Vacation to Die For

by Josie Brown

  Jack and I are cuddling in the hammock. High above our heads, a canopy of leaves sways in a gentle breeze.

  Our collective weight has pulled us toward the center. We’re just a few inches off the ground. For a few precious moments we can pretend we are hidden away from the world in this canvas cocoon.

  From her open bedroom window, we can hear Trisha talking to her dolls. The smack of the basketball on pavement is my way of knowing that my ten-year-old, Jeff, is still in the midst of a heated game with his friends, Cheever Bing and Morton Smith. Our dogs, Lassie and Rin Tin Tin, prance and leap frantically around the boys, ignoring Cheever’s curses to get out of the way.

  “What time is it?” Jack murmurs between kisses on my neck. Slowly but steadily his hand has been inching up from my waist toward my breasts.

  “Why do you ask?” I’m being a tease. I know he’s counting down the minutes until three o’clock, when all three boys take off with Cheever’s mother and father, Penelope and Peter, on their annual camping trip. An hour later, Mary leaves for Camp Inch with Babs, Midge and Babs' mom.

  The plan is to feed Trisha early, then put her to bed around, say, eight o’clock, so that Jack and I can enjoy a romantic dinner for two. He’s got a couple of choice steaks marinating in the fridge, which he will slap onto the grill. I’ve made my celebrated roasted Yukon Gold potatoes, and a mixed green salad. We’ll share a great cabernet.

  For dessert, I’ve planned a sensory experience: a few candles and some lavender scented lotion, which I will heat before caressing Jack with it.

  But his massage comes with a price. He must wear nothing at all—except for the silk sash from my robe, which I will tie around his deep-set green eyes as a blindfold.

  I imagine that a naughty, knowing smile will rise on his lips, not from derision but anticipation.

  Very gently, I will lay him face down, perhaps on the thick Persian rug in front of our bed. In true geisha form I’ll bend to my knees, and massage the calluses on his feet before rubbing out any knots in his thick calves. From there my fingers will circle his strong thighs slowly, giving him a taste of what he can expect when my hands reach his buttocks.

  Once there, I will take a firm rounded haunch in each hand—kneading them gently, then firmly, creating crop circles of heated lotion before trickling it directly on his spine—

  Until he shivers—

  Or until he can’t resist the urge to turn over in order to grab my hand and pull me down on top of him—

  Where I’ll ease myself onto him, because we will already be wet and willing.

  I’ll time my moans to his groans, my lifts to his thrusts, and his shuddering explosion to my blissful orgasm.

  Then it will be my turn for a massage.

  Will he lay me face down then taunt me with fingers that trail up the back of my legs like the seam of a silk stocking, stopping only when he reaches the rounded hills of my ass?

  Will his hand glide over them oh so lightly, only to pause at their peaks for too many seconds, building my agony for what will come next?

  Perhaps it will be a hard slap, to punish me for tormenting him just moments before.

  Maybe a gentle probe with a single finger, to gauge my dampness and desire.

  Or possibly a loving kiss, to honor the joy we share.

  Whatever his action, I will submit to it.

  I will welcome it.

  I will revel in it.

  So there you have it, why we appreciate every precious moment we have that is just the two of us, even if it’s just cuddling together in a hammock.

  And now you understand why I so reluctantly wriggle out of his bear hug.

  “What makes you think I’m done with you?” Jack won’t let go of my waist.

  “I have to check to see if Jeff is ready to go.” Despite my son’s insistence that he pack his own duffle, I wouldn’t doubt in the least that he forgot to toss in the 100-plus SPF sunscreen I left on his dresser. Did he leave his mouth retainer behind? He hates it so much, that I wouldn’t be surprised if he did so, on purpose.

  Jack groans. “You’re smothering him, missy.”

  “Think so? I presume, then, you’ll be the one who drives up to Yosemite if Jeff conveniently forgets to pack his assigned summer reading, Lord of the Flies? Or worse yet, what if he forgets to pack extra pairs of underwear? You know he can’t wear Cheever’s because he’s twice as wide as Jeff. And Morton never packs any, so interrupting your exploration of my nether regions is, alas, a necessity.”

