Debonair dipped his head to my breast, sucking and scraping the nipple with his teeth. He lavished attention on first one, then the other, over and over again. I cried out from the pleasure of it all, writhing under him. The water bed roiled and heaved with our movements.
He licked his way up my throat. I grabbed his head and pulled his lips to mine for another heated kiss.
“Take off your clothes,” I whispered against his warm, inviting mouth. “I want to touch you too.”
Debonair snapped his fingers. His leather suit and boots vanished, along with the rest of my clothes. I propped myself up on my elbow and looked at him. His chest was broad, with firm, defined muscles. More dark hair covered the expanse, trailing downward past his taut stomach. No wonder women threw themselves at him. He truly was perfect. My eyes went lower. In every single way.
I scooted back into his arms, splaying my hand across his chest and planting kisses on his face and neck.
“What are you up to?” Debonair asked, his breath catching in his throat.
“You’ll see.”
Without warning, I took him in my hand and stroked him, even as I darted my tongue in and out of his mouth. Usually during sex, I let the guy take charge, set the pace of things. Maybe it was the wine I’d had. Or his sweet, intoxicating scent. Or maybe I’d just snapped from all the stress. But for once in my life, I was being bold and daring and adventurous. And loving every second of it.
“Bella . . .” Debonair murmured, closing his eyes. “Bella!”
His release was sudden and swift. I watched the euphoria dance across his face, pleased that I was able to bring him so much pleasure. The last shudder left his body, and he turned to me and smiled.
Then—
POP!
I found myself on my back with Debonair lying on top of me. And his fingers inside me.
“That’s not fair!” I squealed.
Debonair moved his fingers in and out of me in a slow motion. “Who said anything about being fair?”
He took my nipple in his mouth even as his fingers continued their delicate work. My power flared as bright as a star as I writhed and thrashed with passion. I was hot, aching, desperate for him to stop, eager for him to go on.
I felt him harden against my thigh again, and Debonair rose up above me, ready to take the final step.
“Wait . . . Wait,” I panted. I wasn’t so far gone I didn’t remember to be safe about this. Well, physically safe at least. “Protection . . . must . . . use protection. Do you have ... any?”
He snapped his fingers, and a foil packet appeared. “I do now.”
Debonair covered himself with the condom. He eased my legs apart and sank into me.
My breath caught in my throat.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked, stilling.
I clutched at his back, wanting him to go further. “No. You could never hurt me.”
I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him closer, deeper into me. He moved slowly at first, sliding in and out with a steady rhythm.
I wasn’t nearly so sweet and gentle. I raked my nails up and down his back. My mouth latched on to his, and I drove my tongue inside.
“Bella, I can’t concentrate when you do that. I can’t hold back,” he whispered against my cheek.
“I don’t want you to hold back,” I rasped. “I want you inside me, now. All of you.”
So, he didn’t.
Debonair thrust himself at me, and I welcomed him. I marveled at the thick length of him filling me. At his hot, hard body covering my own. At the pleasure building and building inside me. We rode up and down on the bed as the water crested below us.
Then, with a final plunge, we both shuddered and were still.
13
I woke up sometime later. I breathed in deeply, but there was no lingering smell of roses. I opened my eyes and sat up.
I scanned the room, peering in every corner and even the bathroom. But he wasn’t here. The ruined table was gone, and the place looked like it had been tidied up. But Debonair was nowhere to be found. I didn’t know whether I was relieved or disappointed.
Without the sexy thief here to distract me, all my fears and doubts and worries roared back to the surface. My sensible nature took over, the way it always did. I flopped back down on the water bed and put my hands over my eyes. I couldn’t believe it. I’d broken my own number one rule—never, ever get involved with superheroes and ubervillains.
And yet, I’d slept with one.
And thoroughly enjoyed it.
What was wrong with me?
I didn’t want any part of superheroes and ubervillains and epic battles. It was all so silly. Spandex, leather, masks, secret identities. Didn’t people have better things to do with their time than play dress-up?
