Eventually, SNN moved on to the other stories of the day, including a brief blurb about the man Swifte had taken to the hospital. He was expected to make a full recovery. Good for him.

"And speaking of Swifte, we go back out live to Kelly Caleb, who's managed to catch up with the speedy superhero. Or rather, he's caught up with her," Jim said.

Kelly popped back up on the screen. A white, almost silver blur ran circles around her before abruptly stopping. The cameraman swung his lens to the right and zoomed in on Swifte, who leaned one arm on Kelly's shoulder and smiled.

I flipped off the TV. I didn't want to hear the superhero blather on about his latest rescue. I didn't want to think about any superheroes or ubervillains.

Especially not Debonair.

My hair poofed out again. Somehow, my extra-arch-support, nonskid sneakers slid out from under me, and I tumbled to the ground, almost whacking my head on the side of the ruined elliptical trainer.

Even though pain flooded my body, I knew nothing was broken. I never broke anything when I fell or stumbled or slipped, except dishes. Heck, I didn't even get a concussion when a piano rolled off its dais and slammed me into the makeup counter at Oodles o' Stuff two months ago. What I would have tomorrow, though, would be lots of nasty-colored bruises. They'd replace the ones from last week that were just fading away.

I sighed into the carpet. First, dinner with Fiona and Chief Newman. Spilling my goodies in front of the trick-or-treaters. My run-in with Debonair. The bad press about the upcoming benefit. Dropping every bit of food I tried to put in my mouth. It was only Monday, but I'd already had enough bad luck to last most people for an entire year.

Unfortunately, I had a feeling it was only going to get worse. My jinx was rather predictable that way.

I spent the next few days working nonstop on the Whimsical Wonders benefit. The committee had made a lot of progress during our last meeting, but there were still a thousand little details to see to in order to make sure the event went off without a hitch. Not to mention the fact I had to repair the damage done by Debonair and his visit to Berkley's mansion. Why, oh why, couldn't he have waited until after the benefit to rob Berkley? It would have made my life so much easier.

Speaking of Debonair, I had the strangest feeling the superthief was following me around. More than once, I thought I heard that distinctive pop! that signaled his arrival, or smelled his sexy, sweet scent. But whenever I looked for him, he was nowhere to be seen.

In the end, I decided it was just my imagination playing tricks on me. Debonair wasn't interested in me. I certainly had no interest at him. None at all. At least, that's what I kept telling myself. Surely, if I repeated it enough times, I could pretend it was really true.

So, I carried on with the benefit work. I met with the staff at Quicke's to review seating arrangements. Locked down the bachelor lineup. Double-checked the security setup at the museum. Called all the bigwigs and assured them their priceless art objects would be perfectly safe. The list went on and on.

I had plenty of time to devote to the benefit, since I was taking a two-month sabbatical from Bulluci Industries, where I oversaw our fashion and housewear lines. With my father's death and Johnny's engagement and all the other changes in my life, I needed a break. Some time off to figure things out. That was the perk of working for the family company-I could hand things off to Johnny and Grandfather for a few weeks. It wasn't that I was unhappy with work, but I felt there was more I could be doing with my life than designing dresses for the rich and infamous. Like maybe be a different kind of artist.

A museum-quality artist.

I'd loved drawing and painting from the first time I picked up a brush, but sketching portraits was my specialty. Over the years, I'd drawn countless pictures of Bobby, Johnny, and James. Movie stars. My favorite authors. People I passed on the street. I even used to do superheroes, back in my younger, more foolish days.

Secretly, I longed to have my works hang next to the other masterpieces inside the Bigtime Museum of Modern Art. But it was a dream I kept to myself. I didn't know if I had the talent to be a real artist. It was a completely different sort of skill set than designing clothes. Fiona would disagree with me, of course, but anybody with a needle and thread could sew, however poorly. Not everybody who picked up a pencil could draw with it.

Besides, the one time I'd attempted to break into the art world, I hadn't exactly been greeted with open arms. Heartbreak was more like it.

"Do not drop that unless you want me to use your head as a bowling ball."

Abby's sharp voice pulled me back to reality. It was Friday, the day before the benefit, and we stood in the new wing of the Bigtime Museum of Modern Art. The two of us, along with Hannah, were overseeing the installation of the pieces for the Whimsical Wonders exhibit, while Grace and Joanne had headed over to Quicke's to make sure everything was coming together at the restaurant.

