BANGING THE SUPERHERO by Rebecca Royce

BANGING THE SUPERHERO is book two in Rebecca Royce's Sexy Superheroes Series

Ace Hudson has worked for his brother, Draco, at Powers, Inc. since it opened. Spending his days trying to balance his job with taking care of his teenage brother, Lael, he uses his nights to overcome the overabundance of adrenaline in his body that makes him lose control. He also has a secret crush on a celebrity chef who makes home-cooked meals look sexier than anything he has ever seen.

Alice Styles runs an empire based on her ability to make people want to eat what she cooks. When she is nearly killed on live television in a situation straight out of one of her childhood nightmares, she reluctantly asks Ace Hudson to help keep her safe.

Starting out with instant dislike and finding their way to mutual pleasure, Ace and Alice do not have an easy path to love. But their egos and personal barriers are nothing compared to the looming threat just waiting for a moment to possess Alice.

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Chapter One


Ace Hudson flew through the open front door of his brother, Draco's, house at exactly seven o'clock at night. As soon as he landed on the front hallway floor, he took off his shoes as his sister-in-law, Wendy, had instructed him to do about a thousand times now, and lined them up in the corner of the room by the front hall closet.

Sighing, he loosened his tie and wondered how his life had become so mundane. He was a Superhero. Shouldn't he be doing exciting things? Taking down bad guys? Rocking somebody's rotten world?

"I still can't get over you in a suit and tie."

Ace looked up to catch the amused expression of his younger brother, Lael, who stood leaning against the wall, drinking a can of soda. If Wendy had been home, she'd have corrected the teenager for not using a glass, but since Wendy and Draco had tied the knot and departed on their honeymoon, Ace was left to take care of these issues with his younger bro.

Ace decided not to utter a word. Maybe Lael's behavior was an act of rebellion against all the new rules in the house. Maybe Ace just thought that at sixteen Lael should be able to drink from the can without being told not to. He shrugged. Either way, he just didn't care.

"Yeah, well, you know, now that I'm the face of the new Powers, Inc. I have to look the part." Or at least that's what Draco had told him when he'd taken him out to get fitted for suits.

Lael nodded, straightened and walked to the living room. Ace stared at the teenager's feet, glad to see him in his socks. As if Wendy and the floor had some kind of communal relationship, she knew if anyone had walked on it wearing shoes anytime since the dawn of time. He might have had to correct Lael if he'd still had on his sneakers.

"I ordered us pizza."

Ace nodded and followed his half-brother into the living room, noting, with some disgust, that the kid was watching cartoons again. Not just any cartoons either, no, he had a superhero program blaring from the set.

"Are you going to outgrow this sometime soon?"

Lael laughed. "Are you going to cut your hair?"

"Touché."

The answer was no. He'd never cut his hair, no matter how long the blond mane had gotten, and he probably never would. It was his signature. People who saw him and his long locks floating in the wind as he flew over New York City knew it was none other than Ace Hudson. Everyone had been after him to at least trim it. Everyone, of course, being Draco and the image consultant he'd hired to get whip Ace into shape, appearance-wise, so he looked more like the head of a corporation.

Presumably, Draco had put Ace in charge of the company so Draco could devote himself to taking care of and helping to mend Lael's psyche. Yet, here Ace was, running Powers, Inc. and hanging out with Lael.

Something seemed a little off . . . .

Throwing himself down on the couch, he picked up the remote before Lael could object. If his brother wanted to waste his time watching Superman and Batman save the world, he could do it on his own time. From seven o'clock in the evening on, Ace got to control the remote control in the living room.

Truth was, Ace didn't need to use the remote at all. With his unique super power, he could speak to machines, and they did as he commanded. If he'd wanted to, he could even change the channel when he was a mile away from the house.

But that was rude.

And his Mama had raised him better than that.

