Prometheus Unstitched

By Lila Shaw

Cory Blindbarrow of Blindbarrow Crimefighting Couture, loves her work—from tailoring bulletproof fabrics to engineering concealed weaponry. Kowtowing to the over-sized egos of her superhero clientele? Not so much.

Her newest client, Theo Richelieu, aka Prometheus Man, can see five minutes into the future. Unfortunately, nobody believes him. He’s exactly the type that pushes Cory’s buttons. But he’s also quite talented at engaging (and disengaging) her buttons and zippers. As maddening as Theo can be, Cory can’t deny their supernatural chemistry.

When a sniper targets Cory’s colleagues, Theo appoints himself her protector. His know-it-all attitude soon has her ready to tattoo a bullseye on her forehead. If Theo is unable to convince the headstrong couturier she’s the sniper’s next mark, their happily ever after might never make it out of the design phase.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight Publishing
• Release date: Sep 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9781771301091

Lila Shaw

Lila Shaw is a writer of erotica and erotic romance with a splash of humor and a dash of horror.

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Published by Evernight Publishing at Smashwords

www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2012 Lila Shaw

ISBN: 978-1-77130-109-1

Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

Editor: JS Cook

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

To my hero, the Silverback

PROMETHEUS UNSTITCHED

Lila Shaw

Copyright © 2012

Chapter One

Cory Blindbarrow might have dozed through her subway stop were it not for the stranger’s cough that jerked her into consciousness. Its maker sidled closer and gave her an approving assessment. She didn’t like strange men who winked. She liked uncovered mouths spewing infectious microbes even less. Work was quite brisk of late, and she couldn’t afford to get sick.

One more day until the weekend, thank goodness. At least she’d be working at tailoring and not fitting or client consultations. She lifted her eyes heavenward and thanked the higher powers for the good sense to keep her away from her customers. PMS and temperamental superheroes did not mix well.

Oh sure, on the surface, costume designer and tailor to the superheroes sounded like a glamorous job. It wasn’t. Not even a tiny bit.

Kenneth, the septuagenarian security guard for Cory’s office building, rattled his newspaper in front of his face as he turned the page. The headline raged about the latest activities of a sniper who had been using business owners for target practice. He had murdered five so far, and no one knew why other than all the victims had been business owners that provided professional services to the city’s top tier superheroes, the Big Seven.

A business owner herself, Cory considered her statistical odds of becoming the sniper’s next victim. She was a second string supplier of crime fighting couture. Most of her clientele tended to be niche players with highly specialized abilities and narrow applications—Mole Woman, who rescued kittens from underground drainpipes, Babyman, whose targeted shrieks paralyzed criminals with anxiety, and Crab Boy, an intrepid lad who directed the crabbing boats to the best sites in the Bering Strait. Her clients weren’t the ones who landed cameo roles in movies and television or licensed their images to the video game and action figure manufacturers. They also weren’t attending any funerals.

Cory cleared her throat and tapped on the back of Kenneth’s newspaper. She didn’t have all day to wait for him to clear her through the metal detector.

Kenneth lowered his reading material and eyed her suspiciously. I’ll need some identification, Miss. His false teeth clicked as he spoke.

Good gravy, Kenneth. Must we do this every day? It’s me, Cordelia Blindbarrow from Blindbarrow Crimefighting Couture? Fiftieth floor? I’ve worked here since I was sixteen? She broke the seal on her grim commuter expression and forced her lips into a smile. She didn’t like smiling so early in the morning.

Kenneth inspected Cory’s badge and pointed a gnarled finger at her. I knew Reginald Blindbarrow. You are not Reginald Blindbarrow.

I’m his granddaughter, Cordelia. I took over the company last year when he died. Making the sign of the cross she added, May he rest in peace.

Cordelia? Oh, well why didn’t you say so? You can go on through. Better hurry or you’ll be late, Missy! He turned on the conveyor belt and scanned her purse.

She puffed her cheeks and blew out the air. With a roll of her eyes, she zoomed past Kenneth and sprinted into the waiting elevator.

The only other occupant, a man of about thirty, stood near the control panel. As she reached to push her floor, he punched fifty saving her the trouble.

Thank you, she said. Nothing about him hinted of supernatural abilities. She hoped he wasn’t a superhero paparazzo since he knew her destination and she was the only tenant on that floor.