The burly guy that Abby had just admonished wrapped his whole beefy hand around the Ming vase he'd been carrying, instead of just sticking his fingers in the top of it. Abby nodded her approval and checked off something on her enormous clipboard. The event planner was in her usual getup today-cargo pants, a camisole, and a flannel shirt.

And the vest.

No matter how fancy or simple the party, Abby always wore a khaki mesh vest to any event she planned. It reminded me of something a fisherman would wear, although with more pockets and zippers and hidden compartments. Pens, highlighters, note pads, a water bottle, a stun gun. That was just the stuff I could see hanging off the front. Abby had more supplies hidden in the inner pockets, and the vest had to weigh ten pounds if it weighed an ounce. She could probably survive in the wilderness for a month with all the gear she had crammed into that thing.

I'd dressed down today, wearing my favorite pair of jeans and a blue-striped oxford shirt. Hannah was a different story. Instead of jeans or khakis, she sported a wraparound silk top and pencil skirt in a deep burgundy color. Gold sparkled around her neck and her fingers, and she looked as put together and polished as ever. She stood off in a corner, shooting looks at all the art and murmuring into her cell phone.

My eyes drifted over the rest of the wing, which had opened a month ago. The area, done in white flecked marble like the rest of the building, rose seven stories into the air and was three times as wide. The first floor featured a vast, open space with black granite benches set in front of particularly significant or popular pieces. Greek-style columns marked recesses in the walls that people could wander through and examine rotating exhibits. Three scalloped archways allowed access to the other, older parts of the museum, while stairs set in the corners led to the upper floors. Each story sported a wraparound balcony that overlooked the main exhibition space. Diamond-shaped panes of glass crisscrossed with silver solidium beams comprised the pointed ceiling far above. Natural light filtered in through the glass and let people see the art as it really was. Clean white. Bits of color in the marble. Smooth curves. Round, soft edges. No matter how many times I visited the museum, I never tired of it. The architecture itself was a work of art, along with all the paintings on the walls.

"Will you look at that?"

Abby stabbed her pen at two guys up on ladders in one corner of the room. A large, rather gaudy picture of Elvis hung between them. Painted on velvet, of course. That had been one of Joanne's donations. If it had been anyone else, I would have told them to keep Elvis away from the light of day, where he belonged. Forever.

But I couldn't exactly inform Joanne that velvet Elvis wasn't whimsical or wonderful. After all, she was sort of an aunt to me. Not to mention the richest woman in the city.

"I've told those guys at least five times the painting of Elvis goes on the left wall, not the right. Idiots. I'm surrounded by idiots," Abby muttered.

The event planner stomped off to go make some more of the movers cry. I shook my head, glad I wasn't in the line of fire. And Fiona thought I was wound too tight. She needed to spend some quality time with Abby, who morphed into Ms. Hyde the second she stepped into the museum. I didn't know what was wrong with the event planner, but every single thing had annoyed her today, from the smell of the cleaning supplies used in the museum to the glare of the lights overhead. Abby even complained the movers made too much noise walking around-though they wore thick coveralls that just barely whispered together.

Footsteps sounded on the smooth marble floor, and Arthur Anders appeared in one of the wide arches. He was a thin man who always wore a brown plaid jacket and corduroy pants. Half-moon glasses perched on the end of his nose, and he sported a small ponytail. Arthur was the museum curator and sort of a mentor to me. He also worked as a professor at Bigtime University, and I'd taken many of his classes. The man knew more about art than anyone else in the city. Even now, several years removed from college, his discerning eye and expertise still awed me.

"It's coming along nicely, Bella. Very nicely," Arthur said, taking in the items already on display.

People had donated a little bit of everything, from elaborate crystal candlesticks and animal figurines to antique miniature cars to old-fashioned Barbie dolls to Faberge eggs to tea sets. The gleam of gold. The red fabric of the dolls' dresses. The luster of the dishes. The objects decorated the room with a rainbow of colors and shapes. Everything was classy, but fun, just the way I'd intended it to be. Art wasn't just about O'Keeffes and Whistlers and Pollocks. To me, anything well crafted with loving care was art.

Well, anything except velvet Elvises.

