, would know how Mr. Royal made such a success of the medical thriller books he packaged.”
“The public fixates on physicians, Miss Barr. May I call you Temple? Doctors are perceived as benign, all-powerful beings who reveal little of themselves while probing into their patients’ most intimate matters.”