Stopping finally on the Food Channel, he leaned back into the cushions. If he was lucky, he got to catch the end of Alice Styles' program every night when he got home. Tonight, he'd have fifteen full minutes to watch her, "show the world what she's making for dinner." Unlike other cooking shows, Alice's was broadcast live. If she made a mistake—which she rarely did—the audience got to see it. That took guts, in Ace's mind. The woman had a lot of confidence in her skills.

Lael plopped down next to him and rolled his eyes. "Again?"

"Yep."

"I'd accuse you of having a crush on her if she wasn't so old."

Ace glared at Lael. Alice Styles is not old. She was probably not a day over thirty—exactly Ace's age—and quite possibly, even younger. Lately, it seemed everyone over twenty years of age earned the label "old" from the sixteen-year-old.

Ace had lusted after Alice Styles for months, ever since he'd first seen her on television. His sister-in-law had put her on one evening and he'd been hooked.
Not that he would ever meet her. No, she wasn't the type of woman who frequented the establishments he did. Somehow, he couldn't imagine her with her fastened-in-a–bun, brown hair and her buttoned-to-the-neck, white blouses donning leather and getting it on to loud, booming, techno music.

He could picture it now. Alice, wearing only her apron—the black one that didn't quite make it around her curvy, supple ass—her boobs peeking up just slightly from underneath as she moved and swayed on the dance floor. Her chestnut brown hair hanging loose, flowing every which way. He'd glide up behind her . . . she'd just know it was him, because who else would dare touch her on the dance floor when they knew she was his girl . . . and she'd turn to him. In her sexiest voice, which he'd hear with his superpower hearing over the music, she'd say, "Give it to me, Ace."

And he'd do as she asked, right there, on the dance floor . . . and his superpower wouldn't hurt her. She'd be able to take him and enjoy him, all of him.

"Dude! Check it out." Lael's voice ripped Ace from his sexual fantasy and he squirmed on the couch, attempting to hide the hard-on he'd got just from thinking about the cooking show hostess.

Lael stared at Ace.

"What?"

"The machines!" Lael shouted. "They're flying everywhere!"

Turning to the television, Ace saw his brother was right. Alice's cooking equipment flew around her studio kitchen. She shrieked and hit the ground. The toaster detached itself from the wall, flying forward, its cooking tray opening and closing like a giant mouth threatening to eat her

Just as suddenly, the blender whirred to life unaided, a dark concoction she'd been making spewing out all over the room.

"Help me!" As Alice shrieked, Ace jumped to his feet, still staring at the television.

"How far away is that studio?"

If the program was filmed in California, he might already be too late. His range was around one mile, two, at best, for controlling machines. Hell, why was he asking the kid?

"They film in New York; one of our Communication classes went on a field trip there."
Communication classes? That was quite a high school his little brother attended.
Back in Ace's day, students were lucky if the teacher showed for English.
Narrowing his eyes, he concentrated on the machines attacking Alice—there was no doubt someone commanded them to do just that—and he pushed his energy forward. He could do the same with any machine as long as it was within communication range and he could see it, even if just on television.

He spoke aloud to the toaster first. "Relax."

It was odd; usually machines such as these were controlled by remote. Ace simply had to cut off the connection to the remote. This time, however, the signal seemed different.

"Wow." He laughed. Someone controlled the machine and not electronically. In the same way he communicated with machines using his mind, someone manipulated them.
He fought, from a distance, with someone who possessed a similar power.

This had never happened before. Not ever. He grinned, enjoying the challenge.
Whoever made the other machines move must have been as startled as Ace was because he or she—Ace wasn't sure—faltered, and he managed to break the link to the machines.

Both the toaster and the blender dropped to the floor. Dead.

Alice continued to shriek. Ace blinked. Why hadn't the station gone to commercial?
Lael stood, his mouth gaping open like a landed fish, as he alternated gawking between Ace and the television set.

"I guess she's lucky she wasn't using an electronic knife."