"Thank you. But I couldn't have done it all without the others, especially Hannah and Joanne. They're the ones who convinced people to donate such wonderful, interesting items."

"I still can't believe you got Berkley Brighton to show the Star Sapphire," Arthur said, his eyes going to the gem. "That was quite a coup, Bella."

I shrugged. "Berkley is a family friend and Joanne's husband. It really wasn't that difficult."

The sapphire was the first thing we'd put into the room this morning-in the very center, of course. The gem, cut into an oval bigger than my fist, rested on three curved silver tines. Thanks to the maintenance workers positioning the lights just so, the sapphire cast out hundreds of rays of cool blue light that reached into the farthest corners of the open area. The display dazzled me, even if the stone rested behind four inches of bulletproof, shatterproof glass rigged with more alarms than a fire truck. Berkley hadn't gotten to be one of the wealthiest men in the world by taking chances with his treasures, and I wasn't about to take any with his most prized possession.

"Still, we've had more excitement about this exhibit than any we've had in a long time," Arthur said. "You've done a wonderful job."

"Don't congratulate me just yet," I warned. "There's still plenty that could go wrong."

Like Debonair or someone else breaking in and stealing Berkley's sapphire. That was my main, paranoid fear, although the museum staff and I had done everything in our power to prevent that from happening. Added more patrolling guards. Increased the number of cameras in the room. Blanketed the entire wing with alarms and lasers and every other conceivable security device. Arthur had even called upon the Fearless Five to be on standby during the exhibit to apprehend any would-be thieves.

Then, of course, there was my other fear-I'd have a colossal bout of bad luck during the benefit and bring every single display tumbling down like dominoes. Even now, I felt the static gathering around me, ready to strike.

"Oh, nonsense, Bella. What's the worst that could happen?" Arthur asked.

My hair began its daily climb upward. I just grimaced.

We didn't finish installing the exhibition until almost midnight. We would have been done a lot sooner, but my power kept flaring up at the most inopportune times. Like when one of the heavy overhead light fixtures I was staring at decided to break free from the wall and plummet to the ground-missing my head by about six inches.

Or when we ordered dinner from Quicke's. I'd taken the box of food from the delivery guy and started up the museum steps. I got all the way to the top before my power pulsed. The box exploded, and its contents slid through my hands, tumbling down the stairs like a Slinky. Every single one of the lids popped off the takeout containers. Salads, pasta, burgers, fries, sodas, milkshakes. It wasn't pretty.

But on the bright side, as I was scrambling around trying to clean up the mess, a gust of wind blew by-and plastered a pair of hundred-dollar bills to my forehead. It wasn't the first time this had happened, and I snagged the money before it could blow away again. The C-notes were more than enough to pay for another order of food from Quicke's. I even got fifteen bucks back in change-until I managed to drop it down the subway vent outside the museum.

But my luck didn't bother me too much. Well, no more than usual. I was just grateful nobody dropped or broke any of the exhibit pieces.

And I'd actually had another bit of good luck today, besides the money. No matter how hard the museum staff tried, they just couldn't seem to hang Joanne's hideous painting of Elvis. Something untoward happened every time they attempted it. One of the workers would lose his grip on the side of the painting and drop it. Or it would fall off the wall by itself. Or one of the strings anchoring it to the ceiling would snap. Finally, even Arthur gave up and put Elvis back in storage for safekeeping.

Now, after hours of work, everything was finally finished, which meant I could mostly relax tomorrow night. At least until the bachelor auction. As chairperson of the benefit and a somewhat noteworthy citizen, I'd put myself on the auction block at Abby's insistence. According to her estimates and the fancy calculator she kept in one of her vest pockets, I should bring in a couple thousand dollars at least. I just hoped someone bid on me. It would be rather embarrassing to be passed over at my own event.

Abby and I said our goodnights to Arthur and the rest of the staff. Hannah had left hours ago, claiming she had an important business meeting. Grace and Joanne had called to tell me that everything was a go at Quicke's, and they'd packed up shop too. Abby had stayed to the bitter end, although I'd had things more or less under control. But she was a perfectionist that way.

We stepped outside, and a cool, crisp, fall breeze kissed my face. I shivered and stuck my hands in my pockets, wishing I'd brought my wool pea coat.

