Jinx

  Until one night, he didn’t.

  Two ubervillains, Siren and Intelligal, had muscled in on territory controlled by some bikers my father was friendly with. They’d asked him to help get rid of the ubervillains. My father confronted them, and Intelligal had launched a couple of explodium missiles at him. He’d tried to outrun the missiles on his motorcycle, but he’d never had a chance. All we’d found of my father had been his watch—without his hand attached—and a few of his teeth.

  My brother, Johnny, had become Angel then, determined to bring my father’s killers to justice. That’s when he’d crossed paths with Fiera and the rest of the Fearless Five. The superheroes had been after Siren and Intelligal as well, and Fiera had convinced Johnny to join forces with them. But Johnny had still almost died when the ubervillains had kidnapped him and held him hostage.

  My power pulsed, and my wavy, shoulder-length hair started to frizz, despite the bottle of extra-strength conditioner I’d just used. My luck always got more unstable when I was upset. I closed my eyes and took deep breaths, pulling the air down into the pit of my stomach.

  I pushed away my troubled thoughts and fastened a silver watch onto my wrist. At least I tried to. Bright, blue, static-charged sparks shot out as soon as I touched the metal, and they sent the watch flying across the room. It landed with a soft thump on the far side of the sofa.

  I sighed, walked over, and picked up the watch, which was embossed with angel wings. Luckily, it hadn’t broken, and I looked at the time. Almost noon. I needed to get going. A chairperson should always be on time for her own called meeting.

  Besides, Joanne James would eat me alive if I was late. In her own way, the Bigtime society queen was scarier than even the most feared ubervillain.

  I grabbed my black leather shoulder bag and headed outside. It was a beautiful October day, and I breathed in, enjoying the rich, earthy aroma of the changing seasons. Fall was my favorite time of year. The sun seared my eyes with its brilliance, but the air still felt damp and cool. Puffy clouds zoomed across the sky, pushed on by a steady breeze. The wind stirred the scarlet leaves on the maple trees lining the curved driveway, and a few fluttered down to the burnished brown of the lawn. I made a mental note to do some sketches of the trees before they lost all their magnificent leaves. Everything was showing off a last bit of color before the gray winter took hold, and I wanted to capture the city in all its autumn glory.

  Joanne lived only three houses down, but on Lucky Way, the street where we lived, that was more like three miles. So I got in my car, a nice, safe, reliable Benz, and steered down the driveway and through the iron gate that bordered our property.

  I saw Brilliance, the Berkley Brighton estate, two miles before I actually got to it. Unlike our house, no trees surrounded Berkley’s mansion to hide it from sight. It would take a whole mountain range to do that. The house sat on a tall rise that afforded the whiskey billionaire a spectacular view of Bigtime Bay from his seventh-story windows. That story was glassed in on all sides, along with the first, third, and fifth floors. The rest of the mansion was constructed of steel and chrome, giving it a very chic, sleek feel. You would never run out of things to do at Brilliance, which featured an Olympic-sized hot tub, three tennis courts, and two helicopter pads. And that was just on the roof.

  The Bulluci manor was large, but Berkley’s sprawling, modern-day behemoth made it look like a doll’s house. The only other residence in all of Bigtime that exceeded the size of Brilliance was Sublime, the enormous estate owned by Sam Sloane.

  I drove up the mile-long drive and stopped the car at the front door. A tuxedo-clad valet greeted me and whisked my vehicle away to Berkley’s private garage. Another valet scurried to open the front door for me, while still another waited inside to take my black pea coat, brush it, steam it, and hang it in a spotless, empty closet.

  Berkley wasn’t into antiques and suits of armor like Sam Sloane was. Instead, his house featured lots of open space with modern, deco-style furniture done mostly in whites, silvers, and grays, with a few black pinstripes. Very minimalist, very modern, very sophisticated. I loved it.

  A butler led me to one of the libraries on the second floor. Books and globes and maps galore populated the room, along with a white marble fireplace, several tables, and five sets of cream-colored chairs. Gray rugs covered the marble floor, and the heavy black drapes on the windows were open, offering a wonderful view of the dark, dense woods that lined the back of the mansion.

