Vacation to Die For

by Josie Brown

  I open my garment bag and lay my gown on the bed. As I step out of my sundress, I keep my eyes on the mirror over the vanity. “We’ll make it with plenty of time to spare if you stick around and zip me up—unless you have better places to be. You know, it’s all in a day’s work.”

  As he catches the reference, he also catches my eye in the mirror. “You asked for something. I got it for you. Mission accomplished, right?”

  Wrong.

  He unzips the dress from the bag and walks over with it. When we’re face to face, he drops down on one knee. “Step into this,” he commands.

  On this particular mission, I’m calling the shots. We both know that. But in our relationship, we’re equals, which means I have a choice. He looks up at me, waiting for my decision.

  I raise one foot and place it into the dress, then the other.

  Very slowly he raises my gown over my calves. The silk feels smooth against my thighs, and caresses the curves of my ass. The boning in the bodice hugs my abdomen as he raises it upward. Because the dress is sleeveless, he lifts my breasts gently, so that the décolleté makes the most of what I have to offer, which is perhaps too generous.

  Obviously he thinks otherwise or he wouldn’t be admiring them.

  He moves behind me. One hand stays firmly on the small of my back while the other takes hold of the zipper. With a gentle tug, it begins its slow journey up my spine. Through the mirror I watch as his eyes move along with it.

  Then he steps back to admire his handiwork. Unconsciously he gives a slight nod.

  Mission accomplished.

  No, sorry. As far as I’m concerned, I will never be business as usual.

  I brush past him without a smile or a glance, let alone a thank-you kiss. “We’re hurrying, remember? We don’t want to be late.”

  He turns toward the mirror to straighten his bowtie.

  Or to hide the frustration I’ve already seen in his eyes.

  When this mission is over, I’ll request a commendation for him. In this line of work, being a perfectionist has to count for something.

  I’m not at all surprised that Julie makes our dinner with Boarke a foursome. And I’m certainly not surprised that Jack is just as attentive to her as to me.

  Make that more so. If and when he takes time to glance my way, he calls me “my little wife,” as in, “my little wife has seemed quite content in my absence,” and “my little wife is keeping so busy that she barely misses me.”

  Each time he calls me that, Julie snickers, as if the joke is on me.

  Oh yeah? Well, his little wife happens to carry a very big gun. When we go powder our noses, she better hope it doesn’t go off by mistake in one of her nostrils.

  Even if we hadn’t spatted, Jack would have found it hard not to stare at her cleavage, which is barely contained in her leopard skin halter dress. A brass key dangles in the deep chasm between her breasts.

  On the other hand, the way Jack ignores Boarke has our host practically jumping out of his skin.

  Do my ecstatic compliments about his resorts make up for it? Just barely. During the sublimely roasted tomato soup, I rhapsodized about the roominess of the bungalows. And during the artichoke appetizer, I complimented him on the size of his beachhead.

  From his sly wink, I realize he took it the wrong way.

  Story of my life.

  It's now dessert time, and I’ve almost run out of platitudes. Okay, this one’s a blatant lie, but it can’t hurt. “Mr. Boarke, your Kamp KidStuff counselors are so sweet. They’ve been very attentive to our son, Jeff, and his friends.”

  “We do our best to give our guests everything their hearts desire.” Boarke pats my arm appreciatively. But when I try to slip out from under his grasp, he holds onto it as if it’s the last lifeboat on the Titanic.

  The man is desperate.

  As if on cue Julie turns to Jack and says, “You’ve barely touched your pie. Perhaps we have something else that might entice you. Follow me to the dessert alcove.”

  He nods obligingly. Why? Is there a mattress in there, perhaps made of angel food cake?

  “I’m happy to hear that you’re enjoying yourself, Mrs. Stone.” Boarke leans in closer. “The success of Fantasy Island depends on it.”

  “How very gracious of you to say so, Mr. Boarke.”

  His smile disappears. “I mean it. As you know, Mr. Stone’s visit means a great deal to me.” Slowly, his fingers trace the palm of my hand. “Any encouragement you can give him to fund our little paradise will be aptly rewarded.”

