by Josie Brown
So, why does he want to hurt me now?
To prove the shackles that have bound me for too long can no longer keep me down, I spit out the declaration he has been waiting so patiently to hear these past few weeks:
“No! I don’t love him. I can’t! Not after what he’s done to me.”
“Then you know what you have to do, don’t you?”
I wince at the question. It smarts worse than any whip, but I’m not defeated. I’m not broken. I’m no longer submissive to my greatest fear:
That, once again, the real Carl Stone will ruin my life.
“Yes, I know what I must do.” I’m surprised at how calm my voice sounds.
My inquisitor’s lips rise in the slightest of smiles. “Excellent, Donna. And when will you do it?”
During our other covert sessions, whenever I’ve risen from his black leather chaise, I’ve ached from the beating I’ve taken. The memories we fear most do us the most harm. They smack, pummel, and flog us for life.
Today, though, I feel no pain. Instead, I’m as light as a cloud.
“Tomorrow,” I answer him. “Tomorrow, I file for divorce from Carl.”
My psychiatrist, Dr. Hartley, rises to shake my hand. “You’ve made excellent progress, Donna—and in such a short amount of time! Some women are unwilling to recognize a husband’s desertion as an opportunity to put their lives on a new, better path. They cling to the thought he’ll return to them, and that life will go on the way it had before he left. Or they take the blame and punish themselves by staying in an emotional abyss from which they never move on. But not you. With your children, a thriving career and your new relationship, you realize you’ve got all the ammo you need to annihilate the emotional pull Carl still holds over you.”
Ammo. Yep, I’ve got plenty of that.
But so does Carl.
I have the bullet scar to prove it.
It should be interesting to see how Carl responds to being served divorce papers.
“Donna, in your mind, he’s already dead. This is the way it has to be.”
“He was dead, Doc. If only he’d stayed that way.”
“No, no, no! Repeat after me. ‘My ex is dead.’”
I do, three times. If only saying so made it come to pass.
Hearing me say it out loud puts smile on his lips, if not mine. That’s okay. My job has taught me how to fake it. “Great session, Doctor Bob! I can tell it was as good for you as it was for me.”
My impulsive hug leaves him blushing. Gee, I guess it really was.
Chapter 3
Welcoming New Neighbors
Welcoming a new couple into the neighborhood is a wonderful thing to do! A great leave-behind: personalized gifts, in a beautiful keepsake basket you’ve woven yourself. Consider filling it with fresh flowers and herbs from your garden, a jar of homemade preserves, and perhaps a cake or pie.
Alas, should these newcomers wear out their welcome sooner than you’d hoped, the improvised explosive device you woven into the base of the basket will make the right impression: say, a gigantic hole in the middle of their lot, where their house once stood.
By the time I get home from Dr. Hartley and dress shopping, Jack and the children have already set the table. The homemade vegetable lasagna I left in the fridge for tonight’s dinner is bubbling in the oven.
Mary lifts one of my dresses out of its bag for a quick peek, then grimaces. “Dad said you went out to get a party dress. Seriously, this is it?”
Now it’s my turn to frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shrugs. “It looks like something my political science teacher would wear.”
“Your teacher must have great taste. It’s elegant and flattering—”
“And booooring.” Mary wrinkles her nose. “Mom, you’re hot! You’ve got it, so why not flaunt it? Especially around totalitarian dictators. Show them what they’re missing by suppressing free speech.”
I snatch it out of her hand. “I thought I was ‘flaunting it.’ And by the way, I commend your poli-sci teacher on your knowledge of Asimov.”
“Yeah, she sure knows her stuff. In fact, she turned us on to the fact he’s sentenced a Russian punk rock group, Pink Taco, to two years in a Siberian prison because they parodied him in a protest song. Our class has started an online petition drive. Our goal is 100,000 signatures from kids all over the country. We’re already up to eighty thou—”
“Mommy,” Trisha interrupts with a happy squeal, “Daddy and I made new friends! And she’s got a pony! She says I can ride it, too. Can we go over to see it tomorrow? Please? Please please please please please—”
I drop my dress bag as she leaps into my arms and smothers me with kisses.