Or sleep with people who did?
But the irony was when I was a kid, I’d longed to be a superhero. I’d dreamed of taking over the family mantle of Johnny Angel, going out into the city, and righting wrongs. But the years of waiting up and wondering if my father was going to come home had taken their toll. Now, all I saw was the absurdity of the whole thing.
My family had gone through too much already. I’d gone through too much already. I wasn’t going to sit at home waiting for the phone to ring or some other superhero to knock on the door and tell me that I needed to come down to the city morgue. I wouldn’t put myself through that. Not for Debonair. Not for anyone.
I shook my head. Why was I even thinking about having a relationship with Debonair? Sure, we’d slept together, but it wasn’t like the handsome thief cared about me. He couldn’t possibly. I was just another woman he’d brought here and seduced with his charm and sharp wit and dark good looks. Dinner, wine, roses, sweet words. It was probably the same tired routine he used every single time.
And I’d fallen for it.
I wallowed in my shame and self-pity for the better part of two minutes. Mentally berated and beat myself up for being such an eager, willing, lonely fool. Then, I thought about things a little more calmly, a little more rationally. At least the sex had been good.
And then some.
But that didn’t change the fact I didn’t want to be here when Debonair came back. I couldn’t face him. I’d fallen under his spell once—I wasn’t going to be so stupid a second time.
Today, I was escaping—one way or another.
Luckily, Debonair had just teleported my clothes over to one of the chairs, instead of leaving me with nothing but a silk sheet to wear. I put on my borrowed clothes, wincing a bit as I stuffed my stiff, sore body into the fabric. Funny, but I wasn’t hurting from the attack at the museum. It was my other, ah, activities that had left certain parts of me rather sensitive.
As I dressed, I tried not to look at the bed, tried not to think of what had happened in it. How I’d begged him to pleasure me.
Me, begging a superhero.
I’d never thought it would happen. Well, Debonair wasn’t exactly a superhero, but he wasn’t an ubervillain either.
I tried the door, of course. Rattled it until my arms ached. But the wood was so warped it didn’t budge. I doubted even Fiona could have opened it with all her superstrength. I didn’t have superstrength—just capricious, whimsical, unpredictable luck. And precious little of it to start with.
So, I did the only thing I could—I reached for my power.
Normally, I did my best to ignore the static electricity crackling around my body. Ignored the sudden pulses of energy. Ignored my itchy fingers and mile-high hair. As if by ignoring it, I could pretend it wasn’t there. That it wasn’t real. That I wasn’t the unluckiest woman in Bigtime.
My power, my luck, my jinx had never brought me anything but grief and misery and embarrassment. But now, I concentrated on it. Imagined the force field around me, gathering strength, gathering power. My fingers twitched in anticipation. So did my hair.
I looked at the door. I couldn’t go through it, but maybe I could get around it another way. My e
yes went to the hinges that held it to the wall. I focused my attention on them, my energy, my power, my luck. Imagined them popping off as easily as I could crack open a bottle of water. Then, I willed my power, my charged-up luck, all my jumbled emotions at the door.
I didn’t really expect it to work.
But somehow it did.
Perhaps it was my desperation. Or maybe my luck just decided to give me a break for being so supremely stupid already. But I pulled on the top hinge. It snapped off like popcorn in the microwave. I repeated the process on the second and third hinges. They too popped off into my waiting hands.
It took me a few minutes to shove aside the heavy door, but when I did, I found myself in a long, carpeted hallway. I quit concentrating on my power, ignoring it as usual, and took a step forward.
And promptly tripped.
My foot caught on a nonexistent wrinkle in the smooth carpet, and I smacked into the wall before falling to my knees. I huddled there in the hallway, grimacing at the pain pulsing through my body. It wasn’t serious, wasn’t anything I hadn’t felt a thousand times before. In the morning, I’d have a few more cuts and bruises to add to the collection Hangman had given me.