  The way he elongates the word our sends a chill up my spine.

  “In fact,” he continues, “I’m not above sharing my good fortune with the right benefactress.”

  “Are you trying to bribe me, Mr. Boarke?”

  “A more important question, Mrs. Stone, is ‘am I succeeding’?”

  My chuckle seems to set his jaw on edge. “Anything you want, Mrs. Stone. I’m being serious.”

  Wow. He’s handing Fantasy Island to me, on a silver platter. Why is he so anxious to get out from under Lee Chiffray’s thumb?

  I’ve got to admit, though, his offer is tempting. Okay, what do I want, really? Indiscriminate liaisons with any and all delectable man candy? Won’t do it for me. The way I feel about men right now, Boarke’s pretty cabana boys would count their blessings if I didn’t castrate them. Should I ask that the gaming tables be tilted in Aunt Phyllis’s direction? Nah, I’m not sure she’d share her winnings with me, even if it could get me out of hock with Acme for Dominic’s tournament loss.

  At the very least, Boarke wouldn’t charge me for the dress that Dominic puked all over.

  Sadly, none of these trifles will get me any closer to the bacteria plague. Ergo, none of us gets out of this hell hole.

  Whoa, I’ve just had the most brilliant idea.

  “I know just the thing to win my husband’s enthusiasm, Mr. Boarke. But it will cost you a five percent commission on his loan.”

  He frowns. “I…I can live with those terms.”

  “Good.” I grace him with a smile. “Oh yes, and one other thing! Tomorrow is Carl’s birthday. Please arrange for one of your renowned VIP hunts. It would delight him to no end.”

  Getting into the private reserve without worrying about getting shot? Priceless.

  He frowns. “I had no idea that Mr. Stone appreciates hunting, let alone the type of quarry stocked in our VIP reserve.”

  “Trust me, he’s totally at ease with big guns—and unusual prey.” I lean back into my chair. “To tell you the truth, he was a bit disappointed that it wasn’t offered to him before now. In fact, Miss Julie has done her best to discourage it, don’t ask me why.” I shrug. “How exciting! I already know it will be the highlight of our trip because of what Mr. Chiffray said about it.”

  Boarke’s eyes narrow. “Oh? And what was that?”

  As I suspect, he hates the thought that Jack may know his investor.

  “How did Mr. Chiffray put it? Oh yes! He called it, ‘the thrill of a lifetime.’”

  Not really. I read this hackneyed line in the Fantasy Island brochure. It’s time this resort got a new ad agency.

  Boarke’s smile hardens. “Yes, as you can imagine, such a hunt is very exciting!” He traces my hand with his finger. “Perhaps you’d like to pick out your husband’s prey for him?”

  His offer certainly gets my attention. I quit focusing on all the ways I could torture Boarke and reward him with an inquisitive smile. “Really? It's allowed?”

  “We insist! It makes it all the more interesting, should you come face-to-face in the wild. Of course, the hunter always has the upper hand.”

  “By that, you mean the gun.”

  “Yes, in part.”

  “And the night goggles.”

  “Certainly both are an advantage—but not the only ones.” He rises and moves behind me. I feel his eyes studying me. “A face-to-face allows the hunter to size up his prey. Even in his sleep the night before, he dreams
up ways in which to beat a quarry that knows all too well why it has been caged in the first place. Finally, when it is tracked and cornered, one’s eyes fill with resignation, the other with resolve.” He proffers his hand to lift me out of my chair. Can you guess whose is which?”

  “It’s not hard at all. I’ve seen your trophy room.” I take his hand.

  His laughter leaves me hollow. “Such a quick wit you are, Mrs. Stone! Now, to our private stockyard.”

  He guides me out of the dining room, to a small side elevator that needs a brass key, which he pulls from his hanky pocket. It could be a twin of the one Julie wears around her neck. “I’m glad you will be accompanying your husband, Mrs. Stone. Men live to share their victories with those most dear to them. I look forward to your inspirations on my behalf, as well.”

  I’d like to think Boarke is talking about his loan, but I wouldn’t bet on it.

