by J. Kenner
“I don’t believe that,” Mel said. “But if you do, we’ll just figure out a way to show you off.” She tapped her lip, thinking. “We can find some way to add a little pizazz to your looks. You know. Give you a new image. A touch more sex appeal.”
“More? I don’t have any.”
Mel shot her a stern glance but basically ignored the comment. “A look to boost your confidence.”
“Well, I don’t know what could do that,” Tracy complained. Although it wasn’t exactly true. The one thing she did have was her grandmother’s belt. It had certainly made her feel better just holding it. Maybe it would help her land just the right guy to show her the passion she craved. Of course, maybe it wouldn’t.
But one thing Tracy knew for sure: wearing the belt certainly couldn’t make her any worse off than she already was.
Are you one lucky Protector, or what? Elmer squeaked. She wants a fling. Flings are your specialty. Zephron sure picked the right guy for this job!
Still crouched outside the window, Hale nodded. “Exactly what I’m thinking,” he acknowledged.
On his shoulder Elmer swiveled, managing to get his face right in front of Hale’s. Excuse me? What are you cooking up in that libidinized brain of yours?
Hale stifled a laugh. “Just a little seduction. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
A seduction? The ferret snorted. Why am I not surprised? His tail swished in front of Hale’s face as he shifted his perch. I know Zephron wanted you to . . . uh . . . connect with this girl, but I don’t think that’s what he had in mind.
Hale rolled his eyes. This was his lucky day, and he didn’t intend to let the ferret’s prudishness mar that. Only rarely did one of his assignments involve seducing a woman who so clearly wanted to be seduced.
A little wine. A few roses. Some well-placed sweet words.
A fire crackling in the hearth—well, it was summer, so maybe nix the fire. Perhaps a midnight swim instead. Their bodies slick and wet, pressed up together. Close. Tight.
He imagined her breath soft against his ear. Her skin smooth beneath his fingertips. Her breasts, ripe and ready as he bent low, peeling off her bathing suit to reveal—
He fought a shiver, his body reacting more than he’d anticipated to his little fantasy.
Oh, yeah. He was back in form and more than up for the job of seducing Tracy Tannin. In fact, he couldn’t wait to get down to business.
7
“Any nibbles yet on your roommate ad?” Mel asked.
“Not a thing. But it’s only run the one day.” Tracy pulled a rubber band out of her pocket and yanked her hair into a ponytail. Some days she considered whacking it all off—it really was a pain—but she’d never quite worked up the nerve.
The kitchen timer chirped, and she headed to the oven, slipping a baker’s mitt on as she walked.
“Something yummy, I hope.”
“You just had coffee cake.”
“So did you,” Mel countered. “And it’s not like the dessert police are going to come get us. So what is it?” She sniffed. “Chocolate chip?”
“Slice-and-bake special,” Tracy confirmed, opening the oven door.
“You’ve got milk, right?”
“Of course.” Tracy shot Mel a glance as she started sliding the cookies onto a serving tray. “What kind of establishment do you think I’m running here?”
“Speaking of that”—Mel motioned around the kitchen—“I meant to ask earlier. What are you doing in here?” She ran her finger along the edge of one of the photos of Tracy’s grandmother. “Is this the stuff for the museum?”
Tracy plopped a plate of warm, gooey cookies in front of her.
“I think I love you,” Mel said.
“Of course. I feed you.”
“Seriously, what’s all this stuff for?”
“Well, I thought I’d donate it all to the museum . . . but now I’m thinking I might keep some of the clothes.”
Mel leaned over the back of the chair and grabbed the white scarf Tracy had tried on earlier. “So you’ve decided your new image is vintage?”
“Maybe.”
“I was expecting you to go more for Vogue or Cosmo. You know—something hip for the Los Angeles dating scene.”
“That’s still a possibility,” Tracy said, taking the scarf back.
“Speaking of dating, you didn’t do something stupid and advertise for only a female roomie, did you?”