So, I ignored the dull throbs in various parts of my body, got back to my feet, and walked forward. I moved as quietly as I could, stopping every few feet to look ahead and back and listen. I didn’t want Debonair to find me roaming the halls. He’d teleport us both back into his Lair of Seduction, and then who knew what would happen? He’d be angry at me for trying to escape. And I couldn’t help but feel he’d be hurt and disappointed as well.
I bit my lip. Why should I care if he was hurt and disappointed? He was the one who’d kidnapped me. Who wouldn’t let me call my grandfather. Who’d started this little game. Not me.
The hallway ended at the bottom of a flight of wooden stairs. I hugged the wall and crept up them. One of the stairs creaked, and I froze, afraid he’d heard me. But Debonair didn’t pop! into sight, and my power kept to its usual low buzz. I kept climbing.
I stopped a few steps from the top and peeked over them. A large open space lay up ahead, with another long hallway on the far side. A set of doors lay several hundred feet away at the very end. That was my goal. Surely those led outside the house or mansion or wherever I was. If I could get outside, I could get away.
I entered the open room and slithered along the wall, keeping to the shadows as I moved around the perimeter. My eyes flicked over the empty space. It might have been a living room or even a ballroom at one time, but nothing remained inside now but dust. Large outlines of what I assumed used to be furniture sat in the gray film. Thick cobwebs hung in the corners, as though the room hadn’t been used or cleaned in a very long time. The air smelled wet and musty.
I eased into the hallway and slid down the wall, stopping every few feet to peer into the rooms that branched off it. They were all curiously empty, just like the area I’d snuck through. I could see outlines on the walls where paintings had hung, as well as scuff marks on the floor where sofas, armoires, and other furnishings had sat. Even the light fixtures had been taken out, bathing the interior in long, murky shadows. Well, at least none of them could plummet from the ceiling and almost bonk me on the head.
It might have been a grand house at one time, but now, everything was empty and barren and rather sad-looking. In fact, the only furniture I’d seen had been the items in the subterranean Lair of Seduction.
I thought back to Debonair’s talk of hard times. Perhaps he’d been telling the truth. Or maybe he was one of the superheroes and ubervillains who weren’t independently wealthy. But this place, this house, didn’t look abandoned, merely run-down. It was the home of a very rich person. At least, it had been at one time.
I stuck my head into another room and stopped. This one was different from the others. For one thing, it had a smattering of furniture. For another, the Star Sapphire rested on a pedestal on top of a table, along with some microscopes and other scientific equipment. I stepped inside and looked at the papers and gadgets, careful not to touch anything. For once, my luck cooperated, and I didn’t crack the lens on a five-thousand-dollar microscope just by looking at it as I threaded my way through the area.
I stopped in front of the sapphire. A few papers lay scattered about it. I squinted, but they were written in Debonair’s indistinguishable scrawl. I could make out the words carats and reflective properties? among the mess, but that was about it.
I slid the sapphire and papers into my stained purse and put the long strap over my head so I wouldn’t lose it. Debonair might not be able to figure out what Hangman wanted with the sapphire, but the Fearless Five surely would. Besides, he’d taken something from me—my dignity. I wanted to return the favor. Petty, I know. But it was the only thing keeping me going.
I left the room and continued on my prison break. I started to ease by another door when a splash of color caught my eye. I turned my head and gasped. All sorts of paintings and sculptures and drawings crowded inside the room, along with tables full of paint, brushes, and other art supplies. It was sort of like being in a wing at the Bigtime Museum of Modern Art—albeit a run-down version.
My eyes roamed over the jeweler’s eyes, paint scrapers, and other art paraphernalia. I walked toward a painting of irises leaning on an easel on one side of the room. I recognized it as the one Debonair had stolen from Berkley’s house. Notes covered the wall next to it, pointing out flaws and a small patch of mold on the painting.
I frowned. It almost looked like he was restoring the painting. Debonair? An art lover? Was that why he stole paintings? To restore them? I didn’t understand. Then again, I’d never understood what drove a person to make himself a spandex suit, dress up in it, and call himself by another name. It was sheer lunacy.