Ace nodded, distracted. It bugged him they hadn't cut to a break. What was going on down at that studio? Alice pulled herself up, covered in the brown concoction she'd been making. She was the most disheveled he'd ever seen her. But then he saw her only on television or in photo shoots.

"Um." Alice cleared her throat. She sounded more hoarse than usual, which was impressive, considering voice-wise, most of the time she gave Kathleen Turner a run for her money. "I'm not really sure what just happened. Let's get a word from our sponsors and we'll come right back."

Finally, the screen changed to a commercial, a scene of a woman holding a baby wearing a "different type of diaper". Ace swore before he realized he still stood next to Lael.

Looking at his brother, Ace grinned. "Sorry about swearing."

Lael shrugged. "I've heard it all before."

"Doesn't mean I should talk that way around you."

Lael pointed to the screen. "Who made that happen?"

"I don't know." Ace kicked the side of the couch, gently. Still, he managed to make a hole in it using the tip of his foot alone. Damn—he was going to be in trouble when Draco and Wendy returned.

He jumped from foot-to-foot. This was the problem with his powers. They required so much physical energy to control that to use them at all meant he needed an outlet in which to channel them. Exercise was becoming a less and less effective tool.

"Feel like flying down to that studio and finding out what happened?"

He glanced at Lael. If his brother wanted to stay here and eat the pizza that was coming, that's what they would do. He would find a way to make tonight work, somehow.

Lael smiled and, for a second, Ace had to shake his head in awe. It was Draco's smile. Sometimes when he looked at the kid, he caught an expression that was similar to one he himself would make, but most of the time there was nothing but Draco in him. They were an odd family, but family nonetheless.

"Does that grin mean yes?"

"Really, you'd bring me with you?"

"Don't tell Draco."

Without another word, he floated upwards. "Besides, if I don't teach you how not to bang into everything whenever you take to the skies, who will?"

Moving forward, he hovered for a second as he opened the front door. "Follow me."

Ace had to give Lael credit. He kept up even if his flying was sloppy. If Ace flew straight up, Lael zagged a bit before finding his path. As far as Ace could remember, he hadn't had that problem learning to fly. But then he'd been doing it since he was three years old to keep up with Draco. Lael had all but suppressed his powers, not knowing
what the bizarre feelings were.

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.

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SCREWING THE SUPERHERO by Rebecca Royce

SCREWING THE SUPERHERO by Rebecca Royce
Book one in the Sexy Superheroes Series

Wendy Warner is a bit of an oddball. Raised in an orphanage, she has found solace and friendship by watching the television show, Space Adventures, and participating in fan clubs related to the show. Every month, on the second and third Friday, Wendy comes to work dressed in a costume from the show that she wears to charity events. This has earned her the disdain of many of her coworkers but not from her boss, the president of the company, Draco Powers, who rather likes the way the uniform hugs all her curves in the just the right places.

Draco Powers is a real-life Superhero who told the world that, yes, Superheroes do exist, but, no, we won't work for free or without health insurance. Some people refer to him with derision as the "Capitalist Superman." Draco is being hunted by an organization called the Organization, whose motives are unclear and yet still cause death and destruction wherever they go.
The Organization has decided that Draco's biggest weakness is the way he cares about his employees and has picked Wendy out as their next target. To save her, Draco will have to come to terms with his real feelings for Wendy and why it is that he has so long resisted complicated relationships. But he's running out of time . . . .

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Excerpt:
Draco Powers sat, feeling incredibly uncomfortable, in his client's too-small-for-him flowery fabric lounge chair as he turned down her offer of tea for the third time. What gave with the tea? He didn't drink the stuff. Why push it on him? The whole living room, from ceiling to floor and everything in between, looked like a floral shop had thrown up.


The ceiling boasted badly stenciled roses. Daisies exploded on the carpet, and a different flower print covered each of the couches. Even his client, who looked to be around fifty years of age with graying brown hair and unremarkably dull grey eyes, wore lilacs on her housedress. If he spent too much time in this room, he was going to get hay fever.


