Karma Girl

  I hadn’t taken half a step toward the closed door when things started popping! into the room.

  First, food appeared on the glass table in the corner. Debonair wasn’t boasting. He could do a whole lot better than just bread and water. A veritable feast poofed into being right before my eyes. Cheeses and breads and fresh fruits and chocolates galore, along with a bottle of fine champagne. The spread was even more impressive than what Quicke’s had served at the benefit. The sight made my stomach roar and my mouth water.

  Second, my purse teleported in, along with my dress. Both landed at the foot of the enormous waterbed. Debonair was right. The dress was beyond saving. Soot and ash and blood dirtied the satin fabric, along with more rips and tears than I could ever hope to sew shut again. Stains also covered the matching purse, but it, at least, was in one piece.

  Third, a set of clothes materialized. A pair of hip-hugging, tight-fitting khakis teleported into the room, along with a sleeveless, paisley shirt so low-cut it wasn’t much better than the teddy. A moment later, a matching, green leather jacket appeared, along with a pair of low, sling-back heels. Everything had sequins on it, from the multicolored flowers on the pockets of the khakis to the flashing rhinestones that dotted the shirt, to the tiny pearls stitched across the top of the shoes. Sequins and rhinestones and pearls. The outfit looked like something Fiona would wear, only more flamboyant. Not my usual style, but I was just going to have to make do. Or keep wearing the silk teddy, which wasn’t an option.

  Fourth—

  There was no fourth.

  No phone materialized in the room as I’d requested. So, I dug through my purse until I found my own cell phone. A message on the screen told me there was no signal and to seek higher ground or my nearest cell tower.

  Disappointed, I put the phone away. Debonair hadn’t been lying when he said one wouldn’t work down here. I supposed I should be grateful to my captor for what he’d given me. I doubted Hangman would have been so generous. But I found myself listening, waiting for one more pop! that would tell me Debonair had returned.

  He didn’t appear either. I wasn’t sure why I was so disappointed.

  But I was.

  Still, I was too sensible to mope for long. Not if I had any hope of getting out of my prison. Debonair hadn’t said anything about letting me go, and I had no reason to think he wouldn’t. But I wasn’t about to take any chances. Not with the sexy thief. I didn’t trust him. Or maybe I didn’t trust myself around him.

  Either way, I got busy.

  I pushed through the beaded curtain, stepped into the bathroom, and locked the door behind me. Not that a locked door would keep him out, of course. Debonair could probably teleport into any place he wanted. But it made me feel a little bit better.

  The first thing I did was examine my various wounds. They dotted my arms and hands and knees like a bad case of acne. But none were so deep they’d need stitches. In fact, most weren’t much more than paper cuts. Any other person would have probably been sliced to ribbons by the shattered glass from the museum roof. I knew it was because of my luck. For every bad thing that happened, something good did too. So, while I’d been in the middle of a superhero-ubervillain battle, I’d escaped it with just a few minor injuries. Not a bad tradeoff.

  So I moved on. Bruises had formed on a large portion of my body, which meant that I’d be extremely sore in a few hours. But nothing seemed to be sprained or twisted or broken. I also didn’t feel any telltale lumps or bumps on my head, and my vision was fine. Which meant I probably didn’t have a concussion. I wasn’t so sure I was happy about that. Otherwise, how could I explain this intense attraction I felt for someone as inappropriate as Debonair?

  I took a quick dip in the oversized bathtub, scrubbing everything several times, including my thick hair. Then, I stuffed myself into the clothes, albeit sans underwear. The bra and panties I’d been wearing under my dress were as bloody and dirty as it was, and I just couldn’t bear to put the bloodstained fabric back against my clean skin. So I went without, even though I didn’t particularly like going commando.

  The clothes fit, but just barely. And the shirt was practically indecent without the jacket to cover it. Debonair had quite the eye when it came to guessing a woman’s size. There wasn’t an inch of extra fabric. Anywhere.