  The elevator drops us deep below the Hunt Club's casino, into a long hallway that seems to go on forever. Every twenty feet or so is a guard, dressed in mufti, with a gun and a whip on his hip.

  At the far end of the hall is an elegant iron door. The lock is recessed, but it opens with a hydraulic hiss when Boarke's brass key is inserted.

  Does it smell like a livestock yard? No.

  Fear has a unique stench of its own—not at all surprising when you’re housing about a hundred people in thick Plexiglass cages.

  There are both men and women here. From what I can tell, some are old enough to have grandchildren, whereas others are as young as Mary.

  They are of all nationalities, colors, and races. The only thing they have in common is their prison garb: thin white cotton vests and loose pants.

  A badge on each vest sports a Hunt Club logo, as if these people are its employees, not its prey. In the middle of the logo is a number but no name, as if reinforcing their place on the island’s food chain.

  An Asian man cowers in the corner of his pristine cage, babbling prayers to a God who doesn’t seem to hear him through industrial strength plastic. Another man, with a shock of white blond hair and deep blue eyes, bangs and shouts angrily when he sees us, but the walls are too thick for us to hear his curses. I blink away my own tears when we come across a girl—Middle Eastern, perhaps?—who sobs uncontrollably as she dances around in circles.

  Some of the prisoners are spread-eagled and shackled by all fours, on the farthest wall of their cells. Their eyes have darkened with the realization that the rest of their wretched lives will be spent in these pristine cages until the anointed moment of their release—

  In which they will be hunted down and killed like wild animals.

  Wretched is a relative term. The prisoners are clean and groomed. They show no bruises, and it is obvious they are well fed.

  In other words, they are the perfect prey.

  I keep my voice as level as possible as I ask, “Where did you get them?”

  “As you might guess, they are from all over the world. We are the ‘last resort’—do you like my little pun, Mrs. Stone? Miss Julie thought of it, so I must give her the credit—of countries seeking the most extraordinary rendition imaginable.” Boarke shrugs. “We are truly killing two birds with one stone—so sorry that the puns are running rampant today! But yes, our VIP hunt seems to fill two unique niches. A country wishes to remove political undesirables from its shores. At the same time, world class hunters seek the ultimate prey. Humans are just that, are they not? Maybe not as strong as an elephant or as fast as a jaguar, but certainly as cunning as the hunter.”

  I stare at the people in front of me. “And how do you keep the righteous tourist from finding out The Hunt Club’s politically incorrect secret?”

  He puts a finger to his lips, as if to hush me. “For one thing, it’s why no reporters are allowed on the island. And for another, all VIP reserve guests must put up a large deposit, via a Swiss bank account.” He laughs at my surprise. “It is held in trust for their heirs, and released upon their deaths. Yes, it’s true, we buy their silence—with their own money, no less! On the upside, the interest is generous. Best of all, it’s tax-free.” He shakes his head proudly. “Such financial incentives easily assuage any untoward remorse, I can assure you.”

  I smile. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you, Mr. Boarke?”

  “I really shouldn’t take all the credit. Again, it was Miss Julie’s idea—not to mention her marketing skills are second to none! The Hunt Club has an annual occupancy of one hundred percent. In fact, we’re booked solid for the next three years. Best of all, advertising costs are nil, as it is all word of mouth.” He nudges me down the hall. “How about you? Is your preference something easy”—He points to the Middle Eastern girl—“or something that will give you a run for your—I mean, for my money? Oh, and please don’t worry about a deposit. Should you or your husband be struck with qualms of guilt, your equity stake in Fantasy Island will be leaked to the press.”

  “No worries there. I presume Miss Julie has assured you he has no conscience at all, particularly when a sure bet is involved.”

  He purses his lips, but just for a moment. “It would be gentlemanly to presume that her discretion in the matter is the better part of valor, but then I know her too well. She too enjoys ‘collecting scalps,’ as they say. I assure you, if Miss Julie had been making headway with Mr. Stone, we wouldn’t be standing here, Mrs. Stone.”

  I hope to hide my relief regarding Jack’s fidelity by changing the subject. “Considering the success of the Hunt Club, I’m surprised you need any additional financing at all.”