"I'm heading for the subway. Want to walk together?" Abby offered.

"No, thanks," I said. "My car's right there."

Abby frowned and looked at my car parked at the bottom of the museum steps. "How did you manage to snag that spot? There's never any parking on this street during the day."

"Oh, a car was pulling out right when I drove by."

Despite my hatred of my supposed superpower, I could always find a parking space, no matter how crowded the street was. It was one of the few things I was consistently lucky at. Sometimes, I could even put an extra hour on the meter just by focusing on it. When I didn't make it crumple into a metal heap.

Abby and I went our separate ways. I got into my silver Benz, locked the doors, turned on the heater, and headed for home. The downtown streets were mostly deserted, except for the occasional homeless person huddled over a steaming subway grate. The wind picked up, and a rain of dry, brown leaves splattered against my windshield and off into the night.

The usual nighttime sights greeted me as I headed for home. A few shoppers walking out of Oodles o' Stuff, their arms full of shopping bags. The three-story-high F that marked the entrance to Fiona Fine Fashions. Reporters huddled in the doorway at the Expose offices puffing at cigarettes, while the skyscraper loomed over them with its winking blue lights. The same scene over at the Chronicle. Muted shrieks of childish glee and calliope music drifting out of Paradise Park.

The light in front of me flashed to red, and I cruised to a stop. I never ran traffic signals, not even this late at night. With my luck, there'd be a cop waiting just around the corner who'd be more than happy to write me a three-hundred-dollar ticket. And impound my car when my taillights and windshield spontaneously shattered. It had happened before.

I sat at the intersection, waiting for the light to change, and a strange sort of thump-thump-thumping sound caught my attention. A man in black flew through the air, across my windshield, and smacked into the pavement. I winced. Definitely not the most graceful landing.

The man struggled to get up, but a seventysomething woman sprinted into view and brought a diamond-topped cane down on the man's most sensitive area. He howled, curled up into a tight ball, and grabbed himself. The woman smacked her cane in her hand, ready to dish out another whollop if the guy did anything but whimper. A large white pocketbook dangled from her arm, while gravel-sized pearls hung around her throat. A purple angora sweater fluttered like a minicape around her shoulders, and a flower-shaped mask covered most of her face.

Granny Cane. She was one of Bigtime's older and most respected superheroes. She didn't have any powers I knew of-just a diamond-topped walking stick she used to beat muggers and purse snatchers into submission. Granny claimed she kept the streets safe for the elderly. I thought she liked dressing up and showing off, just like all the other heroes and villains. C'mon. A stun gun would have been much more effective for subduing bad guys than a wooden stick.

Granny hauled the injured man to his feet, grabbed his ear, and stepped into the crosswalk. She yanked him along after her, evidently not caring he now had a pronounced limp and would probably never be able to have children. I averted my eyes, pretending she was just another little old lady crossing the street-albeit one with a weeping, masked man in tow.

Granny Cane made it to the other side and kept walking. She was probably heading toward the Bigtime Police Station to turn in her latest capture. It was only a couple blocks away.

I shook my head and kept on driving, hoping she'd be the only superhero I'd see.

No such luck.

Even though it was after midnight, it was a hot time in the old town tonight because the superheroes were out in full force. Swifte sped by me a couple of times, followed by police cars and an SNN news truck. Pistol Pete, a superhero who dressed like a cowboy, pulled out his six-shooters and performed some quick-draw tricks for a crowd of onlookers near Laurel Park, while the Fearless Five van cruised around the downtown area.

I also drove by more than a few villains trying to get the upper hand on their archrivals. Big, brawny Yeti Girl duked it out with Black Samba on top of one of the city buses. But Black Samba danced away from her every time, while the snakes on the superhero's arms and in her headdress hissed their displeasure at the ubervillain.

Hot Stuff, an ubervillain who thought she was, well, hot stuff, threw Molotov cocktails at Wynter from her perch on top of the Bigtime Public Library. But the superhero used her ice-based powers to shield herself from the worst of the explosions.

And finally, there was the Mintilator, the villain devoted to making the world a germ-free, minty-fresh place. He was trying rather unsuccessfully to fend off Halitosis Hal and his horrid breath over next to the entrance to the marina.

