Banging the Superhero Page 2

  "You left five minutes ago. That was fast."

  She closed the magazine and for the first time regarded Ace. He swallowed through the dryness invading his mouth, the same tension that threatened to overwhelm his entire body. The television didn't do her eyes justice. Usually, he thought them just a pretty brown. But, no, her eyes were deep chestnut and her gaze was strong.

  From that gaze, he concluded one of two things had happened. She either had no idea who he was or she knew and she didn't think very highly of him.

  Other than raising an eyebrow, she didn't move an inch. "This is supposed to be my help?"

  "Yes, Ms. Styles. This is Ace Hudson, the owner and President of Powers, Inc."

  Technically, Draco was the owner, but Ace felt no need to correct the misconstrued opinion. Whatever it took to earn this woman's respect, he was willing to do.

  But her cool indifference remained, and Ace's ire rose with each passing moment.

  "The Superheroes?"

  Finally, Ace had to speak. "That's right. I stopped those machines from killing you from about a mile away. Any idea why someone would want you dead?"

  She threw the magazine onto the floor. Now her eyes appeared heated and angry. "That's a preposterous notion. Yes, I could have been seriously maimed, or possibly died, considering what happened, but I'm sure it was nothing more than a prank gone wrong. I certainly don't need to hire professional help to solve it. I've already told Grayson to look into it."

  Grayson stuttered. "Alice . . . ."

  Ace interrupted. "I'm afraid if Grayson could figure out who was strong enough to do something like that, to control those machines using only his or her mind, he'd probably be dead immediately afterward. Don't minimize this. Make no mistake, whoever pulled your so-called prank intended to kill you."

  Alice shot to her feet. "How do I know you didn't do it?"

  Ace had the sudden urge to throw something—at her. Where was the sweet lady who made bread pudding in half an hour on television? This woman was the worst kind of shrew. "I assure you, I have better things to do," he said.

  "He flew all the way here after he rescued you. He's a fan. He watches you every night." Lael stepped forward, red faced, his hands fisted at his side.

  Ace wished he could throw the teenager out the window. Damn. He appreciated the kid stepping up to defend him, but why did Lael have to tell her that?

  Her voice came out totally bland. "How nice, a fan."

  "Okay, I'm leaving. You're welcome, by the way. It was no trouble at all saving your ungrateful ass."

  Ace whirled around. He needed to put up with this as much as he needed to get blown to bits and put back together again. Besides, Powers, Inc. had way too much work lined up. The government was calling, missiles were aimed at the United States, rich aristocrats had missing pieces of jewelry, a madman had a vendetta against the makers of bubble wrap . . . and his brother was on his honeymoon for another two weeks.

  This incident proved a good thing, though. At least now, he didn't have to waste his time watching her make spaghetti and thinking about how hot she would look going down on him. Alice might be attractive, but she was mean as a snake. Fuck that.

  "Oh, Mr. Hudson."

  Ace stopped moving and turned.

  Alice settled back into her seat with a look of boredom. "The next time you and Boy Wonder there decide to leave the house, perhaps you'll put on more attractive socks."

  He looked at his feet. He'd never put back on his shoes before he'd left the house.

  Ace whipped around, grabbed Lael by the arm, and headed toward the exit before anyone noticed the heat that had flushed his face all the way to the tip of his ears.

  What a suckass night this turned out to be.

  Chapter Two

  Alice Styles wanted to vomit.

  In truth, she'd never been so terrified in her life. When the toaster had flown at her head, it had been like her worst nightmare come true. As a child, she'd had bad dreams starring various household appliances ending her life. Now here she was actually at risk of having it happen.

  She bit down on her lower lip as Ace Hudson, the single most sexiest man she had ever seen, sauntered out of the room with a promising sway of his tight rear end.

  Somehow, he looked even hotter in person than he did in the gossip magazines.

  There really was no excuse for her level of rudeness.

  She knew it. Even as a child she'd been unable to react appropriately when afraid. Anything not to seem vulnerable. She knew she behaved badly during fearful situations yet she was completely powerless to control her response.

  She'd have to write him an apology letter or some such thing. Shaking her head, she pushed the thoughts from her mind. She deal with it later. After she'd gone home, bathed, and set her mind into a better mental space.

  Then she'd apologize to Ace Hudson and fire the idiot responsible for making her look like a fool on television. Why hadn't they stopped filming when the machines went nuts?

  She stood. "I'm going home."

  With that said, she stalked from the room, knowing her entourage would follow.

  It's what she paid them to do.

  Once upon a time, she might have thought the group went with her because they were her family and they loved her. Now, she knew better. Her cousins, otherwise known as her personal assistants, all but hated her guts because they couldn't get any of the networks to look at their screenplay and thought she should be doing more to help them.

  She would—if the script wasn't so goddamned awful.

  Her stylist, Paul, was her brother's husband and had been family for ten years.

  These days both he and her brother thought she didn't pay him enough. In reality, she paid him more than he was worth, and she could replace him, immediately, for someone who would do a better job for less money.

  But nothing she ever did seemed enough these days.