  I wiped the steam off the mirror over the sink in the bathroom and stared at my reflection. Tawny, curly hair. Hazel eyes. And an outfit so garish it was almost pretty. I looked like me but different. It wasn’t the clothes so much as it was something else. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. A flush colored my cheeks, and a light gleamed in my eyes that hadn’t been there before. Who knew? Maybe being in mortal danger and kidnapped by a handsome thief agreed with me. Or was at least good for my skin. Or maybe I really was concussed and just didn’t know it.

  Once I was more or less properly clothed, I sat down at the table and devoured the food, not even caring about calories and carbs. Fiona would have been proud of me. I ate all the cheese. All the chocolates. All the fruit. And all the bread, except for the crusts. I’d never liked crusts.

  I didn’t drink the champagne, though, instead getting some water from the bathroom. I wanted a clear head. I’d need one, if I had any chance of escaping.

  Once I was through with my meal, I tried the door. Locked. So, I ransacked the room, opening the drawers and cabinets, peering under the furniture, checking around the edges of the massive waterbed.

  Nothing. There was nothing that would help me escape. Not even so much as a rusty nail I could pry out of the wall and stab Debonair with. If I could muster up the courage to do that and not just stare dreamily into his eyes. The man was gorgeous, but why was I acting this way? You’d think I’d never seen a hot superhero or ubervillain before. That I’d never even had sex before. Of course, it had been a while, but that was no excuse. Debonair had kidnapped me and told me in no uncertain terms I was his prisoner. I should hate him.

  But, for some reason, I didn’t.

  And he wasn’t all bad. He’d saved me from Hangman. He’d given me everything I’d asked for, except a phone. Still, thinking about him didn’t help me out of my present situation.

  So, I got up off the bed and went through the room again, slower and more carefully. Opened all the drawers. Peered under the furniture. Checked around the edges of the waterbed.

  And I realized things seemed a little…off.

  Oh, lots of DVDs lay next to the TV inside the entertainment center. But the covers were all slick and shiny, as though they’d never even been opened.

  Oh, lots of exotic bath oils and warming lotions and soothing creams lined a shelf in the bathroom. But the lids were screwed on, and the bottles were all full, as though they’d never been used.

  Oh, lots of faux sex toys, like fake, fur-lined handcuffs and edible underwear, populated the dresser next to the bed. But they looked brand-new, and none of the underwear seemed to be missing from its foil package.

  And I didn’t find any condoms.

  Not a single one.

  You’d think a Romeo like Debonair would have had an industrial pack stashed away somewhere in his Lair of Seduction. Maybe even two or three if he was really the stud he was rumored to be. But I didn’t find any.

  And I started to wonder—was the whole Lair of Seduction thing even real?

  Or was it all for show?

  And if so, why?

  I wasn’t sure I really wanted to know. The whole place gave me a weird vibe. So, I grabbed a pad and pencil I’d found stuffed in one of the drawers in the entertainment center and plopped down on the waterbed.

  It didn’t matter what Debonair did in here or with whom. There was one thing that was real—I wasn’t getting out of here by myself. I’d just have to wait for the Fearless Five to come rescue me. Surely, they were on their way by now. Sam and Carmen probably had Henry Harris and Lulu Lo working overtime on their computers trying to find me. If anyone could, it would be the two computer gurus.
After all, Lulu had managed to find Johnny earlier this year, when he’d been hypnotized and kidnapped by Siren and Intelligal.

  My eyes scanned the room for about the tenth time, and an idea hit me. I started sketching the layout of the Lair of Seduction and made note of all the items inside. Doing this same thing had helped Carmen Cole uncover the real identities of the Terrible Triad last year. Instead of being a superhero, the newspaper reporter had once exposed heroes’ and villains’ secret identities. Maybe my list would help her puzzle out Debonair’s alter ego when they rescued me.

  I did a couple of quick drawings of the room and bathroom. Then, I moved on to Debonair. To my surprise, he was easy to draw. Or maybe I was just obsessed. I filled page after page with images of the handsome thief. Him standing in the museum. Him holding the sapphire in his hand. Him staring at me.

