Within moments, she had vanished from sight.

What was that all about? he thought. Not that I’m complaining.

Exiting the dance floor, he retrieved his cane from Gladstone.

“You scared her off,” the old man complained.

“Not likely,” Bruce said. “But if I were you, I’d keep an eye on your wife’s diamonds.”

Tucking the pearls safely into his pocket, he headed for the exit. The taste of her kiss lingered on his lips.

Maybe Alfred is right, he thought. Perhaps I do need to get out more.

The fall air outside was bracing after the sweltering heat of the party. He approached the valet to reclaim his car. He patted his pockets. “I seem to have misplaced my ticket.”

It wasn’t an act. He really had lost his ticket somehow.

The valet looked puzzled.

“Your wife said you were taking a cab home, sir.”

“My wife?”

The Lamborghini zoomed away from the museum. Behind the wheel, Selina grinned and gunned the engine.

Alfred picked him up in the Rolls-Royce an hour later. Bruce climbed into the back of the car.

“Just you, sir?” the butler asked dryly.

Bruce gave him a withering look. He wasn’t used to being outsmarted.

“Don’t worry, Master Bruce,” Alfred assured him, clearly enjoying the situation. “Takes a little time to get back into the swing of things.”

Bruce ignored the butler’s teasing. He was in no mood to exchange banter right now. Instead he took out his phone and hit a number on speed dial.

Lucius Fox answered on the second ring.

“This is Fox.”

“Remember those unusual requests I used to make?”

“I knew it,” Fox said. Bruce could easily imagine the other man’s amused expression. Am I really that predictable?

Up front, Alfred’s smile faded. Bruce glimpsed the butler’s careworn face in the rear-view mirror. Alfred looked distinctly troubled now, like he knew what was coming next, and wasn’t at all happy about it.

Bruce couldn’t blame him, but he had made up his mind.

It was time to come out of retirement.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The experimental carbon-fiber brace arrived at Wayne Manor the very next morning. Bruce tried it out in the cave, away from the prying eyes of everyone except Alfred and the bats roosting overheard. He had gotten only a few hours of sleep since the masquerade, but wasn’t about to take time out for a nap. He had slept enough these last eight years.

He clamped the brace onto his right leg and pressed a blinking button on its side. The pivoted orthotic toned up at once, tightening around the joint. A thin layer of padding cushioned the brace. Bruce stood up and worked the knee, attempting deep bends and stretches. It took some effort, but the brace moved with him smoothly, without chafing or riding up and down his leg.

So far so good, he thought.

Alfred put down a thermos of hot coffee.

“You’ve got the wrong leg, sir.”