This is what I live for.
I’ve killed for the joy I get from my family. No doubt, I’ll do so again.
“Yes, of course we’ll visit her. What is your new friend’s name?”
“Janie.” Trisha nods hard with satisfaction. “And her mother’s name is Babette. But she told Daddy he could call her ‘Anytime.’ Isn’t that a silly nickname?”
“I’ll say.” I look around for Jack and find him slumped on the couch next to Jeff. Their keyboards are dueling for health orbs and skill runes in Diablo III. “How about you, dear? Can you imagine calling your new friend, Babette, ‘Anytime?’”
“It’s just an expression. You know, like, ‘have a nice day.’” Jack shrugs, but he doesn’t glance over. He’s too competitive for that.
Or else he knows better than to face me when I’m jealous.
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
I’ll find out later.
In the meantime, I take the lasagna out of the oven and wait until it’s cooled a bit before doling it out onto the children’s plates and my own, cutting pieces from the sides. Then I slice Jack’s wedge from the middle of the casserole, which is still steaming.
You’d think he would have noticed before he bites into it, but no. “Ouch! What the hell, Donna?” In one gulp, he downs all the water in his glass as he glares over at me.
“Sorry. But you know that old expression, ‘Cool it or you may get burned.’”
After dinner, I make two pies: one is for us. I’ll take the other one over to our newest neighbors, Janie, Babette and Jonah Breck.
Jack eyes them cooling on the counter, but shakes his head when I invite him to take a slice.
“No thanks. It’s a lose-lose proposition. If I don’t burn my tongue again, I might choose the one with the arsenic.”
Good point. Smart man.
He waits until after the kids have cleared the table and are in their bedrooms doing their homework to set things straight. “I didn’t know Babette Breck had enrolled their little brat in Trisha’s ballet class. It gave me the perfect chance for an introduction, so I took it.”
“Then do you care to explain how ‘Nice to meet you’ becomes ‘Call me anytime?’”
“Her exact words were ‘Call me anytime about a playdate.’”
My cheeks flare with shame. “I’m sorry. I guess I… well, you know…”
“No, not really. I can’t imagine what you were thinking.” Jack leans against the wall, his arms crossed. “Feel free to explain. Take your time. It’s the highlight of a day in which I’ve been yelled at by my boss, burned my tongue, and have been hit upon by three very horny housewives while their flat-footed kids twirl around a dance floor—none of whom, I might add, go by the name of Babette.” He shakes his head warily. “That woman’s as frigid as an ice cube. I waited until she let loose with her last name to mention I’d been invited to the summit. Then she clammed up again. She finally warmed up when Trisha whispered into Janie’s ear that she needn’t be afraid of Mr. Twinkletoes’s Russian rants. In fact, Ryan is beside himself that Trisha’s invited over there tomorrow afterno
on. He’s upset that Acme hasn’t been able to locate the security feed. Dropping Trisha off at her playdate will give you the opportunity to scope out the place.”
“Me? What, you don’t want to go instead?”
Jack’s look says it all. I’m being foolish about Babette.
He’s right. What’s wrong with me?
That’s a stupid question. After six weeks of Wednesdays with Dr. Bob, isn’t it obvious? I’m jealous. And insecure. Basically, I have trust issues.
Tears roll down my cheeks. “I’m sorry, Jack. Sometimes I’m too stupid for words.”
“No, Donna, you’re human. Besides, if you didn’t care, I’d be asking for a transfer.” Jack shakes his head sadly. “Let me ask you, how many times have you played the honeypot on an opp?”
I can’t help but snort at that question. “When have I not? Okay, say, eighty-five, maybe ninety percent of them.”
“Including the ones we’ve been on together, am I correct?”
My nod is grudging at best. “It’s part of the job. And… you’ve accepted it.”
