Debonair wasn't a superhero, but he wasn't quite an ubervillain either. He didn't care about taking over the city or world domination. Instead, he was a master thief. Of sorts. Several priceless works of art had gone missing from various homes and galleries in Bigtime over the years after Debonair had paid them a visit. But just as many had later turned up in museums and other public places around town. Debonair had his own shady agenda no one had ever really been able to figure out. The only thing you could really count on was for him to pop! in using his teleportation superpower, make some witty, charming quip, and pop! back out. He was rather like Swifte that way.

Debonair snapped his gloved fingers. A painting depicting a field of irises left its frame and appeared in his hand a second later. Berkley had more security than Fort Knox, and I waited for an alarm to start blaring. Sirens to sound. Bars to crash down over the doors and windows.

Nothing. Not even a whisper.

Debonair snapped his fingers again. A long, hollow tube appeared in his other hand. He carefully rolled up the painting and stuffed it inside. He snapped his fingers a third time, and the tube disappeared. My eyes darted around the room, wondering where the container had gone, but I didn't see it anywhere. Only an empty frame remained where the painting had been hanging on the wall.

I looked up at the ceiling. The mansion's security cameras swiveled left and right and up and down as though everything was fine and dandy. Debonair must have done something to them, obscured them in some way. Or maybe he was teleporting around too fast for them to follow. Either way, it was up to me to stop him.

"Hey!" I said. "What do you think you're doing?"

Debonair turned at the sound of my voice. He didn't seem alarmed by the fact I'd caught him stealing the painting. Didn't seem worried or bothered in the slightest. Instead, the thief tilted his head and gave me a thorough once-over. I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to look taller and scarier than I really was. Of course, that's rather hard to do when you're just over five feet. But still, I tried.

POP!.

He appeared at my elbow, and I stifled a surprised scream. I would have stepped back, but he grabbed my hand and pulled me toward him. I put my other hand out to brace myself against his chest and immediately realized that Debonair didn't wear a sculpted breastplate like some of the other superheroes and ubervillains did to improve their looks or hold in a less-than-flat midsection. Those tight, taut muscles under that slick leather were all him.

My fingers spread out. Oh my. I couldn't help being impressed, despite my hatred of all things superhero.

"Bella Bulluci. What a delightful surprise." His voice was low and throaty.

"You know my name?"

I stared at his broad chest, the rose insignia just even with my eyes. He smelled sweet but manly, like rose petals mixed with a rich musk. The heady scent made my head fuzzy.

Debonair put a finger under my chin and tipped it up. His eyes slammed into my hazel ones. They were blue-as blue as blue could possibly be and then some. A ring of silver and black shimmered around the edges of his bright irises, adding to the intensity of his gaze.

"Of course I know your name. You make some of the finest clothes in all of Bigtime. And as you may know, I'm a purveyor of fine things." His gaze raked over me in a slow, sensual way that made my breath catch in my throat. "All sorts of fine things. In fact, I think it's time for me to sample one right now."

Debonair leaned in and lowered his lips to mine.

And I got angry. Really, really angry. Yeti Girl angry. Debonair might be attractive-okay, sexy with a capital S-but that didn't give him the right to just pop! over here and manhandle me. Lots of sexy heroes and villains called Bigtime home. They were a dime a dozen, really.

But Debonair thought he was going to kiss me just because he could? Without any encouragement whatsoever from me? After he'd stolen from my friends? I didn't think so.

I might be short, but I can take care of myself. Johnny's supertough exoskeleton had given him an unfair advantage when we were kids. As a result, I'd learned lots of dirty tricks to ward off unwanted noogie and tickle attacks. Like the one I was about to use right now.

I ducked Debonair's looming lips, turned my body into his broad chest, grabbed his left arm, and flipped him over my shoulder.

POP!.

He teleported away a second before he slammed into the floor. My eyes flicked around, wondering where he'd poof to next.

POP!.

He appeared in the hallway in front of me. "That wasn't very nice, Bella. All I wanted to do was kiss you."

