Debonair smiled and bowed his head to me. “Well, it seems you’ve bested me. I’m afraid I’ll have to take my leave of you now. Until we meet again, Bella Bulluci.”
“Which will hopefully be never.”
Debonair gave me another long look. “We’ll see.”
POP!
He appeared in front of me again. Before I could stop him, the thief grabbed my hand and pressed a quick kiss to the inside of my wrist. Then, he gave me a sly wink and teleported away.
I leaned against the wall and let out a long breath. I suddenly felt weak and shaky. And for some strange reason, my pulse pounded in time to the fire alarm.
‘I’m sorry he got away, Berkley,‘ I said. ‘Maybe if I’d pulled the alarm sooner, the police would have been able to catch him.”
An hour had passed since I’d set off the fire alarm. Now, Berkley, Joanne, and I stood in the salon, along with a couple of Bigtime Police detectives, Chief Sean Newman, and Berkley’s personal insurance adjuster. My eyes scanned the room, taking in the damage. There really wasn’t any. Unless you considered the loss of a priceless painting to be a catastrophe. I did.
“It’s not your fault, Bella. I knew this would happen, sooner or later.” Berkley stared at the empty frame.
“What do you mean?”
“Someone’s been trying to get into the mansion,” he replied, running a hand through his wavy hair. “The alarms have been going off all week. It must have been Debonair. I guess tonight he found a way to succeed.”
“Well, he’s certainly bold—I’ll give him that,” Joanne said.
“And effective,” Berkley added. “According to my security chief, he managed to bypass all the alarms. The heat sensors, the motion detectors, the tripwires, the lasers, everything.”
“Well, most alarms aren’t designed to deal with someone with teleporting superpowers,” I said. “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all? I feel like this is all my fault.”
It was, given how terrible my luck was. Even now, I could feel the static building up around me, waiting to lash out yet again. And I should have pulled the alarm right away, instead of confronting the thief. I knew better than that.
Berkley shook his head. “Thank you, Bella. But no.”
After giving my statement to the detectives and Chief Newman, I drove back home. It was almost midnight now, and the street was dark and empty. I found myself thinking of Debonair. Wondering where he was. What he was doing.
Why he’d wanted to kiss me.
Had he just wanted to distract me? Or was there some other reason?
I shook my head. Debonair was just another guy who dressed up in leather and went around Bigtime doing whatever to whomever he pleased. I wasn’t going to give him another thought. Not a second more of my time or attention.
Easier said than done.
Ten minutes later, I parked the car in the driveway. My stomach rumbled, letting out a sound that would have made Fiona proud. So, I headed for the kitchen, determined to get something, anything, to eat before going to bed, even if I had to scoop it up off the floor.
Bobby sat at the kitchen table, sipping a glass of red wine. “Ah, Bella. There you are.”
“Waiting up for me?” I asked. “That’s not like you. I said I was fine.”
I’d called Grandfather and told him what happened at Berkley’s. The robbery would be big news, and I didn’t want him to worry.
Bobby shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep. I thought a nice glass of wine might help me relax. Do you want some?”
“Please.” I wanted the whole bottle, maybe two, but unlike Fiona, I had some restraint when it came to food. I had to, given my thunder thighs.
Bobby poured me a glass, which I carefully picked up. I swirled the wine around and took a deep drink. The fruity liquid coated my tongue with its sweet-and-sour taste. I swallowed, and a pleasant warmth spread through me, melting my tension.
“Do you want some food?” Bobby said. “Let me make you a sandwich, and you can tell me about the robbery. I want all the details. What he took. What he said. What his costume looked like.”
Like many older folks, Grandfather was a news hound. He read several papers every day to learn about the latest goings-on in Bigtime and around the world. Given his time as Johnny Angel, Grandfather was also obsessed with heroes and villains, which was why SNN was his favorite TV channel.
“Not a sandwich,” I said, remembering what had happened to Joanne’s rug. “How about a salad?”
“Done.”