From the corner of her eye, she ogled him. In his own unique way, he was quite attractive. Dark curly hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and an unkempt five o’clock shadow, topped a tall, lanky frame. He was too slim to be a superhero and the lenses in his frames were thick and curved, truly for corrective purposes. Why anyone believed those tacky ones Mr. Kent wore were anything other than a lame disguise had always annoyed her.

It’s Theo.

Was he talking to her? Excuse me?

My name is Theo. You were going to ask me eventually so I thought I’d save you the bother. Theo kept his eyes forward facing and rocked back and forth on his heels.

Oh. What an ego. Thank you for holding the elevator for me. Stalker or not, the gesture had been fortuitous given the late hour.

My pleasure. More rocking and no eye contact.

Superhero egos commanded all her patience. She had none in reserve for man-off-the-street foibles.

Theo turned ninety degrees to face her. His eyes swept over her hair. Interesting look. Mind your… he wiggled his finger near the side of her head, clip thingy in back before it flies off.

Cory didn’t hear much beyond the ‘interesting look’ bit. A sniff and a sigh were her only responses. For most of her twenty-seven years, she’d heard the gamut of comments about her unusual hair. Most thought she dyed the large silver streaks framing her face. The opposite was true. No dye could overpower the silver. She’d had those dual skunk stripes since a little girl. By her teens, she’d given up trying to force them into normalcy. The rest of her tresses were equally stubborn—a riot of ebony curls that grew at an astonishing rate and obeyed no master.

I look forward to working with you, Cory. I do actually prefer to work with the principal designer rather than one of the underlings, though I am sorry about your assistant’s illness.

Dread germinated that Theo was one of those creepy video gamer and sci-fi convention types who loved to dress up like her clients. Whatever he was blathering on about made no sense, but engaging him would have been foolhardy, especially since he knew who she was.

The elevator slowed as it passed forty-nine. Cory released her breath when the doors opened and bolted from the car toward Nikki, her receptionist. Any messages?

Yep. Quite a few. Gaston said to remind you the internet people will be coming around noon and will need to get inside the safe room. Leland called in sick, so you’ll need to take his nine o’clock initial consultation, who should be here soon. Nikki pushed over a thick stack of pink message slips. She also slid a thin client file across the counter.

Oh, for Pete’s sake! How can he be sick again? If he’d stop being such a stubborn little fool and take the zinc and B12 like I told him…. I swear I’m going to start force-feeding him my vitamin regimen. She sighed loudly and dropped her head. Never mind. Isn’t there anyone else who can handle the consult today?

Nikki’s eyes darted to the space just behind Cory who didn’t need to turn to know who occupied it.

Cory was smart and humble enough to realize she’d have no business without people like Nikki. For that reason, she paid top dollar to employees who insulated her from her clients. Cory took after her grandfather, gruff and curmudgeonly, despite the decades separating her from the right to chronic grouchiness.

Can I help you, sir? Nikki asked.

Yes. I’m Theo Richelieu here to see Cory…that is, Ms. Blindbarrow, for a design consultation. He stepped beside Cory at the desk and added, Should we head to 4B now, Ms. Blindbarrow?

Cory rolled her eyes and turned to Nikki. What room—

Room 4B, just like he said. Nikki snickered, her well-formed brows at full mast. I can already tell you’re going to be an interesting one, Mr. Richelieu. Can I bring you some coffee?

Theo, please, and no, thank you, he said, directing a wink in Nikki’s direction.

A prick of annoyance at Theo’s and Nikki’s flirtations manifested in a scowl Cory quickly wrestled into submission. She pasted on her sycophantic smile, snatched up the file, and led the way down the corridor that served a series of rooms used for design meetings and fittings. After opening the door to 4B, she motioned for Theo to sit at the conference table.

She pushed a rolling rack of patterns and fabric samples closer to the table, before taking her own seat. With a pad she withdrew from the credenza at the ready and a click of her Montblanc pen, Cory turned on what few marketing charms she possessed.

Unfortunately, her barrette chose that moment to pop open and fling itself dramatically to the floor. Cory’s hair exploded into a black tornado cloud that split in two and spilled over both shoulders.

The look Theo gave her clearly said, ‘I told you so.’

Cory