"Well, I didn't want you to kiss me."

"But I'm Debonair," he said.

His tone was smug and self-assured, like the very mention of his name should be enough to make any woman his willing slave. And get her to take off her panties. Sexy and arrogant. A dangerous combination. One I had to work very hard not to find attractive. Maybe the Casanova routine worked on other women, but it wasn't going to on me.

"Oh, get over yourself," I snapped. "You're not all that."

He smiled. That too was perfect, just like the rest of him. White teeth. Nice lips. A tiny dimple in his chin.

"I think the folks in SSS would disagree with you. I've been their Man of the Year three times in a row now."

"Slaves for Superhero Sex? The cult group full of crazies who worship heroes?" I snorted. "They're hardly an appropriate judge of character. They'll do anything in spandex."

That was an understatement. Slaves for Superhero Sex was a group of men and women whose sole purpose in life was to get up close and personal with superheroes. SSS members deliberately did stupid, life-endangering things-like handcuff themselves to railroad tracks and swallow the key or climb to the top of the Skyline Bridge-in hopes that some superhero would come along and rescue them. Not only that, they usually tried to make time with their superhero savior after they were out of danger. In recent months, some of the more enthusiastic, morally challenged members had gone over to the dark side and started volunteering to be flunkies for various villains. At least, that's what had been reported on SNN.

"And what about you, Bella? Do you like spandex? Or are you more of a whips-and-chains kind of girl?" Debonair asked.

"That's none of your business!"

I couldn't stop myself from blushing. Whips and chains? I'd never dream of doing such a thing. Why, I hadn't even been much of a regular-sex girl lately. Not since before my father died, really.

Debonair gave me another sexy, knowing smirk, but I'd had enough of the witty banter. I was damp and tired and I smelled like moldy bread. So, I skirted around him, careful to stay at least six feet away at all times, and headed down the hall.

"Where are you going?" he called out. "We were just starting to warm up to each other."

"You want warm?" I asked, stopping in front of a small red knob. "Think how warm you'll be when the police show up and toss you in the slammer. Stealing from Berkley Brighton? Now, that was dumb. But pissing me off? That's what's really going to get you into trouble."

I yanked down the fire alarm. Loud bells and sirens blared to life throughout the massive house. Please exit the building, a man's voice intoned over the commotion. Please exit the building.

Debonair smiled and bowed his head to me. "Well, it seems you've bested me. I'm afraid I'll have to take my leave of you now. Until we meet again, Bella Bulluci."

"Which will hopefully be never."

Debonair gave me another long look. "We'll see."

POP!.

He appeared in front of me again. Before I could stop him, the thief grabbed my hand and pressed a quick kiss to the inside of my wrist. Then, he gave me a sly wink and teleported away.

I leaned against the wall and let out a long breath. I suddenly felt weak and shaky. And for some strange reason, my pulse pounded in time to the fire alarm.

'I'm sorry he got away, Berkley,' I said. 'Maybe if I'd pulled the alarm sooner, the police would have been able to catch him."

An hour had passed since I'd set off the fire alarm. Now, Berkley, Joanne, and I stood in the salon, along with a couple of Bigtime Police detectives, Chief Sean Newman, and Berkley's personal insurance adjuster. My eyes scanned the room, taking in the damage. There really wasn't any. Unless you considered the loss of a priceless painting to be a catastrophe. I did.

"It's not your fault, Bella. I knew this would happen, sooner or later." Berkley stared at the empty frame.

"What do you mean?"

"Someone's been trying to get into the mansion," he replied, running a hand through his wavy hair. "The alarms have been going off all week. It must have been Debonair. I guess tonight he found a way to succeed."

"Well, he's certainly bold-I'll give him that," Joanne said.

"And effective," Berkley added. "According to my security chief, he managed to bypass all the alarms. The heat sensors, the motion detectors, the tripwires, the lasers, everything."

"Well, most alarms aren't designed to deal with someone with teleporting superpowers," I said. "Is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all? I feel like this is all my fault."