  He laughs. “Worst case scenario, he’ll sneak into another lodge and steal a pair from some other skinny ten-year-old.” When he sees I’m standing my ground, he adds, “Okay, sure, play helicopter mom. But don’t be surprised how often your name comes up in any future analyses he has with some shrink.”

  “Ha ha, very funny.” Maybe it’s time to break the news to him that we are not alone. “The Hendersons, right behind us, have a one-hundred-thirty millimeter reflector telescope, and their sixteen-year-old son has it pointed in our direction. Top floor, southwest corner window.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Jack doesn’t look up. He always trusts my reconnaissance. Instead he raises his hand in a one-finger salute. “It doesn’t give him the one thing he needs: ex-ray vision.”

  To make his point, his lips meander slowly from my forehead, to my lips, down my neck, to my breasts again, until they roam down my belly, pausing only to kiss my navel.

  The signs are all there: Jack is ready for some serious action.

  There is nothing I can do but surrender.

  I’ve just given in when I hear Trisha say, quite close by and quite loudly, “Mommy, look! Mrs. Breck is here, with Janie!...Hello? Mommy! Daddy! What are you doing in there?”

  At the same time Jack lifts his head to smile and wave at our unexpected company, I scramble over the far side of hammock—

  Only to flop onto the ground.

  Does Babette Breck notice? Of course not. She’s only got eyes for Jack.

  She’s still in widow’s weeds so I’ll forgive her. I’ve got to hand it to Marc Jacobs: black crepe never looked so stunning.

  My guess is that she’ll be out of them soon enough—and not just because her wardrobe is snug and low-cut. Granted it’s been almost a year since she lost her husband, Jonah, to an assassin who he double-crossed: Carl. But considering Jonah was a philanderer who was also into rape, porn and the trafficking of sex slaves, I doubt she misses him much.

  If so, she consoles herself by spending some of the billions he left her.

  And you thought your neighbors were quirky.

  “Sorry to interrupt.” Her voice purrs and grates at the same time, like butter on a red hot pan, moving from melted to sizzling to rancid. “Janie and I were wondering if you could spare Trisha for a week, starting tonight. You see, we’ve been invited to my new beau’s beach house.”

  Her invitation comes out like a triumphant boast. Hmmm. Maybe this one isn’t after her money.

  “What an interesting proposition.” I try to keep my voice non-committal—hard to do, considering that Trisha is already dancing a jig at the thought of seven-day play date with her bestie. Frankly, I have mixed feelings about Babette’s offer. As much as the two girls enjoy each other’s company, it concerns me that, for the most part, Babette is an absentee mother. Janie’s life is a revolving door of nannies, thanks to her mother’s whims and jealousies.

  “I’m sure the privacy would be a welcomed change of pace.” Babette’s declaration is delivered with sarcasm.

  Okay, yeah, hanky-panky in a hammock isn’t exactly an ideal scenario. Still, it gives her no reason to pass judgment on how and when I make love—unless she’s offering to loan us her au pair du jour for an hour or two.

  Then, for sure, we’ll pinky promise to move the action indoors.

  “I told Janie she could take a friend, so that both of us will have someone to share our fun. You know, building sandcastles, taking long walks on the beach, some horseback
riding—and as much hand-churned ice cream as their little bellies can take.” Her words come out in a tsunami of desperation. She must figure this guy is a keeper after all. And he certainly sounds wealthy enough to keep her in the custom to which she’s become accustomed.

  That is, spoiled.

  “I’m sure that Donna, like me, appreciates your offer.” Jack is never one to look a gift horse in the mouth. “If Trisha checks in with her mother at least once a day, Donna would give her consent.”

  “Call home? Well, of course.” Babette shrugs, but by the way her eyes widen I’ll bet the thought never occurred to her. “Does she have her own iPhone?...No? That’s okay. I’ll let her use Janie’s cell to text a message whenever she wants. It’s a great way to practice her spelling.”

  Trisha leaps into my arms. “Thank you thank you thank you, Mommy! Don’t worry! I promise to write you every day!”

  I nod reluctantly. “Or twice even. Or three times. Just…just whenever you miss me.” Because I’ll be missing you, too, my baby.

