A Karma Girl Christmas (13 page)

Bobby waggled his finger. “Soon, Bella. Soon. She’s busy with her work right now, but once that’s done, I promise we’ll have her over for dinner, and you can grill her to your heart’s content.”

Just because I’d asked Fiona what her intentions were towards Johnny, I’d gotten a reputation for being overprotective when it came to my brother and grandfather’s love lives. I just wanted to keep them safe from everything, including broken hearts.
 

“Has Johnny called yet?” I asked, scooping up the last of my oatmeal. “Did they get to the hotel all right?”

“He called this morning before you were up.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Because everything was fine, and they were on their way out to do some sightseeing. Johnny said he’ll call back in a couple of days. You can talk to your brother then.”

Grandfather stuck his nose in the sports section, reading the latest European soccer news. Unlike me, he didn’t feel the need to know where the members of his family were every single hour of the day. Maybe it was his age or all that he’d seen in his seventy-three years, but Bobby had a very casual, relaxed attitude about life. He could always find something to laugh at or smile about, no matter how bad things were. I envied his carefree nature.
 

Bobby kept reading his papers, so I finished my breakfast and went upstairs. I took a quick shower, then put on a crisp, tailored, white shirt, fitted black pants, and sensible black pumps. Fiona could wear jungle prints and leopard spots and zebra stripes all she wanted, but nothing was classier and more elegant than basic black with a refreshing splash of white.

I rummaged through my jewelry box until I came up with a short, thin silver chain. I fastened it around my neck, and a small pair of diamond-cut angel wings settled into the hollow of my throat.
 

Given my male relatives’ propensity for morphing into Johnny Angel, we Bullucis have become collectors and connoisseurs of all things angel-related. From furniture to carpets to light fixtures, if it has an angel or cherub or pair of wings on it, we probably have one. Or thirteen.
 

In my set of rooms alone, angel and wing and halo carvings decorated the headboard on my bed, the coffee table in the sitting room, and the desk where I kept my sketch pads and art supplies. Clouds puffed across the walls and ceiling in the bathroom, and, instead of claw feet, four small angel heads supported my oversized bathtub.
 

I looked into the full-length mirror in the corner of the bedroom. My eyes lingered on my necklace. The chain and winged charm had been a present from my father, James, on my sixteenth birthday. I’d started wearing them more often since he’d been murdered. It made me feel closer to him, even though he was gone. I fingered the charm, and my father’s face flashed through my mind.
 

Sandy hair, dark skin, blue eyes, strong, sure hands. James Bulluci had been a wonderful father. Kind, caring, and never too busy to read me a story or tuck me into bed. After my mother died in a car accident, he’d doubled his efforts to be a good father. He took Johnny and me out at least once a week to spend some quality time together. We’d go to Paradise Park to ride the Ferris wheel, or to the library to listen to tall tales, or even to the art museum to look at all the wonderful paintings and sculptures.
 

I’d loved my father dearly. Except for one thing—his alter ego, Johnny Angel. A tradition he’d inherited from my grandfather, the original Angel. I’d never understood why the two of them had felt the need to dress up in black leather. They weren’t superheroes. At least, not traditional heroes like the Fearless Five. Neither one had a power. But for years, they’d both ridden around Bigtime on custom-made motorcycles, hanging out with the local biker gangs, and getting into trouble.

And fighting ubervillains.
 

At least once a week, my father would come home bloody and bruised from some battle. And I’d be waiting to patch him up. I’d help him out of his torn, ripped costume, wipe the blood off his face, assess the damage, and go to work with my needle and thread. I knew as much about cuts and stitches and setting broken bones as any ER doc did. Maybe more, given all the ones I’d treated over the years.

But the wounds weren’t the worst part.

It was the waiting. The wondering. The heavy, crushing fear my father wouldn’t come home. Ever again. That some ubervillain would kill him. Or that he’d get beaten to death in a bar fight. Or the more pedestrian worry that he’d have a motorcycle accident.

Just about every night, I’d sit up with my mother and wait for my father to come home. After she died, I did it by myself. Sometimes, Grandfather and Johnny would wait with me, but most nights, I was alone. They didn’t worry like I did. They always thought my father would come home safe and more or less sound.

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.

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 convinced Johnny to join forces with them. But Johnny had still almost died when the ubervillains kidnapped 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 emotional. 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 sent the watch flying across the room. It landed with a soft thump on the far side of the sofa.

I 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. A beautiful October day greeted me, 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 curving driveway, and a few fluttered down to the burnished brown of the lawn. I made a mental note to make 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 only lived 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. 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 away my vehicle 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 an empty, spotless 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 decorated 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 ivory. 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, fifty-something 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 multi-billion-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 and kissed 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. And 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 him 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 purred 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 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 but hope my breasts looked that good when I was her age. Whatever it was. Joanne’s smooth, unlined face made it was hard to tell exactly how old she was, although I would guess she had to be at least forty.