I spotted Kyle Quicke among the caterers. I’d gone to Bigtime University with Kyle, and his family owned Quicke’s, one of my favorite restaurants in Bigtime. I watched Kyle cut a slice of chocolate cake and hand it to a waiting guest. My stomach rumbled. I could use some food. A lot of food.
“Come on, Fiona. It’s time for the pictures,” the chief murmured in my ear, dashing my hopes of a stealthy getaway.
I rolled my eyes and turned back toward the dais.
#
Forty-five minutes later, I tapped my fingers on my arm. “How many pictures are you going to take?” I snapped at the photographer. Patience was not one of my virtues. In fact, I didn’t think it was any sort of virtue at all.
The short, fat man wilted under my hot gaze. Most everybody did. My eyes went to his digital camera. One little flare-up, and it would look like something that came out of a kiln. There’d definitely be no more pictures then . . .
“Fiona.” The chief’s blue eyes narrowed in warning.
I shot him a sour look and dampened my temper. That was the problem with your father being a psychic superhero. You could never get away with anything.
“Actually, I’m done with the wedding party. I just want to get a few more shots of the bride and groom,” the photographer said.
“It’s about bloody time,” I muttered.
I stomped out of the garden and onto the lawn. My stilettos sank into the damp earth, but I yanked up my feet and kept going. Another benefit of having superstrength. Henry, Lulu, and my father followed at a more sedate pace.
Most of the male guests had settled down at the tables and were busy stuffing themselves with chicken, spring vegetables, and fancy sourdough rolls baked in the shape of curling vines and flowers. Not so for the women. Every woman under sixty gathered around the wide, long bar, downing glass after glass of champagne. Some stared at nothing in particular. A few snuffled into their crystal flutes, while others dabbed at their runny mascara. They weren’t tears of joy. Quite the contrary. Three hundred women’s dreams of becoming Mrs. Sam Sloane had just been dashed by a lowly society reporter. It was more than enough to make the stoutest society matron weepy, depressed, and drunk as a skunk.
I shoved my way through the crowd, zapped a few people with hot flashes to make them move, and grabbed the biggest champagne glass I could find. Bubbles fizzed up in the golden liquid. I drained the glass and twitched my nose to ease the sudden tickling sensation. I didn’t need to sneeze flames in front of a thousand people.
“Fiona! Fiona Fine!”
I turned at the sound of my name and spotted Joanne James fluttering her hand at me. Joanne was a tall, skinny woman with a rather large chest and too-smooth features. Hair blacker than shoe polish brushed her slender shoulders, contrasting with the ropes of pearls that encircled her gaunt neck.
Oh boy. I was going to need something a lot stronger than champagne. I ordered a gin and tonic from one of the bartenders and downed two doubles before Joanne sashayed her way through the crowd to my side.
“Fiona, darling!”
“Joanne, darling!”
We airkissed the way that society women are supposed to. My eyes raked over Joanne’s outfit, a gunmetal-gray halter dress with a slinky, sequined skirt. Not bad, but it wasn’t one of mine. Joanne also sized me up, her gaze critiquing everything from my shoes to my chandelier earrings. Standard operating procedure among the women in Bigtime. Once that was out of the way, we made polite chitchat about how fabulous and thin we both looked before Joanne got down to business.
“I’m getting married again next month. I was wondering if I could come in and talk to you about another gown.”
I almost choked on my drink. “What will this one be? Number five?”
Joanne James went through husbands like they were tissues—she used one up and then tossed him aside for another.
“Six actually.”
“Who’s the lucky fellow?” My lips only twitched a little. It was amazing the things you could say with a straight face.
“Berkley Brighton, the whiskey billionaire.”
“Of course.”
Joanne James didn’t waste her time on small-time fish. She only went after the big, big catches. She was Bigtime’s resident black widow, but she didn’t kill her husbands. Instead, Joanne bled her hubbies dry, added their money to her own considerable fortune, and somehow managed to wiggle out of paying for anything—even her own divorce attorneys. In a way, it was her own personal superpower. Joanne was a legend in Bigtime, and more than a few society mamas urged their daughters to emulate her marriage merry-go-round.