  Babette pulls Trisha out of my arms. “Good, then it’s settled! The limo will be in your driveway in an hour.” Without even a wave, Babette turns and walks away. Mission accomplished.

  As if reading my mind, Jack says, “I hope this guy knows what he’s getting into.”

  The next thing I know, Jack has pulled me back into the hammock with him. He’s almost right where we left off—somewhere below my navel—when the sound of pixie dust wafts out from my iPhone.

  I glance down at the screen: the Hilldale Public Library.

  Not a good sign. The library is a dead drop for my missions.

  The text message reads:

  AROUND THE WORLD IN 80 DAYS is being held for you and your family. Please check at Will Call ASAP.

  Translation: You and Jack are to gear up for another mission, right now. Somewhere out of town. Come into the office for a face-to-face briefing.

  In response to my groan, Jack asks, “Let me guess, another op.”

  I nod. “So much for taking the week off.”

  As he pulls me out of the hammock, he says, “Pack for Trisha. On the way to the office we’ll drop her at Babette’s monster mansion, then flip around and drop the boys at the Bings’ place, and Mary with Babs' mom. Whatever this mission is, at least we’ll have the kids out of our hair.”

  But that’s just the point: I’d rather stay with the children.

  It’s great to know that Jack feels the same way.

  Chapter 3

  Packing Light

  Dragging heavy bags along on your journey can be a hassle. Solution: a small solitary carry-on, which can be filled with all sorts of goodies that does double duty, both for the well-heeled jet-setter and the assassin! For example:

  Never leave home without a toothbrush, toothpaste, and floss—not just for dental hygiene, but because these items make great weapons! With the toothbrush, you can stab; with the toothpaste, you can gag your opponent; and with the floss, you can choke them. (Waxed floss is best because it’s stronger.)

  Add to that a small viscose towel, which makes a great super-absorbent washcloth (not to mention an excellent gag, too). Facial cleansers, shampoos, and conditioners can also be used to blind or choke your attacker. Bring along a perfume, which will make even the most sadistic badass squeal like a piggy when it is sprayed into his eyes.

  At least three scarves and two pair of sunglasses should also be packed, along with a great sun hat (all of which can double as ideal disguises). As for clothes, at least one pair of jeans, one pair of tailored pants and one little black dress are de rigueur, as are a pair of sneakers, some easy walking pumps, and one killer pair of four-inch heels.

  And I do mean killer. If the need to eliminate a baddy presents itself, ram his jugular with your stiletto heel. It has the optimum effect—he’s as dead as a door nail, and the blood wipes off easily before you sashay out the door to your next soiree!

  Word of caution: Leave your machete at home. If you haven’t figured it out already, you’ll never clear the security gate with it packed in your carry-on.

  From the outside, Acme looks like a sleepy satellite office of some no-name company in any of a million anonymous mirrored-glass and concrete office parks along the 405.

  But inside, it hustles and bustles with the scurry and drone of a hundred desk-bound brick agents, who supervise almost six hundred field agents—like Jack and me—through missions that can last a day, a year, or a lifetime.

  Especially if that life is cut short while you’re on assignment.

  Our boss, Ryan Clancy, beckons us from the conference room farthest from the front door.

  As we walk down the aisle toward it, we quite literally bump into Emma Hunnicutt, who is also headed in that direction. She is a rising star in the COM/INT division, which handles the communications intelligence on most of my missions. Usually she dresses in jeans, a black tee-shirt, and a black leather jacket. Today though, her usual Goth style has been toned down considerably. She wears a short, colorful skirt and a lacy tee—less Lisbeth Salander, more Forever 21.

  Jack notices it, too, because he does a double-take. “Where’s the party?”

  Emma blushes. “I...I’m just trying a new look—but not because of anyone…Okay, maybe.”

  Well, what do you know? Maybe Emma’s relationship with Arnie Locklear, our gadget guy, is finally heating up. His crush on her is no secret. And despite her hardcore demeanor, I truly believe she’s got a soft spot for him, too.