  But the sketch I was proudest of was a closeup portrait of Debonair’s face. I drew him in profile, half turned toward me, half hidden by shadows that spilled over the page. A half smile pulled his lips upward, hinting at his roguish, rakish nature, and he peeked at me out of the corner of his eye.

  I added a bit more shading to his hair and looked at my drawing, pleased with my effort. I’d majored in art in college and had taken a few classes on my own since then, so I knew good work when I saw it—even if it was my own. I doubted Arthur Anders would have been able to find fault with my sketch. Not that he was ever going to see it, though.

  My art was my private, personal escape—one I didn’t share with anyone else, except Johnny and Grandfather. They encouraged me, but I don’t think they knew how important my art was to me—and how passionate I was about it. No one really knew, except for my father, and he was gone now.

  Tired and spent, I yawned. The fight at the museum had taken a lot out of me, as had the wild teleportation around the city and waking up to find myself wearing nothing but a silk teddy. But my ordeal was almost over. The Fearless Five would find me soon, and I could go home, where I belonged.

  Since there was nothing I could do to escape, I curled up on the waterbed, pad beside me, and went to sleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  I knew he was in the room the second I woke up. The smell of smoky roses permeated the air, and there was a stillness I was coming to recognize as the calm after the storm. Or more like the quiet after the pop!

  I sat up to find him lounging on the sofa, staring at me. His eyes were dark and thoughtful. I wondered how long he’d been sitting there. Watching me. And what he’d thought about while he did it.

  “What time is it?” I asked, my voice thick with sleep.

  “A little before midnight. You’ve been asleep all afternoon.”

  I rubbed my eyes and cleared the rest of the cobwebs from my mind. I’d been gone almost a whole day. Grandfather would be frantic by now. I would have been, in his shoes. I hoped the stress wouldn’t be too much for him. And that he wasn’t using this as an excuse to eat and smoke and drink whatever he wanted. Just because I’d been in mortal danger was no reason for him to turn to chocolate cannolis for comfort.

  A faint rustle broke through my worry. I looked up. Debonair held the pad filled with my drawings in his gloved hands. Horror, pure horror, filled me. I never, ever showed my work to anyone but Grandfather and Johnny. I was too afraid of what they’d say. That they’d laugh or scoff or make fun of it like Terrence had. That they’d confirm my suspicion I was wasting my time on a dream that would never come true. Having it confirmed by a third party was a bit more soul-crushing.

  Debonair saw me looking at the pages. “The pad was lodged under your arm. It looked like it was making you uncomfortable, so I took the liberty of removing it.”

  “Give it back.” My fingers dug into the silk sheets, twisting them. “Please.”

  Debonair crossed one leg over the other and flipped through the drawings, studying each one.

  “I was just doodling.” Panic colored my voice, even though I was trying to be as nonchalant as possible. “It’s something I do when I’m bored.”

  “Well, you can doodle quite nicely. I particularly like this one.” He pointed to the portrait of his face. “You have some real talent, Bella. Do you draw all the time?”

  “I dabble a bit, that’s all.”

  “Well, you should do it more. And you should let people see your work. It’s quite good. Your strokes are sure and firm, the proportions are spot-on, and your shading is exquisite.”

  His praise pleased me. More than I would have thought possible. Johnny and Grandfather both told me repeatedly that I had talent, that I should show my work to others. So had my father, James, when he’d been alive. But it was quite another thing to hear it coming from a complete stranger—well, almost a complete stranger. And one who stole fine art. Maybe my dream of being an artist wasn’t so farfetched—if I could muster up the courage to pursue it.

  “Do you really like it? Or are you just being nice?”

  Debonair smiled. “I really like it, Bella. Truly, I do.”

  My heart fluttered, and I didn’t know if it was because of his kind words or incredible smile.

  “In fact, I like it so much I’m going to give it the official Debonair seal of approval.” He snapped his fingers, and a pencil appeared in them. “Do you mind?”

  “No. Please. Go ahead.”

  Debonair scrawled his name across the bottom of the drawing and held it out to me. I scooted off the waterbed, took the paper, and squinted.

  “You call that a signature? It looks like a big D with some squiggles after it.”

