I walked into the living room. A long sofa the color of Bing cherries sat against one wall, flanked by four black armchairs. The rest of the furniture was done in various shades of red, black, and white. Sometimes all three. Paintings behind shatterproof and fire-resistant glass added even more color to the pale walls.
I took a quick shower, dried off in about two seconds, and moved to my favorite part of my apartment—my closet. I flicked on the lights in the walk-in closet, which took up more than two thousand square feet. Rack after rack of shirts, skirts, slacks, shoes, and more, along with drawers full of jewelry and handbags, crouched inside the massive space. The bright fabrics, outrageous patterns, and bold colors always brought a smile to my face. Life was too short for drab beiges and tame taupes and basic blacks. Give me electric blue and lime green and shocking purple any day.
Now, on to the most important question of the day. What to wear? So many color combinations, so little time. I flipped through the racks of clothes, choosing a short, hot-pink skirt and a sleeveless, black, V-necked top with huge pink polka dots. A pair of matching kitten heels, a heart-shaped bag, and plastic, hoop earrings finished off the look.
I left the convertible in the building’s parking garage and walked the few blocks to my store. It was just after nine, and most folks were grabbing a last cup of coffee and a doughnut before heading off to work. I stopped in front of Bryn’s Bakery, eyeing the delectable-looking bear claws through the windows. The bag of blueberry bagels, tub of cream cheese, and quart of apple juice I’d had for breakfast were already long gone.
A siren screamed out, and a brigade of fire trucks roared by. I squinted into the morning sun. Black smoke boiled up from a building a couple of blocks away. I stood on the sidewalk, torn between the bear claws and whipping my spare Fiera costume and boots out of the special, air-compressed compartment in my purse.
“Out of my way! Move it! Now!”
A woman dressed in a formfitting, ebony jumpsuit strutted by me. Green and gold snakes curled around her arms like bracelets, hissing and snapping at people to get them to move out of the way. More snakes writhed on top of her sky-high headdress. Ah, Black Samba was coming to the rescue today.
Black Samba marched into the street and held out her hand. She chanted in an odd, sibilant language. Five seconds later, a city bus rounded a corner and stopped in front of her. Along with the snakes, Black Samba had some sort of magic voodoo powers I didn’t really understand. I preferred a simpler style, punching and smashing and frying to get things done. But the mumbo-jumbo worked for her.
Black Samba leapt up onto the hood, told the driver to head toward the fire, then scampered up onto the roof. Bus tops were her preferred mode of transportation around the city. For some reason, her snakes didn’t like the subway. At least, that’s what I’d heard through the superhero grapevine.
“Wait for me!” an older, feminine voice called out.
A diamond-topped walking stick snapped against the sidewalk, and the crowd parted to let Granny Cane through. She looked like your average grandmother, except for the flowered purple mask that covered her face and the cape-like flow to her matching angora sweater. Granny Cane prowled the streets of Bigtime, getting thieves to try to mug her before wailing on them with her enormous handbag and walking stick and dragging them to the police station. Granny was a lot stronger and sturdier than she looked.
“Hurry up, old woman!” Black Samba snapped, stalking up and down the top of the bus. Her snakes hissed in time to her footsteps.
“Don’t make me wash your mouth out with soap, missy.” Granny pointed her cane at the other superhero. “There’s no need to be disrespectful to your elders.”
Granny hopped onto the bus, and it pulled away into traffic. Well, with Black Samba and Granny Cane on the way, there was no need for me to get involved. They could handle a simple fire-and-rescue operation. Besides, too many superheroes on the scene wasn’t really a good thing. Everybody always wanted to get in on the drama. When there wasn’t enough danger to go around, the stronger superheroes tended to assert themselves, which often led to ego-bruising and spats. We all wanted to be the best—and most popular. It was sort of like being back in high school. With superpowers, a good image, and action-figure sales to maintain—instead of a cool quotient, high grades, and clear skin.