Forcing himself to pay attention, he listened to the smooth rhythm of Wendy's voice as she asked the requisite questions of the woman who wanted to hire him. He knew, having worked with and counted on Wendy for years, she had done some version of this questioning over the phone when the case was first sent upstairs after the online request for services had been filtered and approved. It was unusual to have Wendy so thoroughly ask the questions again.

She'd expressed her concern that something felt askew with this woman's story, so he was inclined to let his little Handler have at the flower-wearing lady until Wendy was satisfied with the answers.


Little Handler? Where had his thought come from?


"Tell me again why you aren't using the police to investigate this issue, Mrs. Marckham?"


"I tried the police. For the first six months after Lael was taken, I waited and waited for the police to recover my son. Now, I'm pursuing other means."


Clearly, or they wouldn't be there. Draco looked at his watch. They'd shown up half-an-hour early so Wendy could do this, and then, assuming she let him take the job, he could find the child and still get home on time to go on his date.


"I guess I'm confused, Mrs. Marckham. Why do you think the Superhero route is your only option?"


Color rose in the woman's cheeks. Draco wanted to sink into the chair as her gaze met his and he realized what was bothering Wendy. Their potential client fancied herself in love with him. It wasn't the first time he'd run into this problem. All Superheroes did on a regular basis. But when this woman met his gaze, and her dull eyes lit up like stars, she made the 'crazy alarm' go off in his head.


Especially when she said, "The Superheroes can do anything."


Something about this woman was off . . . .


He would still find her son. Not the teenager's fault his mama was a whack job.


Wendy started to speak and he interrupted. "That's unfortunately not true, ma'am. If we could do anything then I wouldn't have a career. We would have long ago eliminated poverty, destruction, illness, and violence from the world." Making eye contact with Wendy, he nodded to let her know that while he was fully aware of what she sensed from their client, he intended to take the job anyway. The great thing about Wendy Warner was she understood unspoken signals. She nodded back.


He might even be able to use Mrs. Markham's Superhero infatuation to his advantage. "Why don't you tell me who you think has your son?"


"It's obvious."


"Not to me, I'm afraid."


He gritted his teeth. Years ago, when he and Ace had opened Powers, Inc., he'd been naïve in thinking he should feel a tremendous amount of satisfaction helping people. Now, all they did was annoy him. If the identity of her son's kidnapper had been obvious, would he have asked her the damned question?


"Aliens took him, of course." The older woman took a sip of her tea.


He closed his mouth, opting not to speak. This turn of events was almost too delicious to be real. He sat back in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. This was why he had a Handler. So Wendy could speak at this moment and he could pretend he was a statue and stop communicating all together.


Wendy straightened in her chair. He could see she'd bit down for a second on her bottom lip. His super sight revealed two minute teeth marks left on the lower part of her lip. His cock stirred to attention, as it always did when Wendy was concerned. He wouldn't act on it. No, he'd resisted her appeal for years. Nothing had to change now.


"Why do you think aliens took your son, ma'am?" Wendy's Upstate New York accent slipped out. She was usually so careful not to show it but when she got really bothered, it flew out of her like they were sitting in Buffalo or Rochester instead of Allentown, Pennsylvania. At least he thought they were in Allentown. He flew all day, every day. Sometimes, he had a hard time remembering where he was . . . .


"Who else would take him?"


Wendy sighed. "Any number of people, I would imagine. Did your son have any enemies?"


"Enemies?" Sylvia Markham laughed. "No, of course not. Everyone loves Lael. Except for the Aliens, of course."


Wendy shot him a pleading look. He wanted to smile at her exasperation. She didn't really expect him to speak, did she? He paid her to handle types of situations.


She turned back to their Alien-obsessed client. "Let's all pretend it was not aliens who took Lael. Let's come up with some other ideas."


Maybe he should let Wendy off the hook and just drop Sylvia Markham. If she really thought aliens had Lael then she needed to find herself some alien hunters, if such people existed. And they might. Superheroes existed. Maybe alien hunters did too.