  Boarke grimaces. “Our largest note comes due very soon, and our investors are anxious to move their money into less unorthodox ventures. At the same time, we’d like to expand the VIP reserve program.” He holds his arms wide, toward the seemingly ongoing rows of prisoner bays. “Unlike the rest of the animal kingdom, the human is not yet an endangered species. We’ve had to turn away some potential client countries. It works to our advantage that we’re the only game—another pun, do excuse me!—in town, and we’d like to keep it that way. Other resort management companies have been snooping around, eager to learn our success. But I’d be shocked if their stockholders would fully appreciate this concept.” He moves in and whispers, “A more obliging partner would be welcomed with open arms.”

  I avoid his hint by easing away. I start down the aisle slowly, glancing into the cages on both sides of me. Boarke doesn’t realize it but he’s also put me in a box. Obviously, Jack and I can’t—we won’t—shoot a prisoner. Frankly, I’d like to see how fast Boarke could run through the jungle with me tracking him.

  Or Miss Julie. Especially in the Louboutins she was sporting tonight. The faux leopard fabric would provide a bit of camo, but not much.

  Better yet, just let the prisoners have a go at them—

  At least one prisoner.

  Sasquatch.

  He is two cells in front of me, on the right. They’ve got him shackled to a wall. His eyes are closed against the bright lights coming up from the floors on all sides of the cage. With his long hair, he looks almost medieval.

  He opens one eye. At first my face doesn’t register with him. When it does, he strains against the iron wristbands that hold him back from charging at us.

  “That one,” I say, just loud enough for Boarke to hear me.

  Boarke’s eyes grow large. “He…he may not be the best choice. Only recently he was put in the stockyard—”

  “It’s him, or I tell my husband I’m bored with this joint, and that it’s time to call it a day. Not the best customer satisfaction review, wouldn’t you say?”

  Boarke’s stutter dies in his throat. “No, of course not. Yes, alright, your fantasy is my desire. But so that it doesn’t turn into a nightmare, I insist on sending you along with a trusted guide.”

  He must mean Battoo.

  “Works for me,” I murmur. “May I…would you mind if I touched him?”

  Boarke doesn’t s
peak at once. When he does, his tone is slick, even as his words are crisp. “But of course. His shackles will hold.”

  “What a shame,” I purr. “I can just imagine the fun if they didn’t.” Sasquatch, loosened from his bindings, could snap Boarke like a twig.

  And I’d enjoy watching him do it.

  Boarke’s key fits into the keyhole to the side of the cage. Soundlessly a door, built into the front wall, slides to one side.

  I stand directly in front of Sasquatch. His grin curls into a snarl, but he stays silent and doesn’t move as I lay my hand on his belly. My left index finger meanders up his firm abs, then over to a nipple. It is already taut before I flick it with my tongue.

  He shudders at my touch.

  “Does he meet your approval?” Boarke’s tone is derisive. Yes, he is jealous.

  “He is perfect, thank you. What’s the saying? Oh yes, ‘one good turn deserves another.’ You’re a lifesaver. And you’ll be duly rewarded.”

  I keep my voice jovial, but my eyes on Sasquatch. Only he can see the look in my eyes: I will get you out of here.

  Sasquatch gets it. He winks then looks away.

  The door hisses again as it closes behind me.

  Chapter 15

  Island Fever

  Bored in Paradise? It happens.

  Endless days of sun, surf and sand aren’t stimulating enough for a brain that seeks to be challenged. Or a mind that must be entertained. Or a heart that longs for provocation. Here’s how you know when it’s time to start packing up:

  Telltale Sign Number 1: Whereas once the thought of a jaunt to Paris had you cursing “Merde,” now you think, “Mais oui,” and spend hours devising the quickest and cheapest routes from your isle du jour to Ille de Louis;

  Telltale Sign Number 2: Whereas once you poo-pooed any interaction with those tourists who refused to learn the local lingo or eat at local boîtes, you now cling to the ankles of homeward-bound travelers, begging and pleading them to “Take me with you, oh please pretty please.” A sure sign the local charm is not so charming anymore.