“Are you nuts?” Tracy took a bite of cookie, slid down her chair in a moment of pure ecstasy, then sighed. “I’m a natural man-repellant. Why on earth would I bother going to the trouble of limiting my roommates to girls?”
“Dunno. False sense of modesty maybe.”
“Oh, please. This house is huge. And I’m trying to rent out an entire suite with a private entrance. A family of twelve could move in and I’d never even notice.”
Okay. So maybe that was an exaggeration. But the house did have more space than she needed. The second floor was home to three bedroom suites, one with an outside entrance off the balcony. The lower level had the kitchen, ballroom, study, formal living room, dining room, and maid’s quarters. It also had Tracy’s favorite—a private screening room with comfy chairs and a lounge area where Tahlula used to entertain. Tracy had never had a party there, but she did love to watch television in style.
Tracy shook her head and gave her boss a questioning look. “Hey. Now that I think about it, what are you doing here? I mean other than eating and gossiping. I thought you had to work with Penelope tonight.”
“That was my plan, but then I had to get ready for some meetings tomorrow. Not that it matters. Penelope’s having problems.”
“Penelope always has problems. That’s why we’re having problems with Penelope.”
“Yeah,” Mel agreed. “Well, this time Penelope’s having about eight little problems.”
Tracy shook her head slowly. “You’re not saying—”
“Yup. Preggers.”
“Well, heck. Guess that means she’s off the show.”
“And we have to find a replacement. Pronto.” Mel turned to face the big window at the far end of the kitchen. After a second, she frowned. “Or maybe I just found a replacement.” She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes.
“Excuse me?”
Mel pointed. “There’s a ferret in your window.” She squinted. “Or there was.”
Tracy whipped around, but didn’t see a thing. “A ferret? What? Just hanging out on my windowsill?”
“More like hovering in midair, actually.” Mel’s brow furrowed as she shrugged. “You don’t see that every day.”
“I don’t think you see that at all.”
Mel held up her hands. “Hey, I didn’t put him there. It’s your house.”
“Well, it’s not my ferret. I think you’re imagining things. You’ve just got ferrets on the brain.”
“Probably. Either that or not enough caffeine. Or maybe too much sugar.” She didn’t look convinced, but Mel shook her head and turned back to Tracy. “Anyway, as I was saying, we’ve got big problems. I’ve already called all our competitors. Los Angeles is severely lacking in trained ferrets at the moment.” A pensive expression crossed her face. “Maybe they could rewrite the script for a great big rat. Or a potbellied pig. We’ve got a great trained pig.”
“Maybe we could find a ferret in San Diego.”
“Or Ventura,” Mel said. “But I doubt it.”
“I don’t know,” Tracy said. “I guess we just play it by ear and hope we find one. If not, Leon can co-star with a pig. And that,” she added, “would be very appropriate.”
A television show! Elmer squeaked, his little squeals cutting into Hale’s eardrums. My heroine, my darling. He gazed up from their hiding place under Tracy’s window, an expression of longing on his little face. I want to marry that woman.
“Would you be quiet?” Hale asked. “I’m trying to think.” They’d cut it too close a minute ago, and Tracy’s friend
had almost discovered them. Now they were well below the window level, so anyone peering out wouldn’t see the ferret floating on Hale’s invisible shoulder.
What’s there to think about? Elmer asked. It’s perfect. It’s wonderful. You talk to her. She trains me. You’ll be around her all the time. What could be better?
“Just about anything, I imagine.”
Elmer snorted. Oh, sure. Guess you’re the only one allowed to be famous. Not little old Elmer. No, sir. No fame for the ferret.
Hale rolled his eyes. When he had first accepted his alter-ego role, no one had expected how popular his face—or thighs, pecs, and biceps—would turn out to be. But Zephron had insisted that Hale could hide in plain view. The very conspicuousness of being a cover model would lend him an inconspicuousness as a superhero. While he’d complained at first, in truth Hale didn’t mind. Not that he’d ever admit it to Elmer—who gave him plenty of grief about dressing up like a pirate or a medieval lord—but Hale thoroughly enjoyed the job.