Sheesh. Didn't these people have real lives? Wives and husbands to go home to? Kids to take care of? Elderly parents to visit? Apparently not.

After a few more unwanted hero and villain sightings, I reached the house. The light above the front door burned, but the rest of the mansion was dark. I'd called Grandfather hours ago and told him not to wait up. Looked like he'd taken my advice. That, or he hadn't come home yet. He'd told me he had a date with his lady friend and might be late.

I'd asked him once again who he was going out with, but Grandfather had been his usual cagey self. He still hadn't introduced me to his lady friend, something I was going to rectify, even if I had to start following him when he left the house. Maybe I could get Lulu Lo to put some sort of tracking device in his silver angel cuff links. She was good at that sort of thing. The best, actually. With her computer skills and shady contacts, Lulu could find out anything about anyone. Lulu was like a sixth member of the Fearless Five, even though she didn't have any official superpowers. She'd been let in on the group's secret identities when she'd started dating Henry Harris.

I fished my keys out of my purse and got out of my Benz. It had been a hectic, stressful day, and I was completely exhausted. I needed a hot shower before climbing into bed- POP!.

Debonair puffed into view on the hood of my car. Surprised, I screamed and stepped back, slamming my butt into the driver's side door. Despite my love of pasta and potatoes, my ass wasn't that big, but the metal still caved in with a screech, forming a dent about two feet wide and a foot deep.

"Well, that wasn't exactly the reaction I was hoping for," Debonair said in his low, seductive voice.

I rubbed my butt until it quit throbbing. Then, I balled up my fist, focused on the car door, and smacked my hand against it. The massive imprint popped right back out. This wasn't the first time I'd put a dent in my car-or taken one out. Things like this were rather routine in my life, along with odd items like air conditioners falling from the sky and almost hitting me in the head. I didn't even flinch anymore when that happened. I just kept walking.

"How are you tonight, Bella?" Debonair asked, lounging on the hood like some lingerie model.

"I was fine, until you showed up," I muttered, trying to pretend the thief didn't look as sexy as ever in his leather costume. Blue-black leather was not attractive. The same color in cashmere? Maybe. Leather? No. Definitely not.

"Well, I didn't want to teleport into your car. That's how accidents happen."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "What are you saying? That you've been following me around town tonight? Why?"

So, I hadn't been imagining him lurking around these past few days. I wondered why he was following me. And how many times he'd seen me explode or shatter or destroy something. I might have been cursed with bad luck, but what I really hated was for other people to see the messes I made. I couldn't stand the thought of other people laughing at me. If Debonair had been following me around, he would have seen and done both. Many, many times.

"Well, I couldn't exactly talk to you at the museum. Arthur Anders tends to get a little upset whenever he sees me. Did you know the even-tempered curator actually has a shotgun in his office with my name engraved on it?"

"I can't imagine why," I sniped. "Oh, wait. Yes, I can. Perhaps it's because you go around town stealing art."

Debonair gave a not-so-modest shrug. "Everyone should have a hobby."

"And stealing is yours?"

He smirked. A horrifying thought struck me, and my hair began to morph into a bush around my head.

"You didn't steal anything, did you? Tonight? At the museum?"

"Would I do something like that?" he asked, his blue eyes wide and innocent.

"Absolutely."

Debonair held his arms out, giving me an unobstructed view of his chest. His very broad, very solid chest. "Well, why don't you come here and frisk me? And see if I took anything from the museum?"

I couldn't tell if he was serious or just being kinky. I stared at him, and he looked at me. His lips twitched. A slight little quiver that somehow made him more attractive. Making fun of me. He was making fun of me.

Pushing my buttons, yet again.

Somehow, he seemed to know every single one, even though we'd only spoken a few dozen sentences to each other.

My power surged, my hair frizzed, and I just lost it.

I threw my shoulder bag at him. The black missile hit Debonair in the chest and exploded.

Literally.

The straps snapped. The pockets sprang open. And the zipper ripped off the top. Pens and papers and lipstick and loose change went everywhere, plinking away into the dark, cool night. I sighed, knowing I'd never find everything. I was still picking up apples from the trick-or-treating fiasco, and they were a lot easier to spot.

Debonair chuckled, amused by my humiliation. Red-faced, I curled my hands into fists, wishing I had the strength to pummel him. Where was Fiera when you really needed her?