“No, that’s Bruce Wayne!” another photographer said excitedly. He pushed forward to capture a shot of the famous recluse. “Hey, Mr. Wayne! Where you been hiding?”

Dozens of lenses swung toward Bruce, who quietly pressed a button on his key fob. All at once, every camera in the vicinity went dead. Frustrated paparazzi clicked uselessly and cursed their equipment. Bruce repressed a smile.

Climbing the steps, he approached the front entrance.

“I’m not sure my assistant put me on the guest list,” he said to a man who stood in the doorway.

“Not a problem,” the awestruck greeter assured him. “Right through here, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce entered to find a tasteful charity masquerade underway. Twinkling white party lights were strung upon the walls and ceilings. Rose petals fell like confetti. Gotham’s A-list, wearing colorful masks along with the rest of their finery, mingled and massed throughout the gallery. The main exhibition hall, located below the mezzanine, had been converted into a dance floor. A live band performed on a stage in front of an exhibit of sixteenth-century Dutch oils.

Thirsty revelers congregated at an open bar. Champagne fizzed in crystal flutes. Marble sculptures posed on their pedestals. Oddly enough, Bruce was the only person not wearing a mask.

Too bad I left my cowl at home, he thought.

But where was Selina Kyle?

Nodding politely to anyone who tried to engage him in conversation, Bruce wove through the crowd with ease, searching for the elusive thief. He eyed the priceless masterpieces hanging on the walls. Was the “cat” planning another elaborate heist?

Of course, he thought. That’s her M.O.

Taking the stairs up to the mezzanine, he leaned upon the railing and scanned the main hall below. A sea of masked partygoers, at least a quarter of them wearing little black dresses, made locating a single woman challenging. It took him a moment, but he soon spotted Selina on the dance floor, sharing a slow dance with a well-fed older gentleman wearing a simple white domino mask. She sported a lacy black mask of her own, complete with velvet cat ears. The stolen pearls still gleamed around her neck.

He stepped away from the banister, moving to intercept her. But before he could reach the stairs, a voice called out to him.

“Bruce Wayne? At a charity ball?”

He turned to find an attractive brunette in a red gown gazing at him in surprise. A frilly Venetian mask was her only concession to the theme. Her striking blue-gray eyes looked vaguely familiar. It took him a moment to recognize her from various business articles and profiles.

“Miss Tate, isn’t it?” he said.

She seemed amazed to find him here. When she spoke, it was with a hint of an exotic accent.

“Even before you became a recluse, you never came to these things…”

“True.” He looked around with disdain. “Proceeds go to the big fat spread, not the cause. It’s not about charity, it’s about feeding the ego of whichever bored society hag laid it on.”