"I would think, Ms. Warner, considering your attire, you, of all people wouldn't object to the well documented facts stating aliens walk among us."


Wendy went very still. He had to give her credit; she could get control of her emotions faster than anyone he'd ever known.


"While I am obviously a staunch fan of Space Adventures, ma'am, with a great love for the ideals expressed on the show and the culture of charity and responsibility, I do not, as a rule, feel there are aliens walking around on our planet right now as we speak." She set down her cup.


"Then why are you wearing that ridiculous costume?"


Wendy clenched her hands at her side. "When I leave work today, I am doing work with my fan group at the local soup kitchen near my home. As a rule, we wear uniforms so people recognize us. A lot of locals in my area are not comfortable with strangers they don't know and will refuse help out of speculation of their motives. But, if they see us coming in our regalia, then they know we're safe. Since we had your appointment today, so late in the day, I will have to ask Mr. Powers to drop me directly at the soup kitchen, as he has done before, and I won't have any time to change."


She'd never explained her reasons for wearing the uniform before. Of course, most people just stared and whispered. She might never have had the chance to come right out and explain it. Something odd panged in his chest and he rubbed over the uncomfortable feeling, wondering what it could be. He'd never cared why she wore it. Wendy was everything he could have asked for in a Handler and then some.


Not to mention she looked hot in the outfit, and anyone who couldn't see that was blind.


Her brown hair fell just past her chin, and displayed next to the red of the Space Adventures' uniform, it looked almost golden. The high collar of the costume accentuated her long, pale neck and slightly pointed features. Her stubborn chin matched the nature of its owner. It said to the world, I'm not a push over and I don't care what you think. Her nose was small and turned up a little at the end, in a way his mother would have referred to as 'pixie-like', and spoke of a Nordic heritage in her background. It wasn't hard to picture her ancestors as Vikings. Wendy would have stood on the mast of the ship, giving orders and being revered as a goddess.


The rest of her face was heart shaped, but her brilliant brown eyes held his attention. With them, she'd held his gaze when he'd interviewed her for the position four years earlier. Only twenty-two years old then, she'd been working for one of the Associates for three months. It had been gutsy for her to think she could get a job with him so soon after signing on with the company. Yet, here she was, his most valued asset.


He'd do anything to keep her.


Dressed in the uniform, the shirt pulled at her thin waist, showing her lush curves. Her breasts were more than a handful. They were maybe two or three handfuls, and he had big hands. Tailored to fit snugly, the pants showed off a rear end made for grabbing. More than once, he'd been tempted to reach out and squeeze.


Of course, he hadn't. He didn't date—or screw around with—Handlers. That was how you got into trouble. That's why Ace no longer showed his face in the office. He'd broken his Handler's heart. Of course, the woman should have known better. His brother had a reputation for using them and then losing them. Now, however, Ace's Handler was distraught and the man couldn't come near the office without her screaming and crying. The situation was incredibly awkward.


Relegated to working from home, Ace received no help from his Handler. You couldn't fire a woman you'd just dumped. Doing so meant a lawsuit, or a payoff, and horrible publicity. His brother wanted him to switch Handlers with him. Draco rubbed his chin as he thought about the suggestion for a second. His answer wasn't going to change. No way, no how was Ace taking Wendy from him.


"Well." Sylvia Markham was still discussing Wendy's attire. "It seems ridiculous to me."


He stood and the room fell silent. Even Wendy, who could usually read him well, looked at him questioningly.


"What Ms. Warner wears to work is nobody's business except hers and mine. I'll ask you to comment on it no further." He stretched his arms over his head and felt the fabric on his black Egyptian cotton turtleneck tear. Wearing clothes was an occupational hazard for him. At least once a week, he had to replace what he wore in the middle of the day after he'd made some simple movement and ripped another seam.


