Nibbling on her lower lip, she glanced at the box in front of her. She’d finish this box, then she’d go make cookies. That seemed like a reasonable, rational plan.
Her mouth watering, she pulled out the next photo. It was of a birthday party. With cake. Creamy, moist, gooey cake. She licked her lips, catching herself before she drooled on the pictures. The museum probably wouldn’t appreciate soggy prints.
So much for reasonable and rational. Apparently those virtues were no match for cookie lust.
Despite a beautiful wrought-iron gate, the security at Tracy Tannin’s house wasn’t exactly stellar. A thief could get through easily enough. For a superhero, it was a piece of cake.
Hale reminded himself that he was here only to scope out the territory. Until he found out if Tracy had the belt, there was no reason to apply to be her roommate. And even though he still wasn’t too crazy about the roommate plan, more and more he was hoping that Tracy really did have the belt. Because he had concocted a plan of his own.
For the last hour or so, he’d been thinking about what Deena had said:
Seduce the girl
. And although he’d dismissed the comment at the time, now he was thinking his sister’s friend had a point.
Seduction
was
his specialty, after all. And while Hale might be the wrong superhero to form a warm, fuzzy, touchy-feely bond with the girl, he was definitely the right choice to romance the belt away from her.
So that was his plan. If she had the belt, he’d connect with her, all right. Sexually, sensually. Hell, those were the kind of connections he was used to making. The kind of connections he was good at. And on more than one occasion he’d exercised his powers of persuasion on mortal females he’d seduced. So why not do the same with Tracy?
It wasn’t the plan Zephron had outlined, but the Elder had picked Hale specifically for the mission. And it wasn’t as if Hale’s particular talent with the ladies was unknown. So maybe this is what the Elder had planned all along. Considering that Hale wasn’t a likely choice to play buddy-up-to-the-mortal, the possibility made a lot of sense.
And even if Zephron hadn’t planned on Hale seducing the girl, it didn’t matter, because at the end of the day, Hale would convince Tracy to turn over the belt. He’d just do it
his
way.
As soon as he made the decision, Hale felt one-hundred percent better about the mission. Befriending a mortal made him shudder. But seducing a mortal... a little hot sex and some close cuddling without all those pesky emotions interfering ... Well, that was his specialty.
Or it had been. He frowned. For the sake of the mission—not to mention his own sanity—he certainly hoped it still was.
Turning his attention back to the matter at hand, he crept through the yard toward the front of the house.
Are we snooping
? Elmer asked from his perch on Hale’s shoulder.
“We’re not snooping,” Hale whispered back, pulling himself from his thoughts. “We’re investigating. There’s a difference.”
Uh-huh.
Hale ignored him and dematerialized as they approached the house. The grounds were private, and Hale hadn’t noticed anyone except himself skulking about, but he wanted to make himself as unobtrusive as possible. As he peered through the cut-glass windows bracketing the front door, he considered simply breaking in and wandering through the house. But that was against the rules, he reminded himself. Not that Hale
always
followed the rules, but he knew the boundaries. Zephron would never approve of indiscriminate behavior—on this of all missions.
There was nothing of particular interest to Hale in the front hallway, so he jumped off the porch—Elmer’s claws digging into him for purchase—and crept through the shrubbery toward the next window. Beyond it was some sort of den, with overstuffed chairs and lots of bookshelves, but nothing that attracted Hale’s attention.
At least, not until he saw her. She was looking just as she had on the backlot. He studied her face. She had straight brown hair that reached just past her shoulders, a slim aristocratic nose, and eyes that seemed a little sad. Her face was striking, but not beautiful. Certainly it was not the kind of face he’d normally find attractive—but there was something unique about it. Something that had pulled him in that afternoon, and it was still pulling. He smiled and almost rubbed his hands together, pleased that he’d decided to go the seduction route. Yes, indeed—that was one decision he wasn’t going to regret. And now, more than ever, he hoped she had the damn belt.
There she is. There’s Tracy Tannin.
Elmer’s voice pulled Hale out of his reverie, and he instinctively ducked. Though he was completely invisible, she could still see the ferret. Luck was on his side, though. The woman didn’t even look in his direction. Instead, she just passed through the room, two boxes in her arms.
