Fluent in sarcasm, I matched his tone. “Oh, really terrific. Just peachy, actually.”
“No need to be smart with me. What’s—”
“Lucky?” My mother came on the line. She must’ve picked up the same time my father had answered. “Is that you? You sound so far away and so not like yourself.”
“Mother, I can’t talk right now. Can you please get off the line?”
“No, I most certainly cannot.” I could almost see her puffing up with indignation. “That is no way to talk to your mother.” Just as quickly, her tone shifted to breathless with a hint of clueless. “I’ve been thinking…”
Never a good thing, but I didn’t think it would help if I pointed that out. Standing by myself, in a foreign country, with a dead body on my hands, jail time in my future and an incipient diplomatic incident, I was not in a position to cast the first stone. Once my mother had the bit in her teeth, she was going to run no matter how hard I pulled against her, so I let her.
Besides, at this point, the only outcome I saw had me in the Tower of London watching through a slit in the rock wall while they built my gallows, so what was the hurry?
My father, suffering from the Curse of the Y-chromosome, still hadn’t learned that lesson. “Mona, please. Let Lucky and I talk. It’s business.”
“Albert, I refuse to be left out any longer.” She added frost to the indignation. Truly impressive.
“Father, it’s okay. Let her be.” I shifted the phone to the other ear. “What is it, Mother?”
“Ms. O’Toole?” A tap on my shoulder.
More frost. Nigel, his face a mask of disdain, demanded my attention. I held up a finger. “Wait your turn.”
“I will not! I’m your mother!” Mona’s voice cut like a wire garrote.
I turned my back on Nigel. “Not you, mother. Sorry. Go ahead.”
After a moment of silent gloat, my mother waded in, her voice conspiratorial. “Well, you know how we have these twins?”
An odd start. If I hadn’t already lost the feeling in my hands and both feet due to my panic-restricted blood flow, I would’ve started pacing to burn off the anger welling. “Yes, of course.”
Another tap on my shoulder, this one more insistent.
I whirled on Nigel. “Damn. What is it?”
“I’m getting to it.” My mother went back to huffy.
“Not you, mother.” I put my thumb over what I thought was my phone’s microphone. “Quickly,” I said to Nigel.
In a microsecond his look told me what he thought of my rudeness. I needed to take lessons—that look was championship stuff. Eye for an eye and all of that, I wanted to tell him but that would take time and air I didn’t have.
“The sheik is arriving. We will put him in the Royal Suite as planned. I’m assuming it’s adequately prepared? I can’t seem to reach Aziza. You’ve sent her on a wild goose chase?”
I ignored the insult as my vision started to swim. “Fine.” I uncovered the microphone then his words hit. I whirled on him. “What? You can’t do that!” Stars floated in front of me. I’d been holding my breath. It rushed out of me in a whoosh. Blood flooded from my head.
Nigel reared back.
“But I haven’t told you yet what I’m planning.” My mother complained in my ear.
“No whining!” I sagged onto the nearest chair, then bent at the waist, stuffing my head between my knees.
“I assure you I am not whining.” Nigel’s tone was clipped.
“Not you.” In the few nanoseconds of shocked silence, I took a deep breath. My father had been strangely quiet. Now I heard a soft chuckle. “Thanks so much, father.” My vision clearing a bit, I sat up but didn’t trust my feet. “Mother, give me a moment. Nigel, do not put the sheik in the Royal Suite. Ready other accommodations.”
“There are no other.” It was his civilized way of saying You should know that.
“Lucky, I want to tell you about their names!” My mother gave a verbal stomp of the foot.
“Mother! For God’s sake! Shut up!”
A sharp intake of air hissed in my ear—a warning salvo. Damn the torpedoes. “Hold the sheik at the front desk. I’ll escort him myself.”
Nigel gave me a nod and a tight smile and turned on his heel.
“Mother, you have the stage, but make it fast. Like, ten words or less, fast.”
“You said shut up.”
“And I’m going to hang up if you can’t understand my situation is dire on this end. Spit it out. Ten seconds.”
“Lucky!”
“Eight.”
“You know the twins don’t have names yet?” She was taking a verbal stroll, calling my bluff.
“Of course. Six.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Mona!” My father spluttered, out of patience.
“Albert, I’m talking!”
And I was witnessing the theater of the absurd they call family.
It’s like somehow the Powers That Be get everything arranged perfectly, the compatible personalities clumped together in familial units, then, just before babies are born and marriages made…or vice versa…somebody evil shuffles the deck just to see what happens.
My family is what happens. A future homicide in the making. The question always was which one of us would break first.
Force that she is, my mother would never be put off by such a trifling thing as her husband’s fury. “And you know how they’re girls?”
“Four seconds.”
“Stop it, Lucky! You sound just like your father,” She raised her voice as if he couldn’t hear. “But a whole lot nicer.”
“Things are a bit dicey on this end, and it’s getting late here, Mother. Two seconds to make your point.” I rose and started toward the reception desk, ready to disconnect. I could blame my father later. Right now I needed to keep Sheik Ben from stumbling over the body of his dead niece.
“I’ve decided on names!” Mona announced as if alerting everyone to the Second Coming.
“Really?” my father and I said in unison. Her pronouncement stopped me mid-stride.
Of course, she wouldn’t have consulted the father of her children—that wasn’t Mother’s modus operandi. I don’t know why I was surprised. Maybe because no matter what, the woman never, ever learned anything.
My phone beeped a message. Someone else wanted my attention. Terrific.
I held the phone in front of my face and squinted at it. Jean-Charles.
We have arrived.
Great. Now he copped an attitude. A lot of that going around—I must be putting something out into the Universe I wasn’t aware of. Hell, all I wanted to do was keep my job and stay out of jail—normally not a problem. However, today was far from normal which relegated Jean-Charles to a low priority.
Life was imploding before my eyes.
Wednesday night. I still had forty-eight hours to make the party in Paris. If I didn’t, I had a feeling my Prince would not come searching with a glass slipper.
“What names are you considering?” my father asked while I half-listened, distracted by all the plates I had spinning.
Mona drew in an audible breath and I braced for impact. “Storm and Rayne. That would be Rayne spelled with a ‘Y.’”
A hooker in her youth, by the time I was born my mother had risen to be the madam of an eponymous brothel in Pahrump, the closest town of any size in a county where prostitution was legal. Technically, in Clark County where Vegas resides, girls couldn’t legally advertise they were employed in the world’s oldest profession. With sixteen thousand hookers in Vegas, I thought reality had erased that technicality, but nobody asked me. And each year the Vice Squad rounded up the same nine hookers, booked them, then let them go in a grand show of competence, diligence and compassion—at least that’s what they wanted us to think.
“Weren’t they X-Men?” I stammered.
“Were they? Even better.” My mother sounded triumphant.
“Really tough hanging such odd monikers on pretty little
girls. Makes them stand out, when all they’ll want to do at some point is fit in.”
“But standing out is what makes them special.”
“They’ll get there. You don’t need to force the issue. Trust me on this one.”
“But odd names are all the rage. I mean North and Apple? Seriously?”
“But you said you think standing out, going against the majority is what makes you special. Why don’t you keep thinking? You’ll come up with the perfect names.”
A moment of silence during which I had an out-of-body experience. Was this really happening?
“If you think so.” She didn’t sound happy about it but at least she didn’t argue.
I heard a click. “Is she gone?”
“Frankly, ever since the twins were born, she’s been gone.” My father sounded tired and exasperated. “What’s the big goddammit on your end?”
With time in short supply, I cut short our conversation and pocketed my phone.
I strode into the lobby just in time to witness Nigel holding the elevator door open for Sheik Ben. “Sheik Ben,” I said, struggling to keep the squeak out of my voice. Nigel gave me a wide-eyed look of terror in response to my glare. Controlling a client as difficult as the sheik was an impossibility. The best even someone with my clout could hope for would be to herd him in an acceptable direction. Being female put me at a disadvantage, though. But my father couldn’t send the son he didn’t have.
I bolted into the elevator, waving Nigel away. His look of relief told me our accounts were settled—we were back to boss and employee, no hurt feelings. He slid back the metal grate, trapping me with Sheik Ben. I smoothed my dress before straightening my spine, willing some bone into it.
Maybe ten years my senior Sheik Ben looked younger, despite the glower. Apparently, wealth beyond the dreams of avarice could keep the hands of time from advancing. How I would love to test that theory. Another life, maybe. I’d be lucky to get out of today alive. “Sheik Ben, so good to see you.” I gave a fake smile and a tiny bow.
“Lucky, cut the crap.” His clipped British accent made anger sound palatable. Oxford had suffered through four years of Ben’s education. He’d come away with a killer accent and manners—when he felt like using them. “We both know you don’t want to be here, and neither do I.”
I leaned against the wall, minimizing my height advantage. His hand tailored suit in a light Italian wool did its best to add taper to his stocky body. A shock of black hair sprouted through the open collar of his white button-down. He’d shaved on his way to the hotel—no five-o’clock shadow and a dot of blood had dried to a dark brown on his chin. When he smiled, he would be considered Hollywood handsome. Without it, like today, he looked capable of casual cruelty. Not a good look on anyone.
“I’d rather be in Paris, for sure. But I’ve been asked to stand in for my father who, as you know, can’t travel due to health issues.”
“Health issues.” He gave a snort. “Thought I told you to cut the crap.”
My give-a-damn snapped. “Look, you throw your money around, keep us all dancing like puppets with you pulling the strings. For one, I’ve had enough. I’m here because my father asked me. Personally, I find the fact you males are so…” Warning bells sounded in the depths of my empty head and somehow, I paid attention, catching myself before I dove head-first off the cliff. I pulled in air, quieting my panic…sort of. “I apologize. Not my place.”
“Don’t pander to me. You suck at it. I like the fire much better.” He gave me a flash of that smile and I saw a hint of what everybody was talking about. “Are you going to depress a button and have this miserable piece of machinery lift us to the fifth floor or not?”
“No.”
A hint of surprise fractured his composure. “No? Why then are we here? Somehow I don’t think I’m your type for elevator sex.”
It was a miracle I didn’t laugh in his face. Elevator sex! My creep meter pegged. He should be grateful I didn’t kill clients, at least not often. And he should be grateful he lived where he did. No way would he survive in any western country in this #metoo world. Of course, he was a product of his culture. I wondered what our excuse was.
“I’m sure I’d be flattered at your attentions,” I said. We both knew that was a lie. “Your women don’t work, so, well, that leaves me out.” Yeah, I had to get in a bit of a jab. Frankly I felt like an elbow to his nose might knock some sense into him, but I had more crow than I could swallow on my plate already. “However, there is an issue with the suite.” To tell him or not? Flying blind, I figured falling on my petard would look better in the long run.
He waved a hand. “If it’s not ready, have them work around me. I’m tired and I need a drink and a shower. My brother…” He cast a look my direction giving me a glimpse before he shut it down.
Great, we were bonding over family issues.
“It’s not that. It’s Aziza.”
“She is in the suite then, waiting for me? That’s terrific. You have saved me great trouble.”
Taking a moment, I inserted my card and pushed the button. I didn’t speak until we arrived. Somehow, this time marching down the long hall brought visions of walking to my death. A bit melodramatic, but I hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours and my brain was starved of glucose. A new excuse and a rare one. As my mother said, I never missed a drink or a meal.
“Sheik Ben.” With a hand on his arm, I stopped him. He turned toward me. When I looked at the doors to the suite, the do not disturb light burned like a red eye next to the door. No one had been in. She’d still be there. “Aziza is dead. I’m very sorry.”
“What?” His voice dropped to a lethal tone. “How?”
“I don’t know. I found her and had just come back downstairs to call the police when you arrived.” I telescoped it a bit. A good half-hour had passed, but I didn’t think it mattered.
“I must see her.” He charged toward the door, then stopped and whirled. In my haste to follow, I almost ran him down, stopping inches from him and ending up with my chin to his nose. He grabbed my arm and dug in his fingers. “I hold you accountable. This is your fault. We have worked together a long time. You’ve never let me down before. Your office made arrangements for my stay. You’re responsible.”
Although his grip hurt like hell and was offensive in the extreme, I refused to give him the satisfaction of responding to either. To me, his logic chain had more than a few weak links. I’d get to the bottom of what had happened and why, then I’d have my pound of flesh.
One thing he got right: the murder happened on my watch.
He continued his beeline for the suite.
Hot on his heels, I knew it would be futile to try to slow him down, much less stop him. “I have the key.”
He grabbed the handle and cranked. The door opened.
I was sure I’d locked it.
I followed him through the great room.
The vase was still missing.
“Sheik Ben. Wait!”
He continued his charge down the hall to the master suite. He disappeared inside with me a second behind. I skidded to a stop beside him in the center of the room.
The body was gone.
8
Donna
By the time Jack gets back from delivering Aziza’s corpse to MI6, I’m no longer Princess Maja. The princess’ wig, scarf, and dress suit are tied up in a bag that will soon find its way into the Thames.
It’s great to be me again.
From Jack’s long, lingering kiss, I gather he thinks so too.
Suddenly, he sniffs the air. “Are you wearing perfume?”
“Um…” Oh, heck. He’s caught a whiff of Dominic’s musky signature scent: Floris Number 89. Not at all surprising, considering that Dominic stuck to me like glue during our fleeting public moments as faux paramours.
“Wait…” Some unpleasant memory etches faint lines on Jack’s brow. “That’s Dominic’s stench.”
“You win the prize.” I roll my e
yes. “He reeks of it, and I didn’t have time for a bath since he…we…”
“‘Since we,’ what?” His eyes narrow and his smile shifts into a smirk.
“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you? Okay, then…yes, he kissed me—in the lobby, as part of our ruse.”
Jack’s eyes narrow. “Did you enjoy it?”
I shudder. “We’re talking about Dominic, remember?”
“Yes, I know who he is, starting with ‘Winner of the Undercover Lover Award’ five years in a row.” Jack crosses his arms at his waist. “And we all know why he’s held the title for so long.”
“Only because you retired from the contest!”
My sharp glare doesn’t stop him from muttering, “Lucky you.”
“Jack Craig, if you’re implying that Dominic and I went ‘rumpy-pumpy’ on that heart-shaped waterbed of his, you’re as nutty as he is randy!”
“His suite has a waterbed—and it’s heart-shaped?” Jack’s double take is worthy of a Loony Tunes cartoon. “How did it feel?”
I’m shaking with anger. “How would I know? I was too busy changing disguises between rendezvousing with a corpse, dodging her possible killer, and being petted like a prize pooch by Acme’s horniest honeytrap!”
Jack bites his lip. I can’t tell if he’s pissed at the situation or is trying to keep from laughing.
Neither is acceptable. On the one hand, he’s a fool to think a man-whore like Dominic would appeal to me. And on the other, it is so not cool to make fun of me—his beloved, his main squeeze, the one who makes his heart go pitter-patter when I first come into view—
As opposed to being another of Dominic’s afterthoughts.
Before I can make this clear to him in no uncertain terms, our cell phones hum in tandem, Instinctively, we reach for them. It’s Ryan:
All hands on deck.
Jack is saved by the buzz announcing a team teleconference, and he knows it.
To prove it, there’s a tap on our door.
I open it. Arnie and Abu stand there. Arnie holds three sizable brown paper sacks. “Fish and chips,” he announces. “I got plenty for everyone.”
The Housewife Assassin Gets Lucky Page 6