"Now, let's go and see the young man's room. I think it's best if you stay here, ma'am, while Ms. Warner and I check it out. Think about the aliens. Specifically, we're going to need a description of the creatures. How many heads, limbs, etcetera."


Without another word, he walked to the back of the house. They could both follow him—or not—but it was time to get this show on the road. He was bored. They'd been here too long, and he hadn't had enough action for the day to warrant sitting still.


The morning's job had resolved nicely without him having to exert himself. As soon as he'd walked into the room, the husband had decided to stop hiding the wife's inheritance and give over the bank information she needed.
The troublesome man had restrained himself but Draco still wanted to kick his ass. What kind of man abandoned his family and ran away with their money?


Draco could have laughed at the thought if it wasn't so familiar. He didn't have to look far for an answer; his father had been the kind of man to take off. In fact, if Draco went back through all his traceable relatives, men abandoning their families formed a long history. Maybe it was in the genes. The same biological, evolutionary circumstances making them Superheroes made them bad parents.


This was exactly why he would never have children.


Opening the door to Lael's room only added to his thoughts. If his mother's living room was a bad tribute to all things floral, then Lael's room was a shrine to fake Superheroes. Superman, Batman, the Green Lantern . . . .


He knew their fictitious stories, had read the comic books as a boy. They'd represented everything he'd hoped to be as a small child, and everything he'd resented as a teenager.


Life didn't work like fiction. No one was going to let him spend days working as a mild-mannered reporter, as he rushed around occasionally saving the world from mad men. It was an all or nothing deal, and, whether his critics liked it or not, Superheroes had to live under the same constraints as everyone else. The only way to do anything worthwhile with his so-called gifts was to charge money for them.


And fuck anyone who didn't like it.


But back to the matter at hand. Lael Markham and his apparent—based on the cartoon posters covering his walls—obsession with Superheroes.


"Wendy?" He called over his shoulder, knowing she would answer. She always did. Some day she might not. Some day she might get a different job, and, when she left, the office would be a cold, uninviting place he wouldn't look forward to going to anymore. Today, however, she was still his to call when he needed her.


"Yes, sir?" Wendy arrived in the room faster than he thought she would. She must have run.


"Thought you might like to see this." He indicated the pictures on the wall. "And don't call me sir." It really ate at him when she said 'sir'. He was six years older than she was. Hardly old enough to warrant such an address. It made him feel like he was approaching his dotage.


"Wow, he's a real fan of comics, isn't he?"


She smiled sheepishly and he wanted to smile back, which was exactly why he didn't.


"This kid's fifteen, right?"


She looked at the notes she'd taken from her computer. By now, he knew her routine, any facts she learned, she recorded. Wendy took type-A personality to a whole new level. Nodding, she looked up. "Yes, fifteen last September."


"Seems a bit old for a casual obsession with the comic book heroes." Something was buzzing his intuition. The reason he'd managed to live as long as he had without being killed was he'd learned long ago to not doubt his feelings.


"Could be he doesn't have many friends and clearly his family is, I don't know, off." Wendy sighed.


He narrowed his eyes, watching her wander the room, touching the posters on the walls with her fingertips. She seemed to have a strong visceral sense, touching where others might not bother. Whether she knew it or not, Wendy seemed to have a real need to feel things with all of her senses.


Another reason he was certain she was a tigress in bed . . . .


Nope. Inwardly, he shook his head. Not going there.


"Sometimes you turn to things because they are easy to lose yourself in when you don't have anything else. Things others might not understand or appreciate when they're not lacking what you are."


Was a need to lose herself what had drawn her to Space Adventures? He knew it was the perfect opportunity to ask, to delve a little deeper into what made Wendy tick. Only he wasn't going to. Not now, not ever. Once he opened that door, the one where they had more than a casual understanding of each other outside of work, he'd never be able to close it.


She'd hound him constantly with personal questions—as all women did—and he'd never have any peace. Eventually, he'd have to let her go if only to reset his equilibrium, and Wendy was far too important a member of his team to lose. Inwardly, he paled at the thought of having to train a new Handler.