It was, given how terrible my luck was. Even now, I could feel the static building up around me, waiting to lash out yet again. And I should have pulled the alarm right away, instead of confronting the thief. I knew better than that.

Berkley shook his head. "Thank you, Bella. But no."

After giving my statement to the detectives and Chief Newman, I drove back home. It was almost midnight now, and the street was dark and empty. I found myself thinking of Debonair. Wondering where he was. What he was doing.

Why he'd wanted to kiss me.

Had he just wanted to distract me? Or was there some other reason?

I shook my head. Debonair was just another guy who dressed up in leather and went around Bigtime doing whatever to whomever he pleased. I wasn't going to give him another thought. Not a second more of my time or attention.

Easier said than done.

Ten minutes later, I parked the car in the driveway. My stomach rumbled, letting out a sound that would have made Fiona proud. So, I headed for the kitchen, determined to get something, anything, to eat before going to bed, even if I had to scoop it up off the floor.

Bobby sat at the kitchen table, sipping a glass of red wine. "Ah, Bella. There you are."

"Waiting up for me?" I asked. "That's not like you. I said I was fine."

I'd called Grandfather and told him what happened at Berkley's. The robbery would be big news, and I didn't want him to worry.

Bobby shrugged. "I couldn't sleep. I thought a nice glass of wine might help me relax. Do you want some?"

"Please." I wanted the whole bottle, maybe two, but unlike Fiona, I had some restraint when it came to food. I had to, given my thunder thighs.

Bobby poured me a glass, which I carefully picked up. I swirled the wine around and took a deep drink. The fruity liquid coated my tongue with its sweet-and-sour taste. I swallowed, and a pleasant warmth spread through me, melting my tension.

"Do you want some food?" Bobby said. "Let me make you a sandwich, and you can tell me about the robbery. I want all the details. What he took. What he said. What his costume looked like."

Like many older folks, Grandfather was a news hound. He read several papers every day to learn about the latest goings-on in Bigtime and around the world. Given his time as Johnny Angel, Grandfather was also obsessed with heroes and villains, which was why SNN was his favorite TV channel.

"Not a sandwich," I said, remembering what had happened to Joanne's rug. "How about a salad?"

"Done."

Grandfather pulled lettuce, cheese, carrots, tomatoes, oil, vinegar, and more out of one of the refrigerators. I told him about finding Debonair and how I'd pulled the fire alarm to summon help. The only part I omitted was when the thief tried to kiss me-and the whole whips-and-chains comment. I just couldn't talk to my grandfather about some things. Sex was definitely one of them.

"Well, I'm just glad you're all right," Bobby said, sliding a bowl full of salad across the counter to me. "From what I've read, Debonair isn't too terrible a fellow, but you never know what someone will do when he's cornered."

I made a noncommittal sound. After tonight, I thought Debonair was the worst of the worst. With other heroes and villains, all you had to contend with was them trying to save or kill you with their superpowers. But kissing people's wrists? Seducing unsuspecting women? That was just weird. In a sexy kind of way.

I reached for the bowl, and my power flared. The round container scooted off the island. It was plastic, like all the other dishes I used, so it didn't break. At least, not this time. Instead, it zoomed along the floor like a bowling ball. Rolling, rolling, rolling. I stared at the container, wishing it would somehow stop without spewing my salad everywhere. I really wanted to eat something tonight.

I felt the energy gather round me again, but I kept looking at the bowl. The container slowed and tipped itself upright, contents intact. I relaxed my concentration, smiled, and looked at Bobby.

And that was when the bowl began to spin.

Round and round it turned, like a washing machine out of control. Pieces of cheese and lettuce and tomato whirled out of the spinning container one after another, splattering onto the floor and ceiling and cabinets. A particularly buoyant carrot bounced up onto the sliding glass door on the opposite side of the room, a good thirty feet away. Oil and vinegar also arced out of the bowl, splashing around and creating even more of a mess. By the time the container stopped spinning, the kitchen looked like a vegetable cart had exploded inside.