  Joanne James waited in the library, with her husband, Berkley, by her side. Joanne was a tall, skinny, almost anorexic-looking woman with black curls that cascaded halfway down her back. Her eyes were a vivid blue, almost violet, and her skin was as smooth and flawless as porcelain. Even though it was a bit chilly in the library, Joanne wore a sleeveless, powder blue suit with square white buttons. A Fiona Fine original, given the amount of leg and cleavage it showed.

  Berkley was a short, square, fiftysomething man with a mane of blondish hair. He was also the richest person in Bigtime, having turned his family’s secret whiskey recipe into a multibillion-dollar empire. Brighton’s Best whiskey was legendary for its smooth flavor and hefty price tag.

  At the moment, though, Joanne and Berkley didn’t look like the obscenely rich, high-powered couple they were. Berkley leaned over the back of a chair, kissing Joanne’s throat while his hand caressed her exposed breast. Joanne’s chin was up, her eyes closed, her lips parted. She was thoroughly enjoying her husband’s, um, attention.

  Joanne and Berkley had gotten married three months ago during a late-summer ceremony in Paradise Park. They’d pulled out all the stops for the wedding, renting out the whole park for three days. Food. Flowers. Oceans of champagne. Mountains of presents. All that was just for the two thousand invited guests. I could only imagine what Berkley and Joanne had treated each other to in private.

  Like Berkley, Joanne had plenty of money of her own. She’d just gotten it a different way. Joanne wasn’t a superhero, but she had a superhero-like nickname—the Black Widow. That’s what Fiona and some of the other society folks called her. Joanne had married and divorced several men over the years, adding to her bank balance every time.

  But she truly seemed to care about Berkley, and he about her. It never ceased to amaze me. A pang of loneliness stabbed my heart at the sight of them bonding so, um, vigorously. I hadn’t even been out on a date since before my father was murdered.

  But first things first. I had a meeting to attend and a benefit to plan. If I could break up the happy couple.

  “Ahem.” I cleared my throat. “Ahem.”

  Joanne opened her eyes, but Berkley kept kissing her throat and stroking her chest.

  “Oh, hello, Bella,” Joanne said, her voice low and husky. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  I doubted she would have heard a marching band, the way she was purring under Berkley’s touch.

  “Hello, Joanne,” I replied, staring at the Oriental rug under my pumps instead of at her breasts.

  “Hello, Bella.” Berkley straightened, took his hand out of Joanne’s top, and quit kissing her. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

  “You too, Berkley.” Normally, I would have shaken his hand. Not today.

  “How’s Bobby doing?” Berkley asked, a smile creasing his face. “I haven’t seen him in a few weeks.”

  “He’s fine.”

  Berkley had been friends with my father and grandfather for years. The three shared a love of motorcycles, and Berkley had convinced my father to build several for him. Berkley had spent many nights in the Bulluci manor, drinking wine and talking about paint jobs and chrome pipes and everything else related to motorcycles. But he was never too busy to speak to me, and he’d brought me all sorts of dolls and stuffed animals and art supplies when I was a kid. I thought of him as an uncle of sorts.

  “Well, I’m afraid I have a conference call to sit in on. I’ll leave you girls to finish your planning,” Berkley said, pressing a kiss to
the top of Joanne’s head.

  She grabbed his hand. “I’m not sure what time we’ll be done. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover today.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll wait up for you. In more ways than one.” Berkley winked at his new bride.

  “Just like always?” Joanne asked in a teasing tone.

  “Just like always.”

  Berkley touched Joanne’s cheek. She put her hand over his and gave it a gentle squeeze. Berkley squeezed back and left the library, whistling a cheery tune.

  I sank into a chair on the opposite side of the table from Joanne. I pulled my notes and files out of my shoulder bag, pretending not to notice the other woman buttoning up her blouse. Evidently, Joanne hadn’t felt the need to wear a bra today. I couldn’t help hoping my breasts looked that good when I was her age. Whatever it was. Joanne’s face was so smooth and unlined it was hard to tell exactly how old she was, although I would guess she had to be at least forty.