  Finally, there was Grayson. Good old Uncle Gray, who had told her on her twentieth birthday not to call him the endearing term any longer. Their business relationship trumped their familial status.

  Ten years in the entertainment industry and she'd learned more than she wanted to about what it meant to employ family. She liked none of it. But family was family, so she kept them employed.

  Storming through the hall to the elevators, she sensed her already short fuse spark to life. After punching the button more than once, she realized as she waited that the elevator was also a machine. She'd nearly been bludgeoned to death by a runaway gang of appliances not one hour earlier. Now she was going to get inside a machine that literally held her life in its compartment?

  No-frickin-way.

  Without turning, she backed away from the elevator to the stairwell. "I feel like walking tonight."

  She would never admit, especially not to the crowd of backstabbers who called themselves her family, just how frightened she was. Exaggerated accounts of her statements would end up in the gossip magazines. Lord knew her mug would show up in them plenty after this crazy incident, without adding flame to the fire.

  Pushing open the door to the stairwell with more force than needed, she felt an extra bit of joy when it banged against the wall. Hell, this was a good idea. Maybe she should take the stairs every day. It could be her cardio workout. She might work the extra ten pounds off her hips that kept the magazines and bloggers dubbing her "fat" or, slightly better but meaning the same, "curvy." Not that walking down the stairs was exactly the same thing as walking up them. She'd have to see if she did that tomorrow morning—assuming she came into the studio and didn't decide to hide under her covers away from any and all electrical appliances.

  Forcing tonight's fiasco out of her mind, she decided to focus on another issue she could fix: her weight. Her biggest problem was she simply liked food and not only the stuff she cooked on her show. No, those dishes were designed for working parents, to teach them how to put on a decent meal in little time and on a tight budget. Her cookbooks and
one-hour specials were the same. She was proud of them.

  But at home, wow, when she had time, she'd put on a feast that she'd be proud to serve to royalty. Considering the amount of time she spent alone lately, she'd had nothing to do but to cook for herself. And then eat.

  So screw them all if they didn't like her body. She was a cook, for goodness sake!

  Was she supposed to also look sickly thin?

  She growled under her breath on her way down the stairs. Maybe she gave off a vibe that warned "stay away" because her family stayed a few stairwells above her, at all times. Rolling her eyes, she stopped walking and turned around.

  "I want all of you to go home. Just go home. Don't follow me. I'll see you tomorrow."

  Grayson called down to her. "Do you think that's a good idea considering what happened?"

  "What's the worst that could happen? You could find me dead?"

  Silence met her query and she wanted to throw something. Great. Taking the steps two at a time, she decided they were all fired. Every last one of them. If only her mother wouldn't lay into her for doing so. Truth was, Alice would never hear the end of it.

  But really? At what point did she stop caring what her mother thought? Finally, reaching the lobby, she pushed open the door with less force than she'd used to open the door to the stairwell.

  People in the lobby didn't need to witness her throw a temper tantrum. Keeping her head held high, she walked out of the building not looking at anyone except to smile to the guard who tipped his hat to her. He was always polite.

  The rest of the numbskulls who worked there, who whispered whenever she walked through the hall or talked about her to the other hosts, well, they didn't deserve her time, let alone an acknowledgment on a night like the one she'd just endured.

  She stepped out onto the street and the sounds of New York City wrapped around her, numbing her mind in the best possible way. Out here, with so much going on, so many people leading their lives, playing heroes in their own stories, Alice couldn't get lost in her thoughts—even if she'd wanted. On the miles of sidewalk, with its scored cement flowing around her as she passed, she could lose herself in the hugeness of it all and feel very small.

  Until the first camera went off in her face.

  Momentarily startled by the bright light, which caused stars to appear before her eyes, Alice almost fell backwards.

  She was mortified. The photographers usually didn't wait for her outside the studio. Home, yes. But snapping pictures of her walking in and out to her car wasn't something that got the freelancers paid really well.

  Perhaps having your life nearly ended by a toaster meant that photographs of you walking out of a building paid higher amounts. Trying to smile through gritted teeth, she stepped into the car waiting for her and nodded to Dugan who held open the door.

  Her driver, Dugan, took her to and from the studio every day. He was one of the perks of the job and the only person on her payroll who wasn't related to her. As he climbed into the front seat, she smiled at him in the rearview mirror.

  "Dugan, if this car acts strangely, please pull over right away. I'm sure what happened inside was a prank. But we can't be too careful."

  He nodded his bald head and smiled. "Yes, ma'am."

  "And would you mind closing the divider tonight?"

  "Whatever you'd like."

  She watched in silence as the barrier between she and Dugan raised. Unable to stop the barrage of emotions that overwhelmed her, she put her head in her hands and wept.

  Someone had tried to kill her today, whether they'd meant it as a joke or not. The incident served only to illuminate how completely alone in the world she really was, even in the midst of a crowd.

  * * * * *

  Alice had soaked in the hot water of her filled-to-the-rim bathtub for half-an-hour and still felt no better. The house was quiet—almost too quiet. Finally, giving into the need to move, she stood, flipping the lever to empty the tub on her way out.

