by Josie Brown
Seeing the look on my face, he’s all grins. “Lighten up! I heard James Bond say it, in the latest 007 movie. I swear, sometimes I think the producers are following me around with a camera—”
“You son of a bitch!” I shove him away. “Oh, boy, I am so outta here.”
I start to walk away, but he won’t let go of my hand, yanking me toward him, into a tight squeeze. In this position, his lips easily nuzzle my neck. “Admit it. We still make beautiful music together. This has got to be driving Jack crazy.”
“You better pray it isn’t. In any regard, you’re a dead man the minute you leave this room.”
“Don’t bet on it. I’m quicker and smarter than he is.”
“What the hell are you doing here, anyway?” I ask, crossly. “Have you forgotten you’re on the Interpol and FBI watch lists?”
“Tell me the truth. Do you think my wanted poster does me justice? It makes me look so… I don’t know, mean, I guess. Like a bad guy or something.”
I shake my head. “The only photo I’d want to see is one taken from a morgue, with a bullet right between your eyes.”
“Tsk, tsk. Bitter does not become you, Donna. But that dress… it certainly does.”
His gaze, filled with desire, has me blushing. I want to push him away, but he holds me close, rocking me side to side with the rhythm of the music. “You know, he could have killed me, but he didn’t.”
“When? What are you talking about?”
“After Anaheim. He tracked me down, in Montenegro. Fuck it if I know how he did it. Had me in his sites, too. I felt him, but I didn’t see him until it was too late. Like Bambi, in headlights…” His voice trails off. “Only, he didn’t pull the trigger.”
I know Jack better than that. “You’re lying, Carl.”
“Hey, if I hadn’t been there myself, I wouldn’t believe it, either. Why don’t you ask him? When you do, let me know what he says. My guess is that he realized if he took me out, deep down, you’d never forgive him.”
“You’re wrong. What I want more than anything is you out of my life.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but that ain’t going to happen. So, what do you say we kiss and make up?”
He tips my chin up and comes in close. If can’t pull a gun now, in front of all these witnesses. But I could bite his tongue off. It’s a drastic way to make him shut the hell up, but hey, it would certainly do the trick—
Before I have time to react, his mouth is on mine, and his tongue is deep down my throat.
My hand grabs the bulge in his Armani tux, and I hear him gasp. The sound is music to my ears. “You’re the hitter, aren’t you?”
He winces in pain, but he’s still able to mutter, “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Alexei Asimov. You’re here to take him out, aren’t you?”
“What? You think I’m the—the shooter? Hell no, babe! I’m the consultant heading up Asimov’s security team.”
He’s laughing so hard at my shock and awe that I almost lose my grip on him.
Almost, but not quite.
When I walk off the dance floor, I’ve left him doubled over, and not because he’s still laughing at me.
Chapter 10
How to be the Perfect Guest
It’s your turn to enjoy the hospitality of others! Your drive to be the consummate hostess also provides you with insights on how to be the ideal guest.
For example, if the hostess seems overwhelmed, offer to lend a hand. Choose a task in which your expertise will make it quick and simple: say, setting a table, arranging flowers, or diffusing a bomb. Your hostess will certainly appreciate your efforts and compliment you on your handiwork.
Remember: guests never overstay their welcome, so do not be the last out the door—especially if you fail at dismantling the bomb, and it is due to go off before the party is over.
Alexei Asimov is one smooth-talking dude.
His voice caresses and inspires. His compliments about our “heavenly Hilldale” are eloquent, drawing ahhhhs and applause from the locals, who have no desire to reconcile today’s graciousness with a fiendish curriculum vitæ filled with decades of brutality.
His vow to do his part for “eternal peace on Earth” earns him a standing ovation. I can only imagine the onslaught of frenzied hysteria that filled his ears in the Ukraine, as those who dug their own mass graves heard his command, to fire at them, was given to his machine gun-toting army.
Put a man in a tux, call him a statesman, and all is forgiven.
Carl stands just behind Asimov, to his right. A second member of the Russian security team is to his left. I spot others, every ten feet or so, mumbling, sotto voce, into well-hidden headsets.
Jack is also muttering, to Ryan. Cursing, really. Ryan has just informed us that Carl’s role on Asimov’s advance team has given him diplomatic immunity.
In other words, he’s been removed from the Terrorist Screening Database, as well as all international security watch lists.
That still doesn’t get him off my personal shit list.
“But what if Asimov is being set up by the Quorum, and Carl’s the shooter we’ve been looking for all along?” Jack asks.
“Listen, you two, I don’t like this anymore than you.” Ryan’s bitterness is merited. He recruited and trained Carl for Acme. It was on his watch that Carl was turned by the Quorum.
Ryan sighed deeply. “Until Carl makes his move, we have to give him the same leeway as any of the others on Asimov’s security detail. This mission depends on staying close enough to Asimov to protect him, especially if the hit is going to be an inside job. Donna, if that means turning on the charm so that Carl accommodates us, do it.”
