Extraordinarily Yours: Collection 1 (An Extraordinarily Yours Romance Book 8)

by J. Kenner

  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 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.

  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 100 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 looked 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 latched on, his claws digging in deep enough 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 by 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.

  6

  Mistress Bettina snored on the rag rug in front of the sink as Tracy dangled the belt, letting it catch the 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.