The Housewife Assassin's Deadly Dossier (31 page)

Hurriedly, Donna closed the notebook. She took it and the locket back to the curio cabinet from where she’d taken them and locked the cabinet before rushing up the stairs.
 

When she came back down, she had Trisha in her arms. The little girl rubbed the sleep from her eyes with one hand, but clung tightly to Donna with the other as her mother dipped to grab her purse and keys from the lowboy in the entry foyer.

Donna had just flung open the front door when something stopped her cold. Her nose went up in the air, as if she’d smelled something that didn’t agree with her. She let loose with an expletive before rushing into the kitchen.
 

So that he could follow her, Jack switched the monitor to the one he’d hidden in her kitchen so many years ago, when he and Arnie were investigating Carl’s death. What he saw made him chuckle:

The oven was smoking.

She plopped Trisha onto the kitchen banquette before reaching for the oven door handle—

Burning her hand in the process.

Frantically, she scanned the kitchen until she found what she was looking for—an oven mitt. It was tucked under Lassie’s head. The dog, half-asleep by the front door, yipped as Donna yanked the mitt away.
 

A second later, she scooped the pie out of the oven and slammed it on the marble countertop. The crust was singed black.

Shaking her head angrily, she scooped Trisha back into her arms, along with her bag and keys and headed out the garage door with Lassie at her heels.

She drove away so fast that she didn’t even notice the red Lamborghini, parked a half-block from the house on the other side of the street.

Jack waited a few minutes after Donna’s minivan had disappeared around the corner, then checked to make sure the street was empty before leaving his car and heading to the house.

Once inside, his first stop was the curio cabinet. Yes, there it was, her notebook—

Make that her cookbook. The binder was embossed
Favorite Recipes
. With a black magic marker, she’d scrawled in her girlishly circular handwriting,

Personal

Halfheartedly he picked up the book, but the thought of flipping through it made him wince. Maybe her little housewife’s hobby was good anger management therapy. It certainly paid off in one way—the woman could sure cook! He knew, because sometimes he sampled her leftovers.
 

Too bad about the cherry pie, he thought.

He was just about to open the notebook when he saw the locket. He picked it up. It was definitely an antique—heart-shaped with intricately embossed sterling silver, hanging on a delicate chain.
 

He nudged the clasp open with his thumb.

Inside was a picture of Carl on one side.

Yes, he thought, she still loves him deeply.

If she was working through the tangled mix of emotion by writing down her thoughts, so be it. It wasn’t his business, or Acme’s. Hell, hadn’t they done enough to the poor woman? Acme had stolen everything from her: the life she once had. Her innocence. Her happiness.

Her husband.

Her Carl no longer existed.

He hoped that, someday, she could find it in herself to forgive him for that.

He put the notebook back in the bottom of the curio case and locked it.

Physically, the children had grown by leaps and bounds—at least from what he could tell in the pictures of them with their mother posted on the bulletin boards over their bedroom desks and on their bedside tables.
 

A quick glance through her closet confirmed she was still a size 4 gown. In the air, there was slightest whisper of Pure Poison by Dior, her killer scent.

The lady had quite a sense of humor.

By now, she would have received the mission missive, informing her that he’d be posing as Carl. In case Ryan was wrong about her—what did he call it? Oh yeah, “team spirit”—Jack would be sure to prepare himself for a frosty welcome.
 

He looked down at his feet. The last thing he needed was for her to be pissed because he was also tracking mud all over the place. From what he remembered about her afternoon schedule, rounding up the children from their after-school activities and rendezvousing with Abu might actually leave him enough time for a quick shower.

All the towels in the bathroom closet were pink.

So were the disposable razors. The only shaving cream came in a pink can, too.
 

Jack squirted a little into the palm of his hand. It smelled of lavender, ginger, and vanilla.

He groaned. It would be like shaving with cake icing.

Too bad, he’d have to make do.

Donna Stone could use a man around the house, he thought. Or at least a new water heater.

He’d been standing under the fancy new showerhead for just fifteen minutes, and in that time, the water pounding down on him had gone from almost scalding—the way he liked it—to downright tepid.

I wonder how she’ll take the suggestion to spring for a new hot water heater. I guess it depends on how well she responded to the news of my role in this mission. If, after all these years, she’s still angry over Carl’s disappearance, she may tell me to stick this bar of soap where the sun don’t shine.
 

Then again, maybe it had been long enough that she was ready for a new mister in her life. Even honeypots like to snuggle up to a warm body, every now and then.
 

Especially after the adrenaline rush of a hit.
 

He’d bedded enough of them to know this firsthand.
 

He got a hard-on thinking about her body next to his, there, in the shower.

In the white four-poster bed, not twenty feet away.

He’d take her on the floral-patterned chaise lounge, if she’d let him.

Suddenly, he was ashamed of himself. He had reduced her to that: another conquest.

Just because Donna Stone was an assassin.

For a