But the thought of Elmer in front of a camera . . .
Well, frankly, that was more than a little scary. Elmer being Elmer was often too much to handle. Elmer being a television star . . .he’d have sunglasses, an entourage, his very own limo driver. Hale shook her head. That might be a little much to take.
Still, he had to admit this did seem perfect. And he knew from experience he’d never hear the end of it if he didn’t at least let the little guy have a shot.
“Fine,” he said, giving in. “I’ll call my agent in the morning and see if he can line up an audition for you.” He rubbed his temples. Marty was an excellent agent, but also an opportunist. Hale couldn’t even begin to imagine how the man would twist this rather bizarre scenario to his advantage.
Serious television, Elmer said, his squeaky voice practically a sigh. I wonder if I’ll get a credit at the beginning. Maybe I’ll even get my own trailer!
Hale stifled a sigh, wondering what exactly he’d gotten himself into.
“Here.” In his Manhattan apartment, Hieronymous pointed to the bank of monitors, all displaying various areas of Los Angeles. “Right in the middle of Beverly Hills.” He drummed his fingers on his desktop and looked up at Clyde, his Chief of Guards.
“Surely Tahlula didn’t die with the girdle still in her possession?”
Hieronymous frowned, hating the idea that all these years it had been right there for the picking. “I wouldn’t have thought so. Tahlula Tannin knew full well the power of the belt, and yet she ceased wearing it. What mortal could resist the lure of Aphrodite’s girdle?”
“You can’t resist, Master. And if you can’t, surely no mortal can.”
With a growl, Hieronymous rounded on Clyde, his black robe flying out from behind him. “It is not a question of resistance, fool,” he hissed. Gathering himself, he stood up straighter, then spoke slowly, as if to an idiot. Which, in his opinion, was often an accurate description of Clyde. “The girdle is a tool—a tool I intend to use for the greater good of our race.”
“Of course, Sire.” Clyde bowed his head.
Fools. He was surrounded by fools. His staff, his son. How was a supreme being like himself supposed to reach his destiny if he didn’t have quality help? Really, would his problems never end?
With a sigh, he looked back at the monitors and dismissed the question. “Perhaps Tahlula misplaced it. Perhaps she gave it to charity or to a relative, who has only just put it on. The cause of its disappearance is immaterial at this point.” He lifted his head, his jaw firm as he looked into Clyde’s eyes. “We do not even know that the signal came from Tahlula’s house. It wasn’t strong enough to pinpoint anything more than Beverly Hills.”
“Has Mordichai checked in?”
“Ah, yes, my son. My secret weapon. The one who will bring the belt to me.”
“So he’s got a bead on it, huh?”
Hieronymous stifled a sigh. Apparently Clyde was immune to sarcasm. “My son is alone in Los Angeles searching for a missing artifact. Unless he stumbled onto something in the”—he glanced at his Rolex—“two hours since he arrived, I don’t think that he has a bead on anything.” A pity, too. He needed that girdle. And he needed Mordichai to get it for him.
“Did you get your message to him?” Clyde asked.
Hieronymous fought the urge to sneer. “Of course. Do you think I would sit on such a crucial bit of information?” Just that afternoon, his key spy within the Council had delivered a message—Hieronymous’s niece and nephew, Zoe and Hale, had been assigned to locate the girdle and return it to the Council. Pesky little interfering brats.
“Mordichai knows what is at stake. And he knows that in order to win the prize—and to win my approval—he will have to thwart his cousins’ efforts.”
“Sire . . .” Clyde’s voice trailed off, his eyes lowered.
“What is it now?”
“Are you sure using your son is a good idea? I mean, Zoe barely has her skills under control. But Hale . . . well, he’s one of the best the Council has.”
Heironymous laughed. “One of the best? I’m surprised you give him so much credit.”
Clyde stood up straighter. “I could easily best him, of course. And given the opportunity, I’ll be happy to do it—”
“Yes, yes. I’m aware of the fact that Hale is the very Protector who discovered your duplicity.” Hieronymous drummed his fingers on his desk. “Pity, too. You were so much more useful to me when you were still in the Council. But now, an Outcast.” He met Clyde’s eyes. “Tsk, tsk.”