“I thought you would have asked Bella Bulluci to design your gown. She did your last two, didn’t she?” I couldn’t resist the dig. Joanne had gone to Bella after complaining that my services were too expensive. As if. Fashion genius like mine was priceless.
Joanne swallowed some champagne. “To be honest, I did ask Bella first, but she turned me down.”
“Really? Why?”
Joanne waved her hand, and I squinted at the sudden glare. The diamond boulder on her finger could easily feed the people of a third world country for years. “Oh, she said she was taking some time off to concentrate on family affairs because of her father’s death. I think she just didn’t want to bother with it.”
Bella Bulluci was one of Bigtime’s most popular designers, next to me, of course. Bella had plenty of talent, but I’d always thought her creations were a bit conservative, tame even. Bella was very fond of solid colors and subtle pinstripes. I was more of a polka-dot, plaid, and leopard-print girl. All rolled into one. With neon sequins and a feather boa to match.
I signaled the bartender and ordered another drink. I didn’t like being anyone’s second choice, but my eyes strayed back to Joanne’s ring. That thing had to be at least ten flawless carats.
Being a superhero had plenty of perks, but there was one major drawback—it was a pricey occupation. We all had to pitch in to keep the Fearless Five out and about fighting crime. Carmen and Henry didn’t contribute much to our annual budget. They couldn’t with the pitiful paychecks they earned as newspaper reporters at The Exposé. My father wasn’t much better off. Even though he was the chief of police, his salary wasn’t what it should be, mainly because most of the city’s budget went to repairing the municipal buildings, bridges, and overpasses that us superheroes and ubervillains obliterated during our epic battles.
That left Sam and I to shoulder the monetary load. With his various business interests and billion-dollar bank balance, Sam gave the most for the greater good. But I chipped in at least five million every year. Sometimes more. Outfitting Joanne James with wedding gown number six would keep us all in black leather and orange-red spandex for the foreseeable future.
“Have your assistant call the store, and we’ll set something up for later this week,” I promised and downed my third gin and tonic.
Joanne smiled, her lips lavender against her pale face. “Fiona, darling, it’s always a pleasure doing business with you.”
We airkissed again and exchanged more meaningless pleasantries. Then, Joanne strutted back through the crowd to Berkley Brighton, a short, square man who’d made his fortune selling Brighton’s Best whiskey. Joanne latched on to his arm, and the pretty young things who’d been clustered around the boisterous billionaire scattered like minnows fleeing a hungry barracuda. Joanne wasn’t someone you wanted to mess with—especially when she was husband hunting. Berkley actually beamed at Joanne, happy to see his honey.
I snorted. Poor guy. He might as well just sign over his family’s secret whiskey recipe to Joanne right now. It would save him a lot of trouble and hefty lawyers’ fees down the road.
While I’d been talking to Joanne, Carmen and Sam had joined the festivities. They walked from table to table, greeting the wedding guests and basking in the afterglow of the ceremony. After paying their respects to the bride and groom, people finished their dinners and drifted out onto the tile dance fl
oor that had been planted on the lawn for the grand occasion. A twelve-piece band to one side of the floor played a loud, brassy version of “The Right Thing To Do” by Carly Simon, Carmen’s favorite singer.
My eyes scanned the glittering crowd. Joanne and Berkley. Carmen and Sam. Henry and Lulu. Even my father was dancing with one of Bigtime’s rich, lonely widows. Couples, couples, everywhere. But no Travis.
No Travis.
The happy society scene and all the couples burned me out. I needed some peace and quiet. Now.
I shoved through the crowd, wrenched open a side door, and stomped inside the manor. The usual rich, shiny trappings greeted me, but for once, I didn’t pay attention to them. Sam wouldn’t like it if I accidentally melted some ancient knight’s suit of armor or fried another one of his Monets. The mood I was in, they’d go up like dry newspaper.