I surveyed the damage for a moment, then opened a drawer and plucked out a fork. Utensil in hand, I sat down cross-legged in the middle of the kitchen floor and stabbed the first cherry tomato within easy reach. I bit down and sighed with pleasure as the tart juices filled my mouth. I was so hungry I didn't even care if it had a little dirt on it.

"What are you doing?" Bobby asked.

"Eating dinner," I replied, spearing a carrot. "While I still can."

5.

The next morning, I went down to the gym for my daily workout and flipped the TV mounted on the wall to SNN. Sure enough, the major news story was Debonair robbing Berkley. The tanned anchor sent the continuing coverage out to Kelly Caleb, SNN's star reporter and Grace's granddaughter. Kelly stood outside the closed gates to Berkley's mansion. She flashed the camera her trademark toothy smile and launched into a recap of last night's events.

"Well, Jim, it seems even the richest man in Bigtime isn't safe from crime. Bigtime police were called out to the home of whiskey billionaire Berkley Brighton around nine o'clock last night. Debonair, one of the city's most notorious thieves, broke into Berkley's home and removed a Pandora painting worth almost three million dollars. Brighton's home is one of several Debonair has allegedly robbed in recent years . . ."

While Kelly recapped Debonair's life of crime, SNN showed a photo montage of the thief. There were still shots from his video game, Debonair Deluxe. A panoramic scan of his action figures sitting on the shelves at the department store Oodles o' Stuff. Even some footage of him accepting an award from the Slaves for Superhero Sex group. He looked the same in every single photo. Black hair. Blue eyes. Self-confident smirk.

I listened to the report with half an ear, my thoughts turning back to Debonair. I didn't know why I was thinking about him again. He was just another super-something-or-other. Strong. Devious. Sexy.

I sighed. So sexy. Too bad he felt the need to go prancing around in head-to-toe leather. Because if there was one thing I would never, ever do, it was date a superhero. Or a pseudo-superhero. Or whatever Debonair thought he was, other than a lousy thief.

Kelly pitched her segment back to the anchor sitting in the SNN studio.

". . . So, Kelly, how will this affect plans for the Whimsical Wonders benefit, set for Saturday night at the Bigtime Museum of Modern Art? I understand Berkley Brighton was going to donate several items to be displayed as part of a special exhibition. Is he worried about security at the museum? Especially since his own house was victimized?"

My hair frizzed out to I-stuck-my-finger-in-a-light-socket proportions. Static electricity gathered around me. And my fingers itched so badly I felt like there were bugs crawling on them. I tightened my grip on the handles of the elliptical trainer.

But my jinx wouldn't let me be.

Blue and white sparks flew out from my palms, and a few of them landed on the control panel of the elliptical trainer. The machine started shrieking. Gears whined. Lights flashed. Smoke spewed up from the top. And then the device abruptly stopped, almost throwing me off.

I stumbled away, but the destruction continued. Bolts flew out of their joints. Screws popped loose. Even the paint flaked off the handlebars. Thirty seconds later, the once shiny elliptical trainer collapsed in on itself, reduced to the sum of its parts, as it were.

I put my hands on my hips, slumped over, and tried to get my emotions in check. Breathe. Breathe. I needed to just breathe . . .

I exhaled, grimacing all the while, and not because I'd just reduced another thousand-dollar piece of gym equipment to scrap metal. We didn't need this sort of bad publicity, especially this close to the benefit. If people thought the museum wasn't safe, they wouldn't loan out their items. The special exhibition would be canceled, and the museum would have to return the money it had made from advance ticket sales. The benefit would flop, and it would be all my fault. Sometimes, it just didn't pay to get out of bed in the morning.

On the TV screen, Kelly nodded to the anchor and gripped her microphone a little tighter. "Well, Jim, I spoke with Berkley's wife, Joanne James. She said Berkley isn't worried about security at his home or at the museum. He considers this to be a fluke and nothing more. In fact, he's decided to donate even more items to the museum to show his good faith."

I could have wept. "Bless you, Joanne. Bless you."