Hale turned to look at his sister’s friend more directly. One thing he’d learned about Deena: she always said what was on her mind. “Let’s say I ask her for the belt. If she does have it, she’s not going to want to give it up. For one, it belonged to her grandmother. For another, Zephron explained about how she’ll want to keep it. What do I do if she says no?”
Deena shrugged. “Seduce her, I guess. Isn’t that right up your alley?”
It was, though after Bitsy, Hale had been a little worried. Not that he intended to explore his concerns with Deena. Instead, he just said, “If I’ve already asked her for it, and
then
I seduce her, she’ll assume I’m only after the belt.”
“And she’ll be right,” Hoop piped up.
“Oh.” Deena gnawed on her lower lip. “Well, you could tell her the truth.”
“Oh, yeah. That’d go over big.” He looked over to where Elmer was asleep on a chair. “Hey, Elmer. You listening to this?”
A pair of sleepy ferret eyes blinked up at him.
What? Listening to what
?
Hale didn’t explain. “Let’s see how this would go over, shall we?” He nodded from Deena to Elmer. “Pretend Elmer’s Tracy.” He stood up straighter and said in his most polite voice, “Hi, Tracy. You don’t know me, but my name’s Hale. I’m a superhero. Do you happen to own an ugly belt that’s been imbued with magical powers by Aphrodite? You do? Well, I’m here to take it off your hands.”
Elmer yawned.
You’re insane. All of you. I can’t believe you woke me up for this
.
“So, what’s he saying?” Deena asked.
“He’s calling 911 to have me committed.”
Deena opened her mouth—probably to argue—but then just nodded. “Okay. So maybe telling the truth isn’t the best idea.”
“Maybe not,” Hale agreed, as he tried unsuccessfully to grab hold of an idea that was brewing in the back of his mind. “Although the seduction part might be fun.” That, of course, was an understatement. Especially since he had an inkling that the intriguing Miss Tannin just might be the woman to pull him out of his funk.
Taylor snorted, but didn’t say anything.
“What?” Hale asked.
Taylor shrugged. “I just think it’s a little odd that a man who considers mortals so far beneath him spends his spare time seducing them.”
His eyes met Hale’s, and Hale decided that maybe the man had taken offense to his past mortal-bashing. At least a little.
The P.I.‘s perceptive, you know
, Elmer chittered, crawling up onto the back of the sofa and letting his legs hang down over the cushions.
“I like women,” Hale explained. “Mortal. Protector. I just like women.”
“Uh-huh. Are you sure there isn’t something else going on?”
“Taylor...” Zoë put her hand on her husband’s arm.
“Like what?” Hale asked, ignoring her. He was surprised to hear this from Taylor, but he wanted it out in the open.
“Like maybe you’re scared to hang around longer than a night. Afraid that if you stay with any one woman too long, you’ll start to feel that mortals aren’t so bad after all. Or is it that you’re afraid if you fall for one, you’ll have a weak spot? Your very own Achilles’ heel. After all, Achilles was probably your seventy-fifth cousin twice removed, right? If you fell for a mortal, suddenly you’d be vulnerable. Because if she gets put in danger because of you ...” Taylor shrugged. “Sometimes it’s just easier to keep your distance.”
“Sweetheart ...” Zoë shook her head.
“Just calling it like I see it,” he said.
Hale’s fingers itched to wipe the smug look off his brother-in-law’s face, but he had to admit that the thought of Tracy in danger made his stomach twist. Still, just because he cared about one girl’s well-being didn’t mean he was suddenly desperate to feel something romantic. It didn’t work that way. He was a Protector. He protected. Mortals needed protecting. That was all.
After a few deep breaths, the blood quit pounding in his ears. With supreme effort, he managed to sound calm and rational when he answered. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, buddy.”
For a second, he thought Taylor was going to argue; instead, the man shrugged. “Fine. Whatever you say.”
“Thank you.”
“Since you’re not worried, then you should have no problem moving in with Ms. Tannin, getting the belt and saving the world.”
Great
. They’d come back full circle to the roommate idea. “She might not even have the thing,” Hale protested weakly. “And there’s no point in me moving in if the belt’s at Big Bob’s Flea Market.”
“So find out for sure,” Taylor said. “But if you aren’t certain by the end of the day tomorrow, then see about moving in before someone else does and we lose that angle altogether. If it turns out she doesn’t have it, you can just move out.” He focused on Hale’s eyes. “Unless you think you can’t handle living that close to a mortal. I mean, I know all you superheroes have a few weaknesses....”