"There is something, however, bothering me about this whole thing."


"Which part? The bit about the aliens or the floral explosion in the living room?"


"Ha."


Wendy blessed him with one of her rare laughs. He had long ago decided she didn't think he was funny, didn't get his jokes, or had no sense of humor. Recently, he'd started believing it was a combination of all three.


"The living room is a bit . . . much." Color shaded her cheeks from the laughter.


Draco had to admit, he found the additional blush stimulating. Turning away, he adjusted his pants, hoping she didn't see the reaction her brief merriment had caused. Pretending to look at the picture of Batman, he spoke to her with his back turned.


"Go on, what in particular bothers you about this missing teenager?"


"How are they paying for it?"


Raising his eyebrows, he turned to face her. His intuition dinged in his head, almost like a bell going off at the beginning of a horse race. "Continue."


"This house, while we might not like the decorations, is perfectly fine in a perfectly acceptable, compact, blue-collar kind of a way."


"And your point is what?" He already suspected he knew what she was going to say.


"Our clients, meaning specifically the ones who get sent up to you, aren't this type. Maybe they go to one of the other associates. When I worked for Colt, we would get sent to places like this. But you . . . ."


He grinned, amused by how clearly uncomfortable Wendy was. Her unease with the topic showed all over her pixie face. She bit down on her lower lip, as she looked everywhere but at him.


"So what you're saying is only the very rich avail themselves of Draco Powers?"


"Sir, our last job was in a penthouse apartment in New York City."


He shrugged. "The best always costs the most."


He wasn't surprised she was so off put at having to bring this issue to his attention. He read the newspaper; he knew what they said about him and the others who worked at his company. Ever since it had become public that people with superpowers really existed, everyone had been waiting for Superman to fly into the area and altruistically defeat Lex Luther.


He'd tried for a while. When he'd almost had to declare bankruptcy because he'd been so busy secretly helping everyone on the planet he couldn't get to work on time, and his brother had been evicted from his apartment because he couldn't pay rent, Draco had decided it was past time for his talents to help him pay the bills. People did it all the time. They were good at something and they made a business out of it.


So why was he constantly being criticized? Shaking his head, knowing he wasn't going to solve these problems today, and not caring for the direction his thoughts were going, he turned his attention back to the matter at hand.


"Clearly she can afford me or the credit department would have turned her down or insisted she see someone else."


Wendy flipped open her phone. After a moment, she spoke into the receiver. "Yes, it's Wendy. Uh-huh, I'm there right now." She paused. "I need you to pull up the financials on this woman. Yes, I know it's highly irregular but Draco wants it. Uh-huh."


Technically, he hadn't said he wanted it but he wasn't going to argue with her, not when she handled everything with the efficiency of a well-timed machine.


He walked to Lael's desk, looking around at the knick-knacks littering the top. The boy hadn't used the piece of furniture for studying, not with the amount of clutter on top of the display. It appeared he spent all his time reading comic books. Other than his reading material, the only picture of Lael resided in a folder Wendy had handed him before they arrived, and beside Lael stood an unknown older gentleman Draco couldn't identify. Lael's dead father, perhaps.


"Since when did we start taking donations from unknown charities? Yes, I'll hold, Denise."


Turning to Draco, her eyebrows furrowed, she rubbed her nose. "This is being paid for by a charitable organization. I guess Finance ran a check and the money's legit, meaning it's in the account and they didn't investigate further. She's going into the file to see if they have any other info, but no one felt the urge to look deeper since the money was in the account."


"An unknown charity?"


Hairs stood on the back of his neck as a scent wafted through his nostrils. The odor—the faintest trace of gunpowder—was undetectable by anyone but him. Focusing, he let his super sight direct him to the source. There it was; in the basement, a homemade, badly crafted, but still very live bomb.


Shit, he had all of three seconds before the bomb, which had been set to kill them, exploded the home into a million unidentifiable pieces.
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