The music and laughter and happy sounds faded away, replaced by the thwack of my heels on the hardwood floors. I walked into one of the many game rooms that populated the manor and sank down onto the smooth leather couch. A big-screen TV took up one wall, while a pool table crouched in the middle of the floor. Dart boards and various other sportslike contraptions filled the rest of the area, but I didn’t really see them. I didn’t see any of it.
I twisted the ring on my finger. It wasn’t nearly as big as Joanne James’s was, but it meant the world to me, even now. Travis. My heart squeezed like a dishrag being wrung out.
“A beautiful bridesmaid alone by herself. What a sad, sad cliché,” a low, cultured voice called out.
I looked up. A man stood in the doorway. He topped out at just over six feet, with a mane of tawny blond hair that curled around the collar of his impeccable tuxedo. Flashing green eyes contrasted with his golden skin, making him look like a sleek lion in the gathering shadows. He strode into the room, his black suit flowing with easy grace around his perfect figure. It fit him well. Then again, just about anything would have looked good on him.
My eyes widened. If Sam resembled a male model, then this guy was the Goliath of male models. Yummy.
The man stared at me, and his eyes crinkled in amusement. The merriment dancing in his sharp gaze made him look that much better, even if he seemed to be making fun of me. I didn’t like people making fun of me, and I especially didn’t like being looked down on. I got to my feet and tossed my long hair back. With my stilettos, he only had half an inch on me.
“I’m not a cliché,” I snapped.
“Really? You were one of the bridesmaids, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re sitting here all alone.”
“Yes.”
“And you certainly are beautiful.”
“Oh, yes.”
Modesty is another one of my nonexistent virtues. On a scale of one to ten, I’m a solid eight and a half. With my blond hair, blue eyes, and up-to-there legs, I’ve got the Barbie look men love down pat. The only problem is they think I’m as dumb as one of the plastic dolls. The same thing goes for my alter ego, Fiera. But more than one ubervillain had gotten badly burned by underestimating me.
Still, the compliment pleased me. Every woman likes to be told she’s beautiful, but coming from Mr. Model, it sounded . . . better. Truer. Sexier.
“If all that’s not a cliché, then I don’t know what is.” His voice was deep with a hint of an accent I couldn’t quite place. White teeth gleamed in his tan face, adding to his already staggering sex appeal.
I crossed my arms over my chest and flipped through my mental Rolodex of Bigtime society players. No match. He must be new in town. I certainly would have remembered him. My eyes drifted over his suit, which draped perfectly over his broad shoulders and chest. Oh yeah. I would have remembered him.
I suddenly realized that I was twisting the ring on my finger. Bloody hell. I’d gone from pining over Travis to ogling a complete stranger in the space of a minute. I really did need to get lucky before my hormones made me have a total meltdown. Literally.
The man continued. “You certainly looked sad and lonely sitting there, staring into space.”
“I was doing nothing of the sort.”
I couldn’t tell him that I’d been looking at the ring my murdered fiancé had given me before he’d died. My pain was my own. I didn’t go blabbing about it to strangers. Besides, no one except the Fearless Five had even known Travis and I were engaged. It was another little secret we’d decided to keep to ourselves.
“I was just taking a break from the festivities,” I replied in my best, cool, bored society voice. “All that happiness can be a bit grating after a while.”
“Really? You know we could create our own festivities, you and me.”
I stifled a laugh. That was one of the lamest lines I’d ever heard. “Really? And how could we do that?”
“Let me show you.”
He flashed me a devilish grin, pulled me into his arms, and planted his lips on mine.
Excerpt from JINX,
Book Three in the Bigtime paranormal romance series
PART ONE—I HATE SUPERHEROES
Chapter One
Dinner with superheroes.
It’s an interesting experience—and one that I rather hate.
The empty wine glass floated past me, sailing along as though carried by a steady, invisible hand. I tried to pretend it wasn’t there. That I didn’t see it. That the glass was as invisible as the force propelling it forward. But that was hard to do since it landed on the table next to me.
I further tried to pretend I didn’t see the crystal carafe beside my elbow rise up, tip itself over, and pour ruby-red sangria into the waiting glass. I even tried to convince myself I didn’t really see the glass float back across the table.
I failed miserably at all three.
The other people gathered round didn’t pay any attention to the floating glass. Didn’t slow their conversation or ignore their food for an instant.
Unfortunately, floating glasses had become a normal sight around the Bulluci household these days—no matter how I wished otherwise.
“Is that really necessary?” I asked, my voice a little snappish. “I would have been happy to pour you some more wine.”
Chief Sean Newman held out his hand, and the glass drifted over to him. “There was no need to bother you, Bella, when I could do it for myself.”
“But you could have just asked,” I persisted. “You didn’t have to use your powers like that.”
“Please,” Fiona Fine cut in, turning her blue eyes to me. “What’s the point of having superpowers if you don’t use them?”
Fiona grabbed the bread basket and waved her hand over the top. A few red-hot sparks shot off the ends of her fingertips, and the delicious smell of warm, cheese bread filled the air.
“Lighten up, Bella,” Fiona continued, putting the entire loaf on one of the dozen plates in front of her. “We all know each other here—alter egos and otherwise. It’s not like there are other people around to catch us in the act.”
No, they weren’t any other people around. No normal people anyway. Just me, Fiona, Chief Newman, my brother, Johnny, and my grandfather, Bobby.
I’d barely touched my whole wheat ravioli, but I put my fork down. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I never was when there were superheroes around.
But Fiona and Chief Newman weren’t just any superheroes. There were plenty of those in Bigtime, New York. No, they were Fiera and Mr. Sage, members of the Fearless Five—the most powerful, elite team of heroes in the city. In addition to being stronger than five people put together, Fiera could also form fireballs with her bare hands, while Mr. Sage had all sorts of psychic powers, including telekinesis, or the ability to move objects with his mind.
And now, they were part of my family.
Fiona had gotten engaged to my brother, Johnny, a couple of months ago after she’d saved him from two ubervillains who were trying to enslave the city. During all the commotion, Fiona had revealed her secret identity as Fiera to my gran
dfather and me, and got us to help her rescue Johnny. And Chief Newman was Fiona’s father, as well as her teammate.
But they weren’t the only superheroes in the family these days.
The Fearless Five were a package deal. In addition to Fiera and Mr. Sage, we also got Karma Girl, Striker, and Hermit. Or Carmen Cole, Sam Sloane, and Henry Harris. That’s how I thought of them. As nice, regular people who were mostly normal. Never as their alter egos. I tried to pretend those other people didn’t exist.
I tried to pretend a lot of things didn’t exist.
Especially my own supposed superpower.
My grandfather, Bobby Bulluci, clapped his hands together. “Come! Let’s talk of other things.” He turned to Fiona and Johnny. “Are the two of you packed for your trip?”
Johnny had some business to take care of in the overseas divisions of Bulluci Industries, so he and Fiona had decided to make a working vacation out of it. The two were leaving tomorrow on a month-long trip to explore the Mediterranean.
“Of course,” Johnny answered, flashing Fiona a grin. “Although I don’t know how we’re going to get all of Fiona’s clothes onto the plane.”
Fiona reached over and punched my brother. Johnny flexed his bicep, which took on a hard look—like his skin had suddenly morphed into metal. Fiona’s fist smacked into his arm, and she frowned and shook her hand. Even with her great strength, it hurt to punch my brother when he formed his superhard, supertough exoskeleton. It made Johnny immune to just about everything. Kicks, punches, explosions, Fiona’s flare-ups. That was good, since my brother had an annoying tendency to dress up in tacky, formfitting, black leather, zoom around town on his motorcycle, and fight ubervillains.
Instead of an exoskeleton, I’d gotten something far less useful from the mutated family gene pool—luck. As if that was any kind of superpower. Superannoying was more like it.
Fiona sniffed and tossed her blond hair over her shoulder. “I’ve told you a million times you can never have too many clothes, especially when you’re going on vacation. Besides, we’re taking Sam’s private jet. There’ll be more than enough room for my things.”