“Yes, I’ve accepted it. Do you think it’s been easy for me?”
I know it hasn’t, not since our very first mission together. Jack’s assignment—to move in with me and the children and pretend to be my deceased husband, Carl, whom, it turned out, had left the SEALS to become a hard man—an assassin—for Acme.
His “reappearance” (really, Jack’s impersonation) provoked the world’s most notorious terrorist cell, the Quorum, to come knocking on our door. Apparently, Carl had taken something the Quorum desperately wants. But whatever it is, it has yet to be found.
Unlike Carl, who showed up alive and well.
Turns out, he was a double agent, and one of the Quorum’s top assassins.
But Carl’s misplaced this item everyone’s looking for. I can’t imagine what it was, but here’s hoping I find it before he does.
Sheesh! After being married to a guy for thirteen years, you’d think I’d have realized something was wrong, am I right? I swear it’s true: love is blind.
It blinded me a second time: When Carl resurfaced, he tried to convince me it was Jack who was the double agent. I believed him because I was grateful for his miraculous return from the grave, doubled with the guilt I felt at allowing Jack to replace him: as a father, a husband and a lover.
I believed Carl because I missed his touch so badly.
I wanted to believe him, body and soul.
Boy, was I wrong. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, take a bullet.
Carl did. Unfortunately, he still got away.
Hopefully, he’ll stay away, forever. In any regard, I’m divorcing him. Maybe then, he’ll take the broad hint that he blew it. If he doesn’t, I’d advise him to watch his back.
Divorces are sooo messy.
So is working with the man you love. I’ve heard Jack swear into my earpiece as other men touch me. Once, he beat a target within an inch of his life, all because the guy manhandled me too roughly for Jack’s taste.
You can only imagine how I crushed Jack’s heart when I believed Carl over him.
No, I don’t like playing the honeypot. But if I’m to be honest, I have to admit I love the way it stokes Jack’s passion for me. No doubt about it: being desired makes you even more desirable to the one who loves you most.
Like now. Forget pie. Jack is what I crave.
My kiss tells him so. “Okay I get it,” I murmur into his ear. “I owe you an apology.”
“Or something.”
I love his naughty smile. And the way his lips know mine so well. Not to mention my neck… my breasts…
One by one, his long, strong fingers nudge open each button on my sweater—
“Mom!” Jeff yells from the top of the steps. “We’ve finished our homework! Now can we have some pie?”
With a sigh, Jack drops his head onto my breasts. But just for a moment. Our fingers collide as we fumble with my sweater buttons. When I’m sure I’m primly attired again, I call up to the kids to come and get it.
To prove to Jack he can count on my love and devotion anytime, I cut him a humongous piece of pie, and top it with a large dollop of ice cream.
That should keep his tongue in tiptop shape, for later.
Trisha giggles through a mouthful of apple rhubarb. “Mommy got her buttons all wrong! How silly is that?”
I run upstairs before the Jeff and Mary figure out what she’s talking about.
“How sweet! A pie!” Despite the delight in her tone, Babette stares down at my offering as if she’s already gotten a memo from Jack about my extraordinary baking skills.
“Apple rhubarb,” I inform her with a smile. “The crust is from a recipe handed down from my great-grandmother.”
Not really. I found it on Martha Stewart’s website. I’m guessing Babette knows Martha personally and has tasted pie made from the entertainment maven’s very own hands, since both of them own quaint little abodes in Westchester County, New York.
In fact, the Brecks own homes practically everywhere—New York, London, Paris, Lake Como, Rio de Janiero, Gstaad, St. Tropez, St. Barts, St. Petersburg (Russia, not Florida)—all of which are fully staffed.
Babette hands my pie over to the butler, then ushers us through a reception hall, to one of the estate’s living rooms. I kid you not, it’s got to be the size of the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles. In fact…
“Excuse me, this may be a silly question, but… well, is this room—?”