Grandfather pulled lettuce, cheese, carrots, tomatoes, oil, vinegar, and more out of one of the refrigerators. I told him about finding Debonair and how I’d pulled the fire alarm to summon help. The only part I omitted was when the thief tried to kiss me—and the whole whips-and-chains comment. I just couldn’t talk to my grandfather about some things. Sex was definitely one of them.
“Well, I’m just glad you’re all right,” Bobby said, sliding a bowl full of salad across the counter to me. “From what I’ve read, Debonair isn’t too terrible a fellow, but you never know what someone will do when he’s cornered.”
I made a noncommittal sound. After tonight, I thought Debonair was the worst of the worst. With other heroes and villains, all you had to contend with was them trying to save or kill you with their superpowers. But kissing people’s wrists? Seducing unsuspecting women? That was just weird. In a sexy kind of way.
I reached for the bowl, and my power flared. The round container scooted off the island. It was plastic, like all the other dishes I used, so it didn’t break. At least, not this time. Instead, it zoomed along the floor like a bowling ball. Rolling, rolling, rolling. I stared at the container, wishing it would somehow stop without spewing my salad everywhere. I really wanted to eat something tonight.
I felt the energy gather round me again, but I kept looking at the bowl. The container slowed and tipped itself upright, contents intact. I relaxed my concentration, smiled, and looked at Bobby.
And that was when the bowl began to spin.
Round and round it turned, like a washing machine out of control. Pieces of cheese and lettuce and tomato whirled out of the spinning container one after another, splattering onto the floor and ceiling and cabinets. A particularly buoyant carrot bounced up onto the sliding glass door on the opposite side of the room, a good thirty feet away. Oil and vinegar also arced out of the bowl, splashing around and creating even more of a mess. By the time the container stopped spinning, the kitchen looked like a vegetable cart had exploded inside.
I surveyed the damage for a moment, then opened a drawer and plucked out a fork. Utensil in hand, I sat down cross-legged in the middle of the kitchen floor and stabbed the first cherry tomato within easy reach. I bit down and sighed with pleasure as the tart juices filled my mouth. I was so hungry I didn’t even care if it had a little dirt on it.
“What are you doing?” Bobby asked.
“Eating dinner,” I replied, spearing a carrot. “While I still can.”
5
The next morning, I went down to the gym for my daily workout and flipped the TV mounted on the wall to SNN. Sure enough, the major news story was Debonair robbing Berkley. The tanned anchor sent the continuing coverage out to Kelly Caleb, SNN’s star reporter and Grace’s granddaughter. Kelly stood outside the closed gates to Berkley’s mansion. She flashed the camera her trademark toothy smile and launched into a recap of last night’s events.
“Well, Jim, it seems even the richest man in Bigtime isn’t safe from crime. Bigtime police were called out to the home of whiskey billionaire Berkley Brighton around nine o’clock last night. Debonair, one of the city’s most notorious thieves, broke into Berkley’s home and removed a Pandora painting worth almost three million dollars. Brighton’s home is one of several Debonair has allegedly robbed in recent years . . .”
While Kelly recapped Debonair’s life of crime, SNN showed a photo montage of the thief. There were still shots from his video game, Debonai
r Deluxe. A panoramic scan of his action figures sitting on the shelves at the department store Oodles o’ Stuff. Even some footage of him accepting an award from the Slaves for Superhero Sex group. He looked the same in every single photo. Black hair. Blue eyes. Self-confident smirk.
I listened to the report with half an ear, my thoughts turning back to Debonair. I didn’t know why I was thinking about him again. He was just another super-something-or-other. Strong. Devious. Sexy.
I sighed. So sexy. Too bad he felt the need to go prancing around in head-to-toe leather. Because if there was one thing I would never, ever do, it was date a superhero. Or a pseudo-superhero. Or whatever Debonair thought he was, other than a lousy thief.
Kelly pitched her segment back to the anchor sitting in the SNN studio.
“. . . So, Kelly, how will this affect plans for the Whimsical Wonders benefit, set for Saturday night at the Bigtime Museum of Modern Art? I understand Berkley Brighton was going to donate several items to be displayed as part of a special exhibition. Is he worried about security at the museum? Especially since his own house was victimized?”