Hale followed, stumbling as he tried to catch a glimpse of her through the next set of windows. He hadn’t wanted to lose sight of her, but already she had passed out of his range of vision.
Nothing in the next room. “Where’d she go?” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded frantic.
How in Hades should I know? It’s your sister with the x-ray vision. Not me.
“Hold on.” With super speed, Hale raced to another window, determined to find her. On his shoulder Elmer stumbled then latched on, his claws digging in deep enough this time to draw blood.
“Would you be careful!” Hale hissed. Peering through the window, he saw nothing.
Me? Hopping Hades! You‘re the one rushing around in the hydrangea bushes. Ha! I knew you were smitten. I just knew it!
“Smitten? What? Have you been watching old movies again? She’s not my type at all, and you know it.” That was true enough, and he hardly intended to admit to Elmer how intriguing she was. But just because he’d happily bed her didn’t mean he was smitten. Smitten implied more than just sex and attraction. Hale had never been smitten by a woman in his life—and he didn’t intend to start now.
I didn‘t say she was your usual fare. I said you had the hots for her.
“Well, maybe I do,” he admitted. And frankly, having the hots for someone felt damn nice. Considering the recent decline in his libido, this sudden burst of sexual interest in a woman was downright welcome. Tracy Tannin might be nothing more than an average mortal, but his attraction to her meant that his engine didn’t need tuning. No sir, all his parts were in perfect working order.
Thank Zeus.
At the moment, he wasn’t inclined to examine why a woman so far from his usual speed had managed to rev his motor. Only the bottom line mattered, and that was simple: Tracy had pulled him out of his funk, and now he wanted her. Wanted to touch her. Wanted to stroke her. Just plain
wanted
her. In his bed. For a few hours. That, at least, was familiar territory. Maybe his taste had changed. He’d never gone for the less than voluptuous type before, but the end result would still be the same: a delightful diversion between the sheets.
There she is
! Elmer screeched, bobbing up and down.
Hale looked over in time to catch the direction Elmer pointed—through a pantry and out into a large, well-lit kitchen. Unfortunately, Hale could only make out Tracy’s shadow as she passed in front of the louvered doors.
“That way,” he whispered, nodding to the side. “There’s got to be a window over there.” Trying not to seem too anxious, he half-ran, half-levitated his way around the corner of the house.
I haven’t seen you in this much of a rush since that Hieronymous flunkie was spitting fireballs at you.
Hale ignored the ferret, not only because he didn’t have a snappy comeback, but also because he’d found Tracy again. She was right there in front of him, standing before the kitchen counter, her hair hanging loose in front of her face as she sliced cookie dough and placed it on a sheet.
Are we going to snoop around some more, or are we just gonna watch Martha Stewart here?
Hale scowled but didn’t answer. For the next few minutes, he simply watched as Tracy put the cookie sheet into the oven, then poured herself a cup of coffee and crossed to the massive kitchen table. The window was open, and the savory smells coming through it wafted toward him. Hale’s stomach growled, and he stepped back, afraid she’d hear.
Her head did cock slightly, but she didn’t move, and after a few seconds, she turned her attention to a box perched on one of the chairs. She pulled it open and began drawing items out at random.
Even though her back was to him and Hale could hardly see what she was doing, he would have been happy to stand there forever. He tried to shake off the unusual—and not entirely welcome—feeling. He simply wasn’t the type to get all mushy for a woman.
And yet there was something about this one. Something that drew him in. Something that—
The girdle!
She’d shifted slightly, and Hale caught a glimpse of it in her hand. The evening light coming in through the kitchen window caught the gold weave of the belt, casting it in a mystical glow.
She had the girdle! Elation rose in his chest even as the rest of his body started to tingle.
Tracy had Aphrodite’s girdle, and that meant Hale’s mission—his official, formally sanctioned Protector assignment—was to get in there, seduce the girl, and get that belt.
He smiled. Damn, but there were days when he really liked his job.