Babette’s sigh is long and practiced. “Yes. An exact replica. Trust me, it was Jonah’s idea, not mine.”
She bends down slightly so that the slight heat of her tepid smile warms at least one of us: Trisha takes it as her cue to give a proper curtsey.
Note to self: no more episodes of Downton Abbey for my youngest. Maybe it’s time I read her Les Miserables. Or at least take her to see the musical.
The sounds of whinnying and laughter come from the vast velvety lawn that stretches beyond the French doors and onto infinity. At the sight of Janie on a dappled Shetland pony—in jodhpurs, riding helmet and show coat, no less—Trisha’s manners take flight, and so does she, right out an open door.
I shake my head in mock embarrassment. “Please forgive Trisha. She’s very excited about meeting Janie’s pony.”
“Not at all. Janie took to Trisha instantly. It’s a blessing, since we’re always on the move. Normally, she finds it so hard to make friends.” With this admission, sadness clouds her eyes.
Our children give us a reason to look away. By now, Janie’s trainer has helped her off the pony. Eddie the dog, leashed and detained a hundred feet away by Acme’s undercover agent, Abu, jerks and jumps in frenzied frustration. Janie and Trisha hug each other, then Janie takes Trisha’s hand and places it gently, palm up on the pony’s nose. When the pony snorts and shakes its head, both girls giggle and run off to the stable just beyond the house.
Eddie yanks free from Abu and runs after them. Thank goodness Abu’s curses are muttered in some ancient Punjabi dialect. I’ll bet, right about now, he wishes he were wrangling with some eight-year-old over the price of an ice cream sandwich instead of chasing Eddie around the yard.
“Feel free to leave Trisha for the afternoon,” Babette offers. “In fact, may she join us for dinner and perhaps a sleepover? She and Janie can eat in the playroom with Antoinette, Janie’s au pair. She’ll bathe them, and Trisha can borrow a pair of her pajamas. Janie is bored to death at our formal dinner parties. I’ll let you in on a little secret: so am I.”
This time Babette’s smile seems genuine.
I wish I could feel sorry for her, but I’m sure living in a miniature version of Versailles compensates for a lot.
Babette stops short, as if something has just crossed her mind. “Your husband mentioned he’ll be atten
ding Jonah’s disarmament summit. Perhaps you and Carl would like to join us for dinner tonight as well?”
It’s my turn to fake a smile. “That would be nice. We look forward to it.”
Ryan is going to break out in a happy dance when he hears Jack and I will be in Lion’s Lair sooner than expected. This gives Acme another shot at finding the source for Breck’s security feed before the summit. Thus far, the only thing Arnie has been able to determine via the estate’s architectural plans is that the hub is somewhere in the vicinity of Breck’s office wing, which has been off-limits to Arnie, since Breck doesn’t like flowers in that room.
“It will be an intimate group,” Babette continues. “Just some of Jonah’s key executive staff, and a couple of German investment bankers who’ve arrived in advance of the event.” Her brow rises with the curl of her lip. “Acclimating to the time difference is always a marvelous excuse to come stateside earlier than needed. Not that I blame them. Orange County is a delight this time of year compared to Hamburg.”
An early arrival gives them time for reconnaissance, too.
I’m sure Acme already has the summit’s attendee roster in hand, but this information comes in handy, in case one these men has something to do with the assassination attempt.
“Oh dear, how time flies! I have a meeting with the chef to go over the menu, so if you’ll excuse me,” she says as she walks me to the door. “By the way, the dress code is black tie. Jonah prefers it that way.” As breathy as her air kiss is her murmur. “I’m sure you have something that will please him.”
Before I have a chance to reply, she shuts the door.
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Chapter 4
How to Choose a Party Dress
When you’re a guest at someone else’s soirée, your first impression should be also be a lasting one—and certainly not because you either overdressed, or underdressed, for the occasion. When in doubt, keep it simple and elegant: black, with pearls.
If the dress code is not in the invitation, take the time to query your host regarding the proper attire.