My hair frizzed out to I-stuck-my-finger-in-a-light-socket proportions. Static electricity gathered around me. And my fingers itched so badly I felt like there were bugs crawling on them. I tightened my grip on the handles of the elliptical trainer.
But my jinx wouldn’t let me be.
Blue and white sparks flew out from my palms, and a few of them landed on the control panel of the elliptical trainer. The machine started shrieking. Gears whined. Lights flashed. Smoke spewed up from the top. And then the device abruptly stopped, almost throwing me off.
I stumbled away, but the destruction continued. Bolts flew out of their joints. Screws popped loose. Even the paint flaked off the handlebars. Thirty seconds later, the once shiny elliptical trainer collapsed in on itself, reduced to the sum of its parts, as it were.
I put my hands on my hips, slumped over, and tried to get my emotions in check. Breathe. Breathe. I needed to just breathe . . .
I exhaled, grimacing all the while, and not because I’d just reduced another thousand-dollar piece of gym equipment to scrap metal. We didn’t need this sort of bad publicity, especially this close to the benefit. If people thought the museum wasn’t safe, they wouldn’t loan out their items. The special exhibition would be canceled, and the museum would have to return the money it had made from advance ticket sales. The benefit would flop, and it would be all my fault. Sometimes, it just didn’t pay to get out of bed in the morning.
On the TV screen, Kelly nodded to the anchor and gripped her microphone a little tighter. “Well, Jim, I spoke with Berkley’s wife, Joanne James. She said Berkley isn’t worried about security at his home or at the museum. He considers this to be a fluke and nothing more. In fact, he’s decided to donate even more items to the museum to show his good faith.”
I could have wept. “Bless you, Joanne. Bless you.”
Eventually, SNN moved on to the other stories of the day, including a brief blurb about the man Swifte had taken to the hospital. He was expected to make a full recovery. Good for him.
“And speaking of Swifte, we go back out live to Kelly Caleb, who’s managed to catch up with the speedy superhero. Or rather, he’s caught up with her,” Jim said.
Kelly popped back up on the screen. A white, almost silver blur ran circles around her before abruptly stopping. The cameraman swung his lens to the right and zoomed in on Swifte, who leaned one arm on Kelly’s shoulder and smiled.
I flipped off the TV. I didn’t want to hear the superhero blather on about his latest rescue. I didn’t want to think about any superheroes or ubervillains.
Especially not Debonair.
My hair poofed out again. Somehow, my extra-arch-support, nonskid sneakers slid out from under me, and I tumbled to the ground, almost whacking my head on the side of the ruined elliptical trainer.
Even though pain flooded my body, I knew nothing was broken. I never broke anything when I fell or stumbled or slipped, except dishes. Heck, I didn’t even get a concussion when a piano rolled off its dais and slammed me into the makeup counter at Oodles o’ Stuff two months ago. What I would have tomorrow, though, would be lots of nasty-colored bruises. They’d replace the ones from last week that were just fading away.
I sighed into the carpet. First, dinner with Fiona and Chief Newman. Spilling my goodies in front of the trick-or-treaters. My run-in with Debonair. The bad press about the upcoming benefit. Dropping every bit of food I tried to put in my mouth. It was only Monday, but I’d already had enough bad luck to last most people for an entire year.
Unfortunately, I had a feeling it was only going to get worse. My jinx was rather predictable that way.
I spent the next few days working nonstop on the Whimsical Wonders benefit. The committee had made a lot of progress during our last meeting, but there were still a thousand little details to see to in order to make sure the event went off without a hitch. Not to mention the fact I had to repair the damage done by Debonair and his visit to Berkley’s mansion. Why, oh why, couldn’t he have waited until after the benefit to rob Berkley? It would have made my life so much easier.
Speaking of Debonair, I had the strangest feeling the superthief was following me around. More than once, I thought I heard that distinctive pop! that signaled his arrival, or smelled his sexy, sweet scent. But whenever I looked for him, he was nowhere to be seen.