I did, however, still need to get to work. So, I forced myself away from the bakery and walked on.
Fiona Fine Fashions sat in the middle of Retail Row in the heart of Bigtime’s downtown shopping district. The front of the multistory building housed the runway and store, while workers sewed garments and more in the back. A huge, marble F towered three stories above the sidewalk and announced the store’s presence to shoppers.
I breezed through the front door. A bell chimed, letting everyone know that I had arrived. The inside of the store was rather like my apartment, in that it featured white marble walls and floors. Everything was simple and clean and colorless, the better to focus attention on my bright, bold, daring clothes. Racks of the Fiona Fine originals sat throughout the store, while a long runway cut through the middle of the open space. Models in various shapes and sizes trotted up and down the catwalk, showing off the latest, greatest designs to customers, who sat on plush leather chairs munching on champagne and gourmet chocolates. Techno music pulsed out a snappy, happy beat through the sound system. Clerks bustled back and forth, fetching food and taking orders. I waved to them and to the society women I recognized. They fluttered their hands at me and kept on eating and drinking. I’d learned a long time ago that society ladies felt they deserved to be pampered, so I catered to their whims.
My eyes traced over the store with pride. The gleaming marble and pricey clothes were a long way from the simple home where I’d grown up in Ireland. Like so many others, my father had moved the family here in search of the American dream. I was one of the lucky ones who’d gotten mine. I sewed until my fingers bled to get to the top of the fashion world, and I did everything I could to stay there.
I strolled through the store, punched in the security code on the back door, and headed for the factory floor. The whine and whir of sewing machines, ringing phones, and other equipment replaced the pulsing music. Men and women sat in colorful, ergonomically designed cubicles and sewed dresses, tops, skirts, and more. Some placed dainty crystals on supple leather handbags, while a few worked with sapphires, rubies, and emeralds. The gems glistened and sparkled under the white lights. My jewelry line was launching this fall, and it was going to be just as fabulous as everything else I designed.
More than a few folks called out and waved to me, and I answered them in kind. My workers earned top dollar and excellent benefits for their time, diligence, and quality craftsmanship. I could afford to be generous. Most of my creations retailed for at least five thousand dollars, and everything was backordered for six weeks. The only other designer who commanded similar prices was Bella Bulluci.
Johnny Bulluci’s handsome face flashed through my mind. I’d have to ask around and get some more dirt on him. I remembered the suave way he’d kissed me at the wedding. A spark sizzled on the tip of my thumb. Oh yes. I definitely wanted my rebound relationship to ramp up as soon as possible.
I put that thought away and stepped into Piper Perez’s office, which was next to mine. Piper typed away on a keyboard and murmured into a headset attached to one side of her cats-eye glasses. She was an average-sized woman with glossy black hair, tan skin, and warm, brown eyes.
Piper also was my chief financial officer and anal to a fault. Everything on her desk was arranged from tallest (her computer monitor) to shortest (a pink sticky pad) and sorted by color, shape, and times used during the day. Piper was insanely proud of her straitlaced, obsessive tendencies. She should be. Her organizational and accounting skills earned her more than most CEOs.
“Morning, Piper.”
Piper said her goodbyes to her caller, punched a button on her headset, and ended the conversation. “Mo
rning, Fiona.”
She stopped typing and handed me a stack of papers. “The front desk gave me your latest messages by mistake. I went ahead and placed the oldest ones on top so you can return those calls first. I also put the cost-comparison reports about the fabric and gemstone suppliers on your desk. And Joanne James called me personally, demanding to know when you would be available. Her highness wants to come in for a fitting.”
I groaned, tempted to burn the message and drop the charred remains in Piper’s spotless steel trash can. Then, I thought about that flashing rock on Joanne’s finger. I really could use a couple of new Fiera suits, and the flame-proof fabric I had to make them out of wasn’t cheap. I might be rich, but I wasn’t going to turn down a hefty payday, even if I had to deal with the black widow of Bigtime. “All right. Have somebody set it up. But be sure we have plenty of champagne on hand that day.”