  Debonair shrugged. “Unfortunately, penmanship is not one of my superpowers. We all have our weaknesses.”

  He held out his hand. “Come. It’s time for dinner. I’ve brought you something a little more substantial than bread and cheese this time.”

  I hesitated, then slipped my hand in his gloved one. It felt better than I thought it would. Almost natural.

  Debonair led me over to the table in the corner of the room. He’d been busy while I’d been asleep. Covered platters sat on the smooth surface, along with several lit candles and a fresh bouquet of roses. A bucket of white wine chilled next to the table, which had been set with fine china and crystal. A perfect, romantic scene, like something out of a book or movie. The sight made me uncomfortable.

  Debonair held out a chair. I slid into the seat while he dropped into the opposite one. The thief took a folded, white napkin, whipped it open, and settled it in his lap with an innate grace I envied. If I tried to do that, I’d probably give myself a black eye.

  Then, Debonair took off his leather gloves and laid them aside. I stared at his hands. Maybe it was the artist in me, but I always looked at people’s hands. His were very nice. Strong and capable-looking, with short, neat nails and just a sprinkling of dark hair across the knuckles.

  “How about some wine?” he asked, holding up a bottle. “Or would you prefer something stronger?”

  I loved wine, but I didn’t drink it that often. Or rather, I couldn’t. Whenever I tried, my luck usually went helter-skelter, and I ended up wearing more of the liquid than I actually drank, probably because of my underlying guilt about all the calories. As a result, I usually stuck to low-calorie, vitamin-enhanced water. It didn’t leave as many stains behind on the floor or table or my clothes.

  But I couldn’t be too picky tonight. Debonair had given me so much already. I hated to ask for more, even if I was here against my will. I’d just have to hope my luck wouldn’t decide to make me do something particularly chaotic.

  “White wine is fine.”

  He poured us both some, then snapped his fingers. The covers on the platters disappeared, revealing orange-glazed chicken next to a medley of mixed vegetables, toasted baguettes, and mounds of mashed potatoes covered with butter, sour cream, bacon bits, and cheddar cheese.

  Steam rose up from the chicken and vegetables, overpowering the rosy scent in the room. My stomach rumbled, even though I’d eaten a few hours ago.
Or had it been longer? I couldn’t tell.

  “Please. Help yourself. I know you must be hungry after everything you’ve been through,” Debonair said.

  I eyed the food like Fiona would look at a bag of candy bars. Heaven on a plate, despite the heavy carb load. But I figured I’d earned the right to splurge. It wasn’t every day I survived being in the middle of a superhero-ubervillain battle.

  I bit into the tender chicken and sighed as the sweet-and-sour juices filled my mouth. “This is delicious.”

  Debonair raised his wineglass. “Only the best for you, Bella.”

  Normally, I would have been nice and polite and merely picked at my meal, avoiding most of the treacherous bread and potatoes. But I was too hungry to care what Debonair thought of my table manners. Or maybe watching Fiona inhale food like there was no tomorrow had affected me more than I’d realized. Either way, I polished off my meal in a matter of minutes without dropping or spilling anything. My luck kept to a low, steady buzz around me, content not to interfere. For a change.

  “Do you want some more?” Debonair asked.

  “No,” I said, dabbing at my lips with a crisp, linen napkin. “That was more than enough, and everything was wonderful.”

  He smiled. “I’m glad you approve. The chicken and vegetables are an old family recipe. My grandmother taught me to make them many years ago.”

  “Your grandmother, is she here?”

  Perhaps if she was, I could appeal to her to help me escape. Or at least get her to let me call my grandfather. Despite Debonair’s obvious charms, I couldn’t let myself think he was anything but my kidnapper. Albeit the nicest kidnapper anyone had probably ever had.

  Debonair shook his head. “She’s still alive, if that’s what you’re asking. But she’s not here. She’s a wonderful woman.”

  “What’s her name?” I asked, hoping to catch him off guard.

  “You know I can’t tell you that, Bella.”

  I didn’t really expect it to work, so I tried another tactic. “You love your grandmother very much, don’t you?”