Jack and I exchange glances. It’s not what either of us wants to hear. I know I don’t have to reassure him of this, but I press his hand to my lips anyway.
Yes, I know Carl is watching us, but I don’t give a damn.
“And if it turns out you’re right and Carl’s the inside man,” Ryan adds, “you’ve both got your orders: shoot to kill.”
The ghost of a smile accompanies Jack’s slight nod.
Not that he needs Ryan’s permission to do so. And if what Carl said is right—about Jack letting him walk because he thinks I’d hate him for taking Carl out—then I’ve got to let him know that he has my permission, too.
If I don’t kill Carl first.
The father of my children is also a menace to society. I may not be able to change his role in my kid’s lives, but I can keep him from ruining our world as we know it.
“Carl told me about Montenegro.”
Jack curses, then sits up in the bed. He doesn’t look at me, but stares straight ahead.
Lesson learned: don’t bring up your ex while basking in the afterglow of sex. Talk about a mood killer.
The moonlight streaming in from the window throws strange shadows on the wall. His profile looms large and dark. By now, I know every inch of his face so well my mind colors him in. His deep-set eyes. The tiny crook in his nose. The dimple in his chin. The way his forelock hangs forward before his large, broad hand pushes it back impatiently. His mouth has a tendency to draw up on the right side when he’s about to let loose with a laugh.
But he is not laughing now. He’s wondering how to answer me.
I touch his back gently, assuring him there are no wrong answers.
I hear the hurt, pain and anger expelled in his soft sigh. “As long as Carl’s alive, he’ll always stand between us.”
“You’re wrong. I’d never let that happen. I swear.”
“You wouldn’t, but he’d make sure of it. He’d always be there. He’ll never let go of you, let alone the children. He’s got too much pride for that.”
Of course Jack’s right.
“After what he did to you—after shooting you—I
had every right to take him out. You say you’d forgive me, but let’s be honest with each other. If I killed the father of your children, he wins. He’d still stand between us. Between you and me, And between Mary, Jeff and Trisha and me.”
“But they don’t know about him!”
He shrugged. “Life has many twists and turns. Anything can happen to either of us. When it does—”
“You mean ‘if.’ And even if ‘it’ did happen, to one of us, the other would keep them safe. The other would be there to help them through their pain, to keep our memory alive.”
“Donna, that’s just it. When it comes to me, their memories are too new.”
“Jack, they love you! You’re the only dad they’ve ever known. And their memories of you are all good ones. Whatever they remember about Carl has your face on it.”
“Don’t you think Carl knows that? Donna, why do you think he can’t stay away?”
“Don’t worry, Jack. I’ll take care of him.”
“It’s what he’s counting on—that one of us comes gunning for him! It’ll allow him to justify what he wants to do to us.”
“No, I don’t mean ‘take care of him’ as in kill him. Although, yeah, under the right circumstance… Listen, Jack. What I’m trying to say is I’m making it legal. I’m divorcing him.”
Jack turns his head to stare at me. He’s no longer in profile and the shadows hide his features in pitch darkness, but I can imagine the grin on his face, the love in his eyes.
I’m not prepared for the disbelief in his voice. “You’re not serious, are you?”
“Yes, of course I am.” Why isn’t he doing cartwheels around the room? “I thought you’d be happy about this. I’ve already talked to a lawyer and explained the situation.”
“Wow. I would have liked to be a fly on the wall to hear that conversation.”
“Get real. Do you think I told him everything? I’m not stupid. I just told him what he needed to hear.”
“Tell me! I need a good laugh.” He stands up and heads to the far wall, where the shadows are the deepest. Now I can’t make him out at all.
“Nothing about Carl’s profession. Or mine, for that matter. Just that Carl deserted us five years ago, and I’m ready to move on.”
“What will you do when your lawyer finds out you’ve been living with your ‘husband’ for the past year?”
“He won’t. He’s a paper pusher. We’re filing in absentia. Abandonment will be the legal reason. All’s well that ends well.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Quit being so negative! Afterward, you and I can make it legal… If you want.”
Silence.
What the hell?
The room is so dark I can’t even see him. But I can smell fear.
I toss a pillow at him. The smack is accompanied his grunt. “What was that for?” he mutters.
“For your head. Go sleep in the bathtub.”
“There’s a dead body in there, remember?” Arnie can’t come and dispose of her until bright and early tomorrow morning, when he’s allowed back in to collect all the dead blooms he’ll be gathering throughout the estate’s sixty-six rooms. In hindsight, it’s the perfect way to cover up the smell of a rotting corpse.
Jack can’t see my shrug. “Maybe she’s your type, now that we’ve established that I’m not.”
“You’re being silly. Of course you’re my type… I mean, at least you’re breathing.”
“Hardee har har.”
I feel him flop down on the bed beside me. But when he tries to hold me, I push him away.
“Donna, don’t be angry with me. It just surprised me that you’d spoken to a lawyer before you talked to me.”
“Gee, I guess I wasn’t expecting you to freak out!”
“Lower your voice. I’m not freaking out. I’m… trying to process what it all means.”