“For Joanne?”
“No, for me. I’m going to need it.”
“If you think you’re going to need it then, just wait a minute,” Piper said.
“What? What did you say?”
“Oh nothing,” Piper chirped in a cheery voice that didn’t fool me for a minute.
My eyes narrowed. “What are you up to?”
Piper blinked. “Nothing. Nothing at all, Fiona.”
At times like this, the chief’s mind-reading powers would so come in handy. I thought about sweating the truth out of Piper but decided against it. She’d just spend the rest of the morning in the bathroom touching up her makeup until it was perfect again. Piper was as obsessive about her appearance as she was about her desk. I gave her a last suspicious look, opened the door to my office, and stepped inside.
Words escaped me.
Flowers, flowers, and more flowers covered every inch of my desk, surrounding shelves, and windowsills. Roses, tulips, orchids, and more painted the room in a wild, vivid rainbow of color. My nose twitched at the heady, rich scents all mingled and mashed together.
Piper leaned against the doorframe. “They’ve been arriving every half hour since eight this morning.”
“Where and who did all these come from?” I fingered the petals on a blue orchid. I loved flowers, especially orchids, but I never bought them for myself. Unfortunately, they had a tendency to go up like smoke around me.
Piper pulled out a card embossed with silver filigree. Fiona. So sorry we got interrupted yesterday at the wedding. Dinner tonight? I’ll pick you up at seven at your apartment. Johnny Bulluci.
I managed not to squeal. Instead, I took the card from her and read it myself. Three times.
“Who’s the guy?” Piper asked. “I haven’t heard you mention him before. Then again, I haven’t heard you mention anyone in a long time.”
“Bella’s brother. He’s new in town,” I said in an absent tone, my eyes still fixed on the card, which was made out of thick, creamy paper. I traced over the silver letters with my finger, careful not to scorch the stationary.
“Bella? As in Bella Bulluci? Our archrival in the design world?”
“The one and the same.”
I read the card again. Tingles spread through my heated body. Johnny Bulluci liked me. Enough to want to see me again. Either that or he just thought I was extremely easy. I remembered his spicy smell, his firm hands on my feverish body, the way I’d offered no resistance to his skillful advances. Yeah, he probably thought I was easy. Didn’t bother me any.
“You know, I don’t remember seeing you with this guy at the wedding. So what exactly were the two of you doing yesterday? And where?” Piper’s dark eyes sparkled. “Or should I even ask? It must have been something to get this kind of enthusiastic response.”
I flipped my long, blond hair over my shoulder. “Why, Piper, don’t you know? It’s always something with me.”
Piper just snickered.
Chapter Six
I spent the rest of the day working on my new fall lines. Fiona Fine Fashions was an empire unto itself, and I had my fingers in everything from evening wear for society matrons to couture wedding gowns to sportswear to baby clothes. Yes, baby clothes. It was never too early to start teaching kids about fabulous fashion.
Today, though, my main focus was on Fine Finds by Fiona, an affordable businesswear collection for professional women debuting in stores across America later this year. I was taking the basic, black work suit and dressing it up with stripes, plaids, paisleys, and most importantly, color. Your job might be boring, but your clothes should never be.
At least, I tried to work. I kept staring at the flowers clustered around me. It was like sitting in my own personal jungle. My eyes traced over the kaleidoscope sprays with their soft, velvety petals. Inspired, I fished a large pad out of my messy desk and started sketching. Two hours later, I had over a dozen drawings, each one bigger and bolder and better than the last. I’d been looking for a theme for next year’s spring line. Flower power would be perfect. After all, flowers featured everything that I loved—wild patterns, brilliant colors, sleek designs.
A knock on the door interrupted the flow of my creative juices.
Piper held up three white paper bags that looked like they were ready to pop. “I went to Quicke’s for a meeting and thought you might be hungry. I got you a couple of grilled chicken sandwiches, a Caesar salad, large fries, a dozen cookies, and the biggest raspberry tea I could find.”