“For the opportunity to best Hale, I’d gladly use my Protector skills—even if it means risking punishment.”
“Really?” Hieronymous filed away that little tidbit. Outcasts retained their power, but were forbidden to use their skills. If the Council discovered and prosecuted a violation, the punishment was severe—and permanent.
Clyde’s face tightened. “My point is that I don’t think your son is a match for Hale. After all, Mordi’s only a—” Hieronymous’s head jerked up, and Clyde took a step backward, his mouth snapping shut.
“Only a what?”
“I just wonder if there isn’t a better agent to send,” Clyde continued, talking to the floor. “I mean, Mordichai is a halfling, after all.”
“He may be a halfling, but he is also my son. And unlike Zoe, he has been trained—by me—since birth. He has the power to conjure fire, and the power to shapeshift. He is perfect for this job.” More important, perhaps, Hieronymous had no other choice. Certainly he had other agents, but what would stop them from claiming the belt for their own?
In a flash, he answered his own question. Henchmen. The slimy, stupid creatures would be perfect. A mortal couldn’t steal the belt, so he couldn’t use his smarter human minions, but Henchmen . . .
Unlike Protectors, they had no powers to lose. And they had the added benefit of being entirely loyal to whoever freed them from the catacombs.
Yes, perhaps Henchmen were the answer.
With a smile, he turned back to Clyde. “What you say has merit. Rather than place all this responsibility on my son, we’ll send in my little pets.”
Clyde practically preened; clearly the oaf thought that he was responsible for giving Hieronymous the idea. “And Mordichai?” he asked.
“My son will remain on the assignment. Henchmen may be persistent, but they do not always succeed.” Sadly, the creatures were rather dim-witted. He drummed his fingers on his desktop. “Consider the Henchmen a backup plan.”
“Yes, Sire.” Clyde didn’t look pleased, and Hieronymous knew he was concerned about Mordichai’s trustworthiness. Not to mention his ability to get the job done. As much as his Chief of Guards annoyed him at times, Hieronymous had to admit the man was as loyal as they came.
In this case, however, Clyde was wrong. Mordichai could be trusted. He might have disappointed Hieronymous in the past—as a halfling, the boy’s skills were sadly lacking—but Mordichai would never turn on his father. For one thin
g, the boy simply didn’t have that kind of courage. For another, Mordi had been raised on Hieronymous’s promises that he would be second only to his father in his new world order.
Whether or not Mordi would actually see such a position of power was neither here nor there. For the time being, such a plan served Hieronymous well—and kept his son on a sufficiently short leash.
8
The next morning Tracy wore her grandmother’s belt, and by the time she rolled through the gate onto the backlot, the day already seemed brighter, the world cheerier, the people friendlier. Okay, maybe not the brighter and cheerier part—except that it was a truly gorgeous, smog-free day—but the people . . . Well, something was definitely up with the people.
Tracy’s first stop had been the coffee shop near her house. Usually she waited until she got closer to the backlot, but she’d been running late and hadn’t had time to make any coffee on her own. Her choices had been simple: stop for coffee even though the local dive had the rudest counter clerks imaginable, or pass out from caffeine withdrawal as she coasted down Laurel Canyon.
Tracy had chosen to face the coffee shop creeps, hoping beyond hope that—for once—it wouldn’t be an entirely miserable experience.
And this morning they weren’t so creepy. At least not to her anyway. Instead, everyone in the shop had practically bent over backwards for her. First, the folks waiting in line had offered to let her cut ahead, which was what she’d desperately wished for the second she saw the line snaking out the door.
As if that wasn’t weird enough, the guy working the counter actually remembered that she always ordered a double non-fat latte. Then he gave it to her gratis—and apologized for the place being so crowded.
Okaaaaay.
That was weird-morning-incident number-one.
After that, she’d cruised over the canyon to Studio City.