“It means I’ll be free of him. It means we can be together.” I have to blow my nose or else I’ll choke on my tears, my snot and my shame. “It means we can quit pretending to be man and wife, because it’ll be true.”
“You realize this will make things worse between you and Carl, right?”
“He’s tried to kill me. Twice. How much worse can it get?” I shrug. “Jack, tell me the real reason you’re upset.”
“I… I just don’t know if the timing is right.”
Now it’s my turn to sit up in bed. “Oh? Just when will it ‘be right?’”
“Wrong choice of words. Forget I said that.”
I get up, taking the covers and my pillow with me to the chaise lounge by the window. “Tell you what. When you feel the time is ‘right,’ you let me know. Until then, we’re just two operatives on an assignment. When this is over, feel free to ask for a transfer. We’ll call it a ‘divorce.’”
His laugh is weak. If he’s hoping I’ll join in, he’s got another thing coming. Finally, he stops. “You don’t really mean that…do you?”
I want to say no. I want to tell him that I love him with all my heart, and that I’d die if he left me. I want to run to him and have him hold me in his arms, kiss me, and tell me that he’s sorry for being a stupid idiot; that I took him by surprise, but now that it’s sunk in that I’ll be free to be his, and that it’s his wish, too.
Instead, I say nothing.
I feel nothing.
I might as well be the corpse in the other room.
I realize now it isn’t Carl who stands between Jack and me, because there never was a Jack and me.
I turn and bury my head in my pillow at the thought that, once again, the man in my life has deserted me.
Chapter 11
When the Party’s Over
Some guests refuse to leave, even when no one else is left at your soirée. If you’ve got a reveler who can’t take your graciously subtle hints that it’s time to call it quits, don’t be shy about letting your feelings be known and pulling out the heavy artillery.
Yes, I’m being serious: A tank, or a couple of missile launchers, pointed at his car, will do the trick of getting him out of your hair, your house, and your sight line—
If he runs quickly enough.
“I found him,” says the voice on the other end of my cell phone.
I’m too groggy to recognize it. What time is it?
I open one eye and scan the room for a clock. The one over the fireplace says it’s a few minutes after eight o’clock. Jack has already slipped out.
Good. Who needs him, anyway?
Who am I kidding?
“Hey, did you hear me?” The voice on my cell phone is getting louder, more impatient. “I said, I found your husband.”
I’m too tired for games. “Which one?”
“The one you’re trying to get rid of! Carl Stone.”
“Oh…yeah.” Now I recognize the voice. It’s Alan, my lawyer. “I saw him, too. Last night.”
“Jeez! Did you serve him yourself?”
“What? No.”
“Too bad.” Alan sounds depressed. “I left a copy of the summons, with your aunt, along with your signed papers. She didn’t give them to you?”
“No, I’m… I’m staying at a friend’s. He showed up over here.” The thought of serving Carl has me fully awake. “Alan, I won’t be able to serve him myself. You see, I’m at work. But if I give you Carl’s location and schedule, you can take care of it, right?”
“Just tell me when and where, and I’ll get Bulldog over there.”
“Um… Bulldog?”
“My best process server. He’s got a one-hundred percent success rate.”
“Super! I’ll text it right over.”
“Booyah!” Obviously, Alan is psyched.
Okay, now I am too. “Booyah!” I shout back.
I need coffee. Or a lobotomy.
&n
bsp; No, what I need is a divorce.
I call down to the kitchen to order breakfast in bed. I deserve it, right? It’s been a hell of a week, and it’s just started.
“Madame has a preference for her eggs?” the disembodied voice at the other end of the phone asks.
“Three of them: sunny side up, please. And French toast. And lots of bacon, crisp.”
“Madame has a healthy appetite.”
“Madame thinks you should mind your own business.” I slam the phone receiver down. It’s my pity party, and I’ll eat if I want to.
I open the bathroom door to discover I am indeed alone. Arnie has successfully removed the corpse of the assassin maid from the bathtub. He must have done it while I slept. I wonder if Jack let him in, or if he’d already taken off before Arnie got here.
I wonder where Jack is now.
This thought has me aching for him.
I should take a cold shower, but instead I run the water just this side of hot.
I’m about to jump in when I hear a ping on my cell phone. Emma has just texted me President Asimov’s itinerary, which she pulled off the shadow feed. In the two days prior to POTUS’s arrival, he will see and be seen all over Hilldale. And since Carl will have to tag along, Bulldog has several opportunities to slap him with the summons.
Today’s photo ops include a ten o’clock meeting with the mayor, in which he will be given the key to the city. Then, at eleven o’clock, he’ll stop by the local middle school, where he’ll answer questions from Mary’s class, the eighth-graders, who have been studying world geography and international current events.
After a lunch back at the Breck homestead, Asimov will meet with the press.
Babette and I will join whatever summit attendees have arrived for a sumptuous dinner. Afterward, Breck and Asimov are having a private conversation with a few of them, in his office. Jack isn’t invited, but by then, we’ll have the bug in place, thank goodness.
