Banging the Superhero (2 page)

They moved together, Ace following the path his mind had taken to control the machines, until they landed outside the studio door. Lael stumbled and would have fallen, but Ace steadied him at the last minute.

Grinning, he gazed at his younger brother. "Great. We'll work on the landings."

Lael's face turned red and Ace glanced away to give him a moment. Moving forward, he strode through the door to the studio.

Two guards rose as he walked in. "Sir, I'm going to need to see some identification," one guard said.

"Should you be here?" The other guard turned toward the first one. "I don't recognize him." He spun back to Ace. "You can't just walk in."

Ace nodded, pulling out his business card. "Tell your boss it's Ace Hudson from Powers, Inc., and I just stopped the machines in there from killing one of your hosts.

He's going to want to see me."

The guard visibly swallowed as he picked up the phone. Inwardly, Ace shrugged. Most people knew him on sight—he'd been featured in enough tabloids to make that happen—but if someone didn't recognize him immediately, the person almost always felt terribly uncomfortable. Long ago, he'd decided intimidation was a good thing. When people feared you, they tended to get out of your way and let you do what you wanted.

"I thought he was going to wet himself when he figured out who you were."

Ace nodded at Lael's whispered remark. "I did too."

The guard hung up the phone. Looking up, the grey-haired, forty-something-year-old man smiled at Ace with what Ace long ago recognized as hero worship.

"Mr. Hudson, if you would just walk to those elevators." The man's hand shook as he pointed down the hallway. "If you and your sidekick would sign in first, Mr.

Grayson McDowell, Alice Styles' producer, is waiting for you on the fifth floor."

Lael raised an eyebrow. "His sidekick?"

"Shut up and sign in." Ace moved forward and did as instructed.

Lael followed, even as he grumbled about doing it. Ace wasn't sure if his brother had an issue with having to sign his name or with being referred to as Ace's sidekick. In any case, if he didn't stop complaining he could stay outside and wait while Ace dealt with this.

They finally arrived on the fifth floor, which took much more time than it should have. Apparently this was one of those buildings where the elevators stopped on every floor regardless of whether someone pressed the button to call it or not. Ace decided he'd have a little chat with the damn thing on the way down and make it go straight from the fifth floor to the first.

"It would be faster if we flew."

"Faster, yes." Ace nodded. "But showing up at the windows of people who don't expect us tends to either freak them out or to piss them off. I'm in the mood for neither."

The elevator doors opened, they stepped out together, and were accosted immediately.

"Mr. Hudson! This is an honor, sir."

Ace smiled. "You're Grayson McDowell, I presume."

McDowell appeared to be in his late thirties, with just a touch of gray lining parts of his hair. His face was long, his eyes wide, and he carried twenty pounds on him he needed to exercise off. As he held out his right hand to Ace, his left hand shook. Ace pretended not to notice.

"I am and I can't tell you how relieved I was when the guard called upstairs and informed me you were here and that you had stopped the machines. It cleared up a lot for us. But I had no idea why they began or even less of a clue why they ceased.

Needless to say, Alice is very shaken up."

Ace nodded as he took the man's hand. "I
stopped
it. I didn't start it. I don't know who made those machines move like that."
To attack her
, he wanted to say but didn't. It was best to assess who was in charge here before he made anyone crazed.

"If you have a moment, since you came down to the studio, perhaps you could take a look around?"

"I don't need to do that."

Lael spoke from behind him. "And he can't unless you pay him. It's the rule at Powers, Inc.
Superheroes don't work for free."

"Oh, I see." Grayson narrowed his eyes. "All right, well, let's go see Ms. Styles and see what she says about engaging your services."

There were lots of things Ace had wanted to do to Alice Styles and her hot, full body since he'd first seen her show—none of his thoughts had to do with her engaging his services anywhere but in the bedroom.

Lael walked up next to him. "Are you going to ask her for her autograph?"

"No." Ace gritted his teeth.

He really wished Lael hadn't remarked about the payment. Truth was, there were times when he did jobs for free and didn't tell Draco about it. If someone couldn't pay, it didn't mean they didn't need help. Also, how much money they had was never as important to Ace as to Draco.

They turned the corner and stepped over the threshold into a large dressing room. The open door had a star and the word Styles stenciled on the outside. Inside was chaos. Three women raced through the room, throwing clothes into suitcases. A man holding a hairbrush paced in front of a mirror, while Alice Styles sat calmly, practically statuesque, in a chair, flipping through a gossip magazine.

Ace froze. He couldn't move no matter how he tried, as if his feet were glued to the floor. Even with the abundance of disorder in the room, Alice's still figure held every ounce of his attention.

Without glancing up, she spoke to Grayson. "I told you. I'm not coming back until whoever was responsible for that stunt is put behind bars. I might have been killed—or at the very least badly burned—by that toaster."

"Well, I have good news. I've found you someone who can help."

He'd found her someone to help? Ace almost pointed out that he'd shown up on his own without an invitation from anyone, but then Alice spoke again and all he wanted, instead, was to listen to those sultry tones speak some more.

"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.