  “Sorry if we shocked you, Bella,” Joanne said, fluffing out her mass of raven-colored curls. “Newlyweds, you know. We just can’t seem to get enough of each other.”

  “Of course,” I murmured. “Think nothing of it.”

  I didn’t really mind Joanne and Berkley’s open display of affection. After all, it was better than watching superhero-propelled glasses float past me.

  3

  While Joanne applied a fresh coat of lavender lipstick and powdered her nose, the rest of the committee trickled into the library—Grace Caleb, Abby Appleby, and Hannah Harmon.

  I greeted each in turn, shaking hands with them. “Grace. Abby. Hannah. So glad you could make it.”

  Grace Caleb was a seventysomething widow and one of the bastions of Bigtime society. She came from money so old no one could remember how she’d gotten it in the first place. Grace was the sort of genteel lady who grew roses and drank tea and played bridge. She wore a sedate flowered dress topped off with a knit mauve sweater set with pearls. Grace never went anywhere without a sweater or shawl of some kind.

  Where Grace was sweet, pink softness, Hannah Harmon was all bright, hard lines. Her glossy auburn hair, cut in a razor-sharp bob, ended at her chin, highlighting her killer cheekbones. Her thin lips were a red slash in her face, and her brown eyes slightly pointed, like a cat’s. A heavy gold chain flashed around her neck, contrasting with the coffee color of her silk blouse and skirt. Gold rings set with rubies sparkled on her fingers, and a gold filigree bracelet encircled her wrist. Hannah was from new money, and she liked showing it off.

  Abby Appleby was somewhere in between, although much farther down on the income ladder. Her brown hair was pulled back into a sensible ponytail, and clear gloss covered her lips. She wore olive-colored cargo pants and a white, lacy camisole topped with a green plaid, button-up shirt. A thick, wide watch clamped across her wrist and looked like it could tell you what time it was in New Zealand, Thailand, and Madagascar—all at once. My attention went to the bag slung over Abby’s shoulder. It resembled a large suitcase and had more zippers and pockets and hidey-holes than a box full of purses.

  The three women took seats around the table, murmuring hellos to me and each other.

  I took my own chair across from Joanne and flipped through the files I’d brought. “I thought we’d start with a quick recap of what we decided on last time.”

  Given my rabid love of art, I’d been elected chairperson of the Friends of the Bigtime Museum of Modern Art a couple months ago. My main duty as madam chairperson was to plan and organize the museum’s annual fall fund-raiser. The museum, which relied heavily on public donations, had opened up a new wing and needed money to finish paying for it.

  Joanne and Grace were also involved in the Friends group. Joanne, because she was the richest woman in the city and that’s what rich women did, and Grace, because she was one of the best-loved society matrons and actually liked art. They’d both volunteered to help with the benefit.

  Abby was the professional event planner in Bigtime. Whether you were having a wedding, a funeral, or a convention, you called Abby to plan it. She’d built her reputation and her business, A+ Events, on her ability to pull off complicated events in a matter of weeks, or sometimes, days. Abby fronted just about every fund-raising committee in the city, and I’d drafted her for this one too.

  Hannah had also offered her services. The businesswoman had lots of connections and knew how to get things done, which was why I’d been happy to let her help.

  The five of us had been meeting for the last two months. The benefit was less than a week away, and it was crunch time.

  I scanned my papers. “We agreed to have the Bigtime Bachelors event at Quicke’s, starting two hours before the official benefit at the museum. We’ve sent out invitations to all the eligible bachelors and bachelorettes. Abby, how are we coming on that?”

  Abby unzipped a pocket on her enormous bag and pulled out some laminated, color-coded pages, along with an itemized list and three highlighters. “We signed the contract with Quicke’s to supply food and space for the bachelor auction, as well as food and drinks at the museum. Kyle Quicke haggled with me, but I got him down into our price range. Most of the bachelors and bachelorettes we approached have agreed to participate. I’m still tracking down a few stragglers, but we’ll have more than enough people.”

  “Good,” I replied. “What else?”

