The Dark Knight Rises: The Official Novelization by Greg Cox Page B

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.”
    “Actually, this is my party, Mr. Wayne,” she said.
    Bruce seldom blushed, but for once he came close.
    “Oh.”
    “And the proceeds will go where they should,because I paid for the fat spread myself.”
    He had no reason to doubt her.
    “That’s very generous of you.”
    “You have to invest, if you want to restore balance to the world,” she continued, lowering her mask. “Take our clean energy project, for instance.”
    Alfred and Lucius were right, Bruce noted. She was lovely.
    “Sometimes the investment doesn’t pay off,” he responded blithely. “Sorry.”
    She regarded him thoughtfully.
    “You have a practiced apathy, Mr. Wayne. But a man who doesn’t care about the world doesn’t spend half his fortune on a plan to save it—and isn’t so wounded when it fails that he goes into hiding.”
    Bruce felt as if his own mask was slipping. Miranda Tate was clearly a woman to be reckoned with. He would have to be on guard around her.
    “Have a good evening, Mr. Wayne,” she said as she turned to leave.
    He watched her walk away, almost forgetting about Selina Kyle for a moment. Then he recalled what had brought him here, and hurried down the stairs as quickly as his bad leg would allow. To his relief, Selina was still waltzing in the arms of her grayhaired companion, whom Bruce recognized as Horace Gladstone, a rich old twit if ever there was one.
    As they spun, she pretended to laugh at his jokes.
    “Mind if I cut in?”
    Annoyed, Gladstone turned. Bruce thrust his cane into the other man’s hand and took Selina by the waist. Without missing a beat, he swept her away from the fuming old gent.
    She glared at him as they danced.
    “You don’t seem very happy to see me,” he observed.
    She glided gracefully atop her high heels, letting him lead.
    “You were supposed to be a shut-in.”
    “Felt like some fresh air.”
    She eyed him curiously, more irked than alarmed.
    “Why didn’t you call the police?”
    “I have a…powerful friend who deals with this kind of thing.” He admired the tufted ears sprouting from her sleek brown hair. “Brazen costume for a cat burglar.”
    “So?” she challenged him. “Who are you supposed to be?”
    “Bruce Wayne, eccentric billionaire.” He glanced back at Gladstone. “What about your date?”
    “His wife’s in Ibiza, but she left her diamonds behind.” Selina smirked. “Worried they might get stolen.”
    I should have known, he thought. Why else would a woman like Selina waste time with a pompous old boor like him?
    “It’s pronounced ‘I-beetha,’” he said, correcting her. “You wouldn’t want these nice people realizing you’rea crook, not a social climber.”
    She bristled at the suggestion. Her eyes flashed angrily.
    “You think I care what anyone in this room thinks of me?” He caught a hint of Gotham’s East End in her voice, although she had obviously worked hard to eradicate her accent. He admired her skill and intelligence, if not her fondness for appropriating other people’s property.
    “I doubt you care what