Hale scowled as Taylor trailed off. He’d walked right into this one, and now he was stuck. Stuck with Tracy under one roof.
“It’s perfect,” Deena said.
Hale opened his mouth to argue, but couldn’t find the words. Unfortunately for him, moving in made some sense. Tracy Tannin was a woman and their best lead. Tracy needed a roommate. And Hale was nothing if not experienced in getting what he wanted from women.
Conjuring a smile, he glanced around the room, then at Zoë. They all thought this was funny, did they? Him being saddled with a mortal roommate. Well, let them laugh.
“Fine. Unless we find out for sure by tomorrow night that the belt’s somewhere else altogether, I’ll see about moving in.”
He was strong; he could do this. Heck, he was a Protector First Class. A superhero. A direct descendent of Zeus. An experienced lover and a master of women. He could live with a mortal. For the mission, he could suck it up and do it.
And the only thing that made him the tiniest bit nervous was just how much he was anticipating sharing close quarters with the likes of Tracy Tannin.
Barring the brief interlude with the anonymous stranger, Tracy’s evening had continued in the tiger-poop vein. Apparently her life was destined to be little more than large blocks of mortification occasionally broken up by brief stints of lust and longing.
A bummer, but so far she’d learned to live with it.
After the stranger had left, Tracy’s day had managed a nosedive from its new high all the way back down into the Guinness Book of Terrible Days, culminating in a run-in with her ex-boyfriend, Walter the Worm, who hadn’t even recognized her. Granted, it had been four years. Also granted, she’d had the frizzy perm from hell when they’d broken up. But that didn’t change the fact that her face was exactly the same—a face that, apparently, was entirely unmemorable.
Except for one bright spot with the stranger, it had been a truly sucky day all around.
Now, Tracy was camped out in her attic, trying to forget. Her whole life she’d had two favorite places to hide when things weren’t going well—her grandmother’s attic and the ocean. Today, she’d opted for home, and as she sat cross-legged on the floor, a steaming cup of coffee within arm’s reach and boxes of her grandmother’s memorabilia surrounding her, the day’s bad mood started to melt away.
Missy wandered through the attic, her toenails clicking on the flooring as she sniffed and resniffed each and every box.
“Those are just for your
nose
, little girl. Don’t go marking any territory up here.”
Missy whined, but hopefully intended to obey. Not for the first time, Tracy wondered if her grandmother’s death wasn’t as hard on Missy as it was on her. After all, Missy had been Tahlula’s pride and joy. Surely the dog missed her as much as Tracy did.
Keeping an eye on the little fluffball, Tracy pulled the first box between her legs. She’d promised the curator of the Los Angeles Film Museum that she’d donate some of her grandmother’s souvenirs for an upcoming exhibit called Goddesses of the Silver Screen. Since Tahlula Tannin was one of the first huge Hollywood stars, the curator was hot to get some of her belongings.
As she opened the lid and dug in, Tracy’s eyes brimmed with tears. A faded color photograph topped the stack. From it, her grandmother’s image smiled at her, along with Tracy’s parents and Tracy herself, a skinny little kid with bony knees and shiny patent leather shoes, decked out in a crinoline dress.
Her chin quivered, and she swiped the tears away, feeling foolishly melancholy. “Get a grip, Trace.” She put the picture back, firmly closing the box. “It’s not like you haven’t had a great life.” She had. Thoroughly pampered by a grandmother who adored her, doted on by her grandmother’s friends, Tracy’d had a near-idyllic childhood, despite the car wreck that had taken her parents so many years ago.
And now, at twenty-seven, she owned a fabulous house in one of the most coveted neighborhoods in Beverly Hills. Assuming she could somehow manage to pay the taxes— and that was a big assumption—no one could ever take from her that part of her heritage.
A sudden rush of tears spilled out and she let herself go, bawling like a baby until her insides were all dried out. As soon as the bout was over, she scrubbed her palms over her face, frowning against the unexpected onslaught of emotion. Considering how much she usually loved to rummage around in her grandmother’s souvenirs, the crying jag had caught her off guard, and she floundered for a reason—air pollution? The sad state of politics in America? PMS?