I glanced at the clock. Three in the afternoon already. My stomach rumbled. “Thanks, Piper. You’re a lifesaver.”
Piper deposited the bags on my crowded desk. She’d long ago grown used to my enormous appetite, although she thought I had some sort of eating disorder, like binging and purging. Every so often, I’d come into the office to find pamphlets on anorexia and other eating-disorder clinics and programs on my desk, courtesy of Piper. I reduced them to ash, ignored Piper’s prying looks, and continued to eat like there was no tomorrow. I couldn’t exactly tell her the truth—that I was a superhero with a superhigh metabolism. Piper was my friend, but I had a secret identity to protect. The Terrible Triad had taught me the importance of anonymity.
I polished off the food in about fifteen minutes under Piper’s watchful eyes. She stuck her head into my office several times that afternoon, probably hoping to catch me hurling into one of the empty paper bags, but I disappointed her by slaving away at my desk.
In addition to my work as head of Fiona Fine Fashions, I also had to attend to my duties and business as Fiera. Being a superhero was just as much about public relations as it was about saving kittens from trees and babies from burning buildings. Most of us had our own websites, merchandise, fan clubs, and more so we could control who did what with our image. The same went for the ubervillains. Unfortunately, evil appealed to just as many folks as good did.
Some superheroes, namely Swifte, really hammed it up. They blogged and did webcasts and wrote tell-all biographies, regaling the masses with their latest daring adventures and narrow escapes. I and the other members of the Fearless Five were much more restrained. We had a simple website where folks could e-mail us and sign up for our newsletter, as well as buy our merchandise, namely copies of my annual calendar and latest action figures. The others didn’t have action figures. At least not officially sanctioned, royalty-paying ones. They weren’t so into the marketing end of things, especially Sam. The man would have been a shadow if he could.
But I didn’t keep any money I made as Fiera. Neither did the rest of the Fearless Five. Not a penny. We split the profits evenly and donated them all to worthy causes. My cut went to a charity that helped burn victims get reconstructive surgery and to the Bigtime Municipal Building Restoration Fund. After all, if you tear it down, you really should help rebuild it. And I’d destroyed more than one building in Bigtime over the years.
Of course, some folks like Gentleman George and the Baseballer spurned the spotlight, preferring to keep to themselves and avoid the hoopla. Sometimes, I thought about going that route. Taking down the website, discontin
uing my annual calendar, canceling my few public appearances. But part of me liked the attention. Modesty wasn’t one of my virtues, and I enjoyed being recognized for saving the city every couple of weeks. My father had taught me long ago that I had special gifts that I must use to help others. He called it my duty, my purpose in life. I just thought it was fun. At least, it was most of the time.
I logged into my Fiera accounts and checked on sales of the calendar and a few other things that needed my attention. All of the money flowed from the website through untraceable, numbered overseas accounts to our favorite charities. Sam was a real whiz at setting up things like that. Plus, Henry had put tons of security gizmos on my computer, ensuring that only I could access the Fiera files hidden on my hard drive.
Once that was done, I switched over to my e-mails. I got dozens of e-mails and instant messages every day, most of them from fanboys who wanted me to autograph their inflatable Fiera dolls or their tighty-whities—sometimes both. I usually ignored those. I also got a lot of letters from kids asking me to find their lost puppies or to please, please, please bring their pet hamster back to life. Those I answered as best I could. Despite my superpowers, I couldn’t help everybody, couldn’t save everybody. I did what I could, when I could. That was another thing my father had taught me. You could be a hero, do your duty, and still have a life outside the masks and capes and spandex costumes. If you didn’t, you’d drive yourself crazy.
By the time I finished my sketches, returned messages, and caught up on my paperwork, superhero-related and otherwise, it was after five. Time to go home and get ready for my night out on the town with the delectable Johnny Bulluci.
Goody.