  “We also approved my costume ball idea for the overall theme,” Grace added in her soft voice.

  I grimaced. I’d been horrified when Grace had brought up the idea of a masquerade ball. There were more than enough people running around Bigtime in costumes already. But the others had agreed with Grace, and I’d been outvoted. Joanne, in particular, thought it sounded like marvelous fun, especially since the benefit was scheduled for Halloween night. Evidently, Joanne was tired of dressing up in the finest clothes money could buy, and she wanted to slum it in spandex. Designer-made, of course.

  “Right. That.” I tried to muster up some semblance of enthusiasm. “Are the invitations done yet?”

  Grace nodded, her coifed silver hair bobbing up and down. “I okayed the final proof a week ago, and they went out in the mail that same afternoon.”

  We’d been announcing the date of the benefit for weeks to drum up interest and solicit early donations. But I wanted to make sure all the bigwigs got a personal invitation to attend, as well as a follow-up phone call to confirm their RSVPs. Such specialized attention made them more agreeable to parting with some of their cash. You had to suck up a lot to get a whole lot more. That was the way the game was played in Bigtime.

  “And the decorations?” I asked.

  “We can’t put up much in the museum because of the security and climate-control issues, but I’ve arranged for the usual greenery and lights,” Grace replied. “They’ll arrive at the museum the day before the benefit.”

  “Good.” I turned to Joanne and Hannah, who were handling the most delicate part of the event. “And how are the other donations coming?”

  “Fine,” Joanne said. “For the most part.”

  There were lots of wealthy art lovers and collectors in the city, who had more than a few priceless pieces tucked away in their mansions. My idea had been to get the Bigtime high-society members to donate art from their private collections. The pieces would be housed in the museum’s new wing as part of a special exhibit that would open the night of the benefit. My plan was for the pieces to remain on display through the end of the year, so everyone in Bigtime could come and see them. Public interest alone, along with a small admission fee, should raise over two million, more than enough to pay off the new wing.

  “For the most part? What does that mean?” I asked. “If it’s the security they’re worried about—”

  “It’s not the security,” Joanne said. “We’ve gotten verbal commitments from everyone to donate something.”

  “Verbal commitments? That’s all? The benefit’s in six days. Stuff should already be arriving at
the museum.”

  My hair frizzed, and my fingertips itched with static. My luck always acted up when I was emotional or stressed out. The thought of the benefit being a miserable failure put me on the edge of panic.

  “No one wants to commit until they know what everyone else is donating. They all feel the need to outdo each other.” Hannah sniffed.

  “But the point of this was to donate different things, fun things, not the same old Picassos and Rembrandts and Renoirs,” I said. “Our theme is Whimsical Wonders. Who cares how much a statue cost?”

  Abby gave me an amused look. “Why, they do, of course. Everything’s a competition in this town. You should know that, Bella, given how you and Fiona go at it.”

  I grimaced. Fiona and I didn’t really go at it. We’d never romped around in fountains or pulled out each other’s hair, but we were the top two designers in the city. With our radically different styles, people just assumed we hated each other, especially since Fiona had gotten engaged to Johnny.

  “It really doesn’t matter, though,” Joanne said in a proud voice. “Naturally, Berkley will have the most expensive item on display.”

  That small item Joanne was so casually referring to was the Star Sapphire. Weighing in at a couple hundred carats, the sapphire was one of the most expensive gemstones in the world. Berkley had graciously agreed to put the sapphire on display. After I’d more or less begged him and agreed to design a whole new wardrobe for Joanne. At cost.

  I’d do anything to ensure the benefit was a success, even sew until my fingers fell off for Joanne James. It was all going to be worth it in the end. The Star Sapphire was the centerpiece of the Whimsical Wonders, and we’d used pictures of the enormous stone in all our promotional materials. Ticket sales to see the gem had already exceeded everyone’s loftiest expectations. Even Arthur Anders, the quiet, reserved curator of the museum, was salivating about the prospect of it going on display.

  Joanne waved her hand. “Don’t worry, Bella. I’ll put the word out Berkley is donating several more items no one can hope to top, and everyone else will fall in line. They always do.”