Not hardly. She hugged her knees to her chest and rocked back and forth on the hardwood floor, knowing full well what was wrong. She was all alone in a very big world. Despite her job, despite Mistress Bettina, and despite her friendship with Mel, for the first time in her life, Tracy was really and truly alone. She missed her grandmother, who’d adored her unconditionally.
Grandma Tahlula had taken care of Tracy since she’d been a little girl, and in Tahlula’s later days, Tracy had taken care of her grandmother. Tracy sniffed, remembering the vibrant, kind woman who’d been a Hollywood staple throughout her life. From silent films, to opulent musicals and, finally, to smaller, grandmotherly parts in sitcoms or made-for-TV movies.
Tahlula had worked well into her nineties, and she would have kept on working if the cancer hadn’t gotten her. It had drained the woman’s energy, not to mention her bank account, and it had broken Tracy’s heart to watch her grandmother fade away.
Grandma Tahlula had been gone for a year, and now loneliness pressed closer with each passing day. Even though she’d meant it when she’d told Mel she wanted a fling, Tracy had to wonder if, deep down, she really didn’t want much more than that. To love and be loved.
She shook her head, frustrated with herself. One last body-shaking hiccup, and she finally got her breathing under control.
Missy trotted over, sniffed Tracy’s shoes, then whined and covered her eyes with her paws.
“I’m okay, girl. Just sentimental from looking through Gram’s old stuff. That’s all.”
She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Sure. Just sentimental. Nothing more.
Nothing except for Leon and Walter and everything else all piled on top.
Stop it
! Tracy slammed a fist against the side of the box, scaring Missy. She was beginning to get on her own nerves. Walter and Leon were both jerks. Big, fat, hairy jerks. Who wanted ‘em? Not her. That’s for darn sure.
Standing up, she squared her shoulders and moved on to the box marked for the museum. Since she’d already been through that stuff once, surely there wouldn’t be much in there to inspire another bout of waterworks.
Her grandmother’s publicity photos from her early film days were on top, and Tracy pulled out the first—a black and white glossy in soft focus showing Tahlula in a flowing white gown belted at her waist. Tracy framed the image of her grandmother’s face with her fingers and peered at the makeshift cameo. For a time, Tahlula Tannin had been considered the most beautiful star on the Hollywood scene, and fans had clamored for a glimpse of her. That generation’s Marilyn Monroe, Tahlula had never wanted for attention. She had an aura, an almost magical quality, and she seemed to radiate beauty. Tracy pulled out the rest of the photos, and in each, Tahlula was similarly dressed— and looked just as stunning.
From another box Tracy located another studio photo, this one taken a few years later. In it, her grandmother was wearing a simple unadorned black dress. Unlike the photos in the first box, Tahlula didn’t seem to pop off the emulsion. Tracy frowned. How odd. The focus was harsher, revealing the firm angles of Tahlula’s cheekbones and jaw. Striking, yes. Pretty, absolutely. But the stuff legends were made of?
Tracy scowled at the photo, feeling a little disloyal, but it was an empirical fact: Her grandmother was pretty, yes. But drop-dead gorgeous? Not really. At least, not in this picture. Tracy pressed her lips together, struggling with the truth. It wasn’t her grandmother’s looks that had shot her to the pinnacle of success, but something else: a confidence, a bearing, a way of holding herself that was best captured in the photos from the first box.
Tracy sighed. She hadn’t inherited her grandmother’s looks or the older woman’s panache.
Pity.
Shaking her head, she pulled herself out of her funk. She’d come up to the attic to forget her pathetic luck with men; dragging herself into the doldrums had not been part of the agenda. Okay. Fine. She needed happy thoughts. Raindrops on roses. Bright copper kettles. It’s a small world after all.
Running her hands through her hair, she stifled a near-hysterical giggle. Maybe she should run downstairs and eat something, since she seemed to be bordering on delirium. Mentally she ran through the contents of her refrigerator: a jar of kosher dill pickles, a bag of slightly limp carrots, some freshly ground coffee. She frowned. Too bad she hadn’t managed to get any ice cream earlier. And then she remembered—there was an entire tube of slice-and-bake cookies in the freezer.
Cookies
. She turned the word over in her head, anticipating the fresh-baked smell and then the melting chocolate on her tongue. Oh, yeah. Hanging out in the attic might be a temporary cure for the Leon’s-an-ass-and-Walter’s-a-jerk doldrums, but cookies were a downright panacea.