  She reached for the towel to dry off and walked to retrieve her bathrobe when it dawned on her she didn't have to get dressed if she didn't feel like it. She was completely alone in her house. She grinned from ear-to-ear at the thought.

  How decadent.

  How risqué.

  Her stomach grumbled, reminding her she hadn't eaten, and an even more appealing thought than walking around the house naked thrust itself into her brain. If she wanted to, she could cook naked.

  Why not? No one would ever know.

  She rushed through the house glancing left and right as she did, as if someone might jump out at her and scream, "Naked-naked, I see you naked." Okay, she had to admit that perhaps her ultra-conservative background reared its head since her near death experience earlier. The windows were all shut, the drapes pulled, and the doors locked. No one was in the house.

  She really needed to relax. If she was going to do this, she needed to enjoy it or not do it all.

  Standing in her newly renovated kitchen, she looked around, unsure of what to do first. She hadn't really thought this scenario through and the nudity did nothing to help her plan her meal.

  Conceding to herself that this was really not going to work, she rushed to the kitchen linen closet and pulled out one of her aprons. It was a plain white design with small flowers surrounding the edges. Her paternal grandfather had passed down the apron to her when he'd died.

  Shrugging, she decided she could maintain some of her dignity, while still being naughty by wearing nothing underneath her apron. Now, to decide what she wanted to eat . . . .

  Eggs. Far from glamorous. Not difficult to make. But for Alice, eggs were comfort food. She even knew how she wanted to cook them: scrambled.

  Walking to the cabinet directly to the left of the stove, she pulled out her cast iron skillet. It was going to be a mess to clean up. Usually, she didn't use the cast iron for such simple things, but she was treating herself. The extra work in cleaning would be worth it. The seasoned pan would add flavor to her eggs.

  After placing the pan on the stove, she moved to the fridge, singing a little ditty her grandmother had taught her; the lyrics had something to do with a lady waiting for her true love to sweep her off her feet. Ultimately, for Alice's life, it was bullshit.

  Prince Charming had not shown up. She'd be happy at this point with a frog, considering the amount of snakes she'd gone out with lately. But like the eggs, the song comforted her, and she found herself feeling better already.

  She took out the carton of eggs, placed it on the counter and shut the fridge. At the small noise from behind her, she froze.

  What was that?

  Was someone in the house? She swallowed a squeak of fear and discovered her mouth had gone completely dry.

  If someone was in the house then, right at this very second, they were privy to an eyeful, starting with her bare ass, which had been left uncovered by the apron.

  Fisting her hands at her side, she mustered the courage to turn around. This was her house. She'd be damned if she'd allow herself to be spooked.

  She whirled around screaming a very unladylike, "Ahh," at the top of her voice.

  Darting left and right, she scanned the kitchen, even strained to see the living room, located directly to the left of her cooking area.

  Nothing. No one was there.

  "Shit."

  "Alice, cut it out; you have to calm down. It was a freak thing, nothing to get yourself worked up about at home. This is your safe zone. Make your eggs." She spoke aloud, feeling like the sound of her voice seemed out of place in her all-too-quiet kitchen. But some things needed to be said and not just thought. Even if only you heard the words, they still warranted the effort.

  Feeling better after her self-delivered pep talk, she went back to the process of making her eggs. Just as she reached for the pan, the gas on the stove ignited on the burner, nearly searing her hand. She jumped back. What the hell? She hadn't lit the burner yet.

  Gasping, she spun around as a stran
ge noise sounded behind her. The refrigerator door opened and closed—opened and closed. Oh god, this was like what happened at the studio, only it had been the mixer and the toaster, instead of the stove and the fridge.

  At once, all five burners lit, blazing to life. She took another step back and whirled around. Instinct told her to run from the house at top speed. Instead, she forced herself to stay where she was even as her hands shook. She couldn't just walk out. The house might burn down. She needed to do . . . something. But what? She bit her bottom lip as she contemplated charging out the front door.

  Turning on her heel, she ran for the basement. She had to turn off the gas in order to prevent a disaster, and she needed to hurry. She flipped on the basement light, only to have it turn off before she'd made it down two steps.

  "Mother fucker."

  Whoever was doing this to her was dead, so dead. She'd string them up by their toenails. Or maybe she'd pay someone to do it. But that wasn't the point. Rounding the corner, she came to the fuse box that sat next to the gas line for the house. All she needed to do was to shut it off.

  In the dark, she couldn't see anything.

  Before she'd finished grumbling, the television across the game room turned on and upstairs she could hear the vacuum cleaner do the same. She glared at the TV

  screen, only to recognize a video of what had happened to her earlier in the studio played in the background. She was the topic on one of the entertainment shows.

  She laughed. A cold laugh, as if her world had gone insane. What else was she supposed to do? Craziness such as this didn't happen to people. Why was it happening to her?

  The lights flipped on. She looked around desperately for the shut off valve for the gas line. It had seemed so simple when the inspector had shown her how when she'd bought the house. Now, however, she couldn't think straight.

  Just as quickly as the lights flipped on, they turned off, and she shouted her frustration. This wasn't working. Even if she could find her flashlight, could she manage to flip it on before whoever was doing these things made the damned thing attack her also?