Mistress Bettina snored on the rag rug in front of the sink as Tracy dangled the belt before herself, letting it catch the orangish light from the setting sun. Funky in a retro sort of way, the belt practically screamed Goodwill.
When she’d found it last week, Tracy’s first thought had been to give the thing to charity or donate it to the L.A. Film Museum. Holding it now, though, she hesitated. Part of her wanted to keep it for sentimental reasons.
Frowning, she put the belt back on the table as she reached into the box to see what other goodies she’d almost let go. Rummaging down to the bottom, her fingers closed on a silky length of material, which when removed turned out to be the scarf that Tahlula had worn when she’d played the part of Amelia Earhart. Maybe if Tracy dressed like her grandmother, some of the woman’s trademark poise would rub off.
“Zank you, dahlink,” she said to Missy as she slid the scarf around her own neck and struck a pose. “Eet is not every day zat a lowly chef like myself receives zee Nobel Prize for cookies. Zee honor, eet is—how you say?— tremendous.”
Missy looked up, yawned, then drooled. Tracy dropped her shoulders. So much for that idea.
Still, she fingered the scarf, enjoying the way wearing it made her feel. Even if she couldn’t entirely imitate her grandmother’s poise, looking classy had to count for something.
Her gaze drifted to the belt, and she reached for it. It was made out of a pliable golden metal, but the main portion appeared to be one solid piece. The two ends were more of a mesh, also gold, and very, very retro. Right smack in the middle was a funky brown stone that clearly wasn’t the original centerpiece of the belt, and Tracy assumed her grandmother had either not liked the original color or had simply lost the first stone.
All in all, the thing was odd-looking, but in a fashionable sort of way; its uniqueness saved it from a diagnosis of ugliness. Tracy could almost imagine some Paris designer slapping it on a runway model. And it kind of looked familiar. Intrigued, Tracy stared at the belt, trying to remember where she’d seen it before.
Her grandmother’s pictures! Realizing the answer, Tracy started pawing like a madwoman through the photos she had of Tahlula’s silent-film days. Sure enough, in almost every single one, her grandmother was wearing the funky belt.
Bizarre.
Tracy had never thought of Tahlula as the superstitious type, but maybe that wasn’t the kind of thing a grandmother discussed with her granddaughter.
It was also odd that Tracy had never noticed her grandmother wearing the belt in later years. Had she just been supremely unobservant? Frowning, she dug into the second box for the photos from Tahlula’s later years. No belt. Also bizarre. For some reason, her grandmother had stopped wearing the thing. But why? Tracy shrugged. It could be for any reason. Heck, maybe Tahlula’s taste had changed.
Turning her attention back to the belt, Tracy twisted the pliable metal between her fingers and tried to conjure an image of her grandmother as a young woman. That’s when she noticed it: something etched on the inside of the buckle. But not professionally. More like scratched there with the sharp edge of a pair of scissors.
Holding the buckle up to the dim light, Tracy squinted, trying to make out the inscription. It was barely readable, but she finally got it:
Tracy, darling, be careful what you wish for. Love, Grandma
.
Tracy sucked in a breath. The belt was meant for her, complete with a mysterious message. How very odd. And how very unlike her grandmother.
Tahlula Tannin had loved letting Tracy play with the clothes and jewelry that she would one day inherit. They had played dress-up together and had tea parties and generally had a wonderful time.
So why hadn’t Tahlula ever shown Tracy the belt?
The phone rang, the shrill noise echoing through the house, but Tracy barely even heard, too wrapped up was she in memories. Once again, she tried to remember if she’d seen Tahlula actually wearing the belt. She didn’t think so. Around the house, her grandmother had often tried to escape her star persona and just puttered around in a housedress.
The situation just didn’t make any sense. Clearly the belt was important. So why had Tahlula worn it all the time during her early film days, then stopped?
Maybe she’d only worn it when she wanted to be “on” and up for the camera or her fans. Maybe, like Tracy, Tahlula knew the belt was odd, and it had been a symbol of her film career. Maybe it was her personal talisman, and she only quit wearing it when she felt like her career had really taken off. Tracy would probably never know—all she knew was that her grandmother had thought the belt was important.