In the end, I decided it was just my imagination playing tricks on me. Debonair wasn’t interested in me. I certainly had no interest at him. None at all. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself. Surely, if I repeated it enough times, I could pretend it was really true.
So, I carried on with the benefit work. I met with the staff at Quicke’s to review seating arrangements. Locked down the bachelor lineup. Double-checked the security setup at the museum. Called all the bigwigs and assured them their priceless art objects would be perfectly safe. The list went on and on.
I had plenty of time to devote to the benefit, since I was taking a two-month sabbatical from Bulluci Industries, where I oversaw our fashion and housewear lines. With my father’s death and Johnny’s engagement and all the other changes in my life, I needed a break. Some time off to figure things out. That was the perk of working for the family company—I could hand things off to Johnny and Grandfather for a few weeks. It wasn’t that I was unhappy with work, but I felt there was more I could be doing with my life than designing dresses for the rich and infamous. Like maybe be a different kind of artist.
A museum-quality artist.
I’d loved drawing and painting from the first time I picked up a brush, but sketching portraits was my specialty. Over the years, I’d drawn countless pictures of Bobby, Johnny, and James. Movie stars. My favorite authors. People I passed on the street. I even used to do superheroes, back in my younger, more foolish days.
Secretly, I longed to have my works hang next to the other masterpieces inside the Bigtime Museum of Modern Art. But it was a dream I kept to myself. I didn’t know if I had the talent to be a real artist. It was a completely different sort of skill set than designing clothes. Fiona would disagree with me, of course, but anybody with a needle and thread could sew, however poorly. Not everybody who picked up a pencil could draw with it.
Besides, the one time I’d attempted to break into the art world, I hadn’t exactly been greeted with open arms. Heartbreak was more like it.
“Do not drop that unless you want me to use your head as a bowling ball.”
Abby’s sharp voice pulled me back to reality. It was Friday, the day before the benefit, and we stood in the new wing of the Bigtime Museum of Modern Art. The two of us, along with Hannah, were overseeing the installation of the pieces for the Whimsical Wonders exhibit, while Grace and Joanne had headed over to Quicke’s to make sure everything was coming together at the restaurant.
The burly guy that Abby had just admonished wrapped his whole beefy hand around the
Ming vase he’d been carrying, instead of just sticking his fingers in the top of it. Abby nodded her approval and checked off something on her enormous clipboard. The event planner was in her usual getup today—cargo pants, a camisole, and a flannel shirt.
And the vest.
No matter how fancy or simple the party, Abby always wore a khaki mesh vest to any event she planned. It reminded me of something a fisherman would wear, although with more pockets and zippers and hidden compartments. Pens, highlighters, note pads, a water bottle, a stun gun. That was just the stuff I could see hanging off the front. Abby had more supplies hidden in the inner pockets, and the vest had to weigh ten pounds if it weighed an ounce. She could probably survive in the wilderness for a month with all the gear she had crammed into that thing.
I’d dressed down today, wearing my favorite pair of jeans and a blue-striped oxford shirt. Hannah was a different story. Instead of jeans or khakis, she sported a wraparound silk top and pencil skirt in a deep burgundy color. Gold sparkled around her neck and her fingers, and she looked as put together and polished as ever. She stood off in a corner, shooting looks at all the art and murmuring into her cell phone.
My eyes drifted over the rest of the wing, which had opened a month ago. The area, done in white flecked marble like the rest of the building, rose seven stories into the air and was three times as wide. The first floor featured a vast, open space with black granite benches set in front of particularly significant or popular pieces. Greek-style columns marked recesses in the walls that people could wander through and examine rotating exhibits. Three scalloped archways allowed access to the other, older parts of the museum, while stairs set in the corners led to the upper floors. Each story sported a wraparound balcony that overlooked the main exhibition space. Diamond-shaped panes of glass crisscrossed with silver solidium beams comprised the pointed ceiling far above. Natural light filtered in through the glass and let people see the art as it really was. Clean white. Bits of color in the marble. Smooth curves. Round, soft edges. No matter how many times I visited the museum, I never tired of it. The architecture itself was a work of art, along with all the paintings on the walls.