  Jack looks around the office. “No, seriously, what is it with all the women in this place? It looks like an Esquire reader’s fantasy of the Sterling Cooper office, twenty-first century.”

  I follow his gaze. He’s right. Every woman in the office has a bounce in her step. Of course, it helps that they’re all wearing very high heels, which look great on all these shapely legs, which rise into very short skirts—

  Which enhance the effect of their plunging necklines, artistically made-up faces, and softly tousled hair. “Are we expecting a visit from POTUS or something?” I mutter to Emma.

  Three women, walking past, giggle when they hear my remark. I turn just in time to catch their pitying looks. I guess they think I’m wrong to have worn my yoga pants and flip-flops into the office. And granted, putting my hair in a fun bun and skipping full war paint isn’t the best look, but give me a break! Today was supposed to be my day off—

  Oh. My. God.

  Yes, I see him, standing next to Ryan:

  Dominic Fleming.

  I’d know that profile anywhere. Although we’ve never met, the spook loops’ Pinterest feeds are filled with candid photos of this blue-eyed, square-jawed, Roman-nosed golden-haired Adonis. Most of the shots show him in a tux at some foreign embassy soiree, martini glass in hand. Or else he’s poolside, wearing nothing to hinder the awed stares of his broadchested, board-flat ab’d deeply tanned well-oiled physique other than a Speedo—

  Which shows only one bulge—in the right place, and too large to miss.

  Always in the background of these photos is a bevy of Miss Universe-worthy women—gowned, glammed and ready, willing and able to be ravished by this year’s winner of Spooklandia’s annual Undercover Lover award, better known as “the Undies.”

  (I’m beginning to think that desk ops have too much time on their hands.)

  Whereas in the previous years the award has always been a toss-up between Jack and Dominic, this year he was the hands-down winner. I guess Jack being taken off the market—by moi—had something to do with that.

  He had to show up here, now? Of all the days for me to come in, looking like—

  A mom.

  No, not even a mom. More like a frump. A doofus. A bag lady—

  A hag.

  I grab hold of Emma’s arm. “What the hell? Why didn’t someone tell me?”

  Emma shrugged helplessly. “You know very well that our encryptions aren’t supposed to give away the deets of your mission.”

>   “Couldn’t you have thrown me a tiny hint? I dunno, perhaps something like ‘Do yourself a favor and put on a push-up bra.’ Or maybe something in Pig Latin, like ‘Ominic-Day Emming-Flay ere-hay’?”

  I spring my hair from its not-so-fun-anymore bun, and tousle it. Without a mirror, I can’t tell if it now looks come-hither or Hag-Holding-Poison-Apple, but I’ll just have to take my chances.

  Jack taps me on the shoulder. “What’s the big whoop?”

  How do I break the news to the man who came in second place for the Undies that the victor is only a few feet away?

  As if reading my mind, Jack scans the room suspiciously. When he sees the object of his female co-workers’ affections, his eyes narrow ever so slightly, and his smile hardens. “Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in.”

  “You know Dominic?”

  Jack’s lips curl into a smirk. “Yeah, you can say we’re old pals.”

  Oh, duh. Stupid question. But of course he does.

  Jack and Dominic, a former MI6 agent, signed on with Acme in the same year. They were partnered on many assignments, some of which are quite legendary. My own training manual was chock full of their derring-do: the kidnapping of a Mexican warlord; saving a US ambassador from a terrorist plot—not to mention the time they tracked down and terminated a Russian triple agent who had defected with the schematic of our F-35 fighter jets.

  But Ryan chose Jack, not Dominic, to head up the plum assignment of taking down the Quorum.

  What would have happened if it had been the other way around?

  This thought stops me cold. At the time I’d been angry at Ryan for presuming I’d give some stranger permission to pose as Carl in order to reel in the Quorum, which was in search of something they thought Carl had left in my house: a microdot embedded with a code that would give it access to the DaaS cloud holding Acme’s digital directory, which lists every agent and every mission, as well as all our leads, assets, agents, and contacts in nations and agencies around the world.

  I’ve searched high and low for it. I presume Carl took it with him, but he never owned up to it. Perhaps it was to his benefit that his Quorum colleagues think otherwise.