I turned to go when another drawing caught my eye. The one I’d done of Debonair. The one with his illegible signature. It lay in the middle of a small table, with no brushes or paints anywhere near it. Instead, a heavy silver frame sat next to it, as though he’d planned on keeping it. I stared at the drawing, looking at the face I’d sketched. The face of the man I’d slept with.
I took the drawing, rolled it up, and put it in my purse. I don’t know why I did it. Perhaps I wanted something to remind me of my time here. Or maybe I just wanted to take back what was left of my sanity. I didn’t know anymore. For once, my calm, rational sensibility had deserted me.
The art room was the last one before the doors. I tried the knob. Unlocked. I slipped through and found myself on a wide stone balcony, as empty as the rest of the house had been. But the emptiness wasn’t what made my heart squeeze in on itself. It was what lay beyond it.
Water. It stretched out for miles in front of me, before the dull gray waves faded into the early morning skyline of Bigtime. A horrible suspicion filled my body.
I ran to the other side of the balcony. It had the same view. I sprinted to the third side. More of the same.
Water, water everywhere.
An island.
I was trapped on an island in the middle of Bigtime Bay.
14
I stared at the shimmering water. An island. How the hell was I supposed to get off an island? The shore was miles away, much too far for me to swim. Besides, it was November. I’d get hypothermia if I even tried.
I let myself panic for about thirty seconds. Let my heart pound. My hands shake. And little whimpers of panic tighten my throat.
Then, I took a deep breath and started thinking about my predicament. There had to be a boat here somewhere. That was the only way to reach the islands in Bigtime Bay. Of course, Debonair could just pop! over whenever he wanted, but surely he had other people out here sometimes. He’d have to bring them by boat, if he didn’t want to risk blowing his real identity to his guests.
I hurried down a set of spiral stairs that wound down one side of the overlook. A carpet of grass rolled out from under the balcony, shaded by rows of pear trees. Their burnishe
d red leaves provided a colorful contrast to the golden grass. It was a beautiful spot, the perfect place to take a long nap or enjoy a picnic. Normally, I would have stopped a few minutes to do some rough sketches of the trees and the way the gathering sunlight brightened the dew drops on the crimson leaves. But I didn’t have time for such fancies now.
I had a boat to find.
I walked underneath the trees, keeping to the shortening shadows. It couldn’t have been much past six or seven in the morning, because the sun had just crested over the tops of the distant skyscrapers. A wet chill hung over much of the bay, along with a thin, soupy fog. I shivered and put my hands in the pockets of my jacket, grateful Debonair had left it behind. A few birds twittered in the trees, while an occasional frog croaked from a hidden spot in the grass. Everything smelled of salt and brine, and my nose tingled at the rough scent.
I broke free of the trees and headed for the water’s edge. The grass gave way to a rocky, pebble-filled beach. The grayish sand reminded me of the color of Hangman’s uniform. I put one hand on a rock for support and stuck the other in the lapping water. My hand turned to ice in an instant. I shuddered. Much too cold to swim.
So, I moved on and kept looking for a boat or a canoe or a kayak or something, anything I could use to get off the island. I’d walked about a half mile along the shore when I spotted a dock. It stretched out into the water about thirty feet, a long, pale arrow pointing toward the city. Like the rest of the house, it too looked like it had seen better days. The boards appeared warped and weathered, with more than a few cracked or missing altogether.
But my eyes scanned past the wet wood and latched on to the prize at the very end—a small sailboat. My ticket off this rock and away from Debonair, and all these strange, unwanted feelings he stirred in me.
I stepped onto the dock. The wood moaned, and the board sank down under my weight, but it didn’t break. I took another step. Then another, walking slowly and carefully. Putting each foot down before I lifted the last one up. A small slip, and I’d get dumped into the bay. Then, I wouldn’t have to worry about getting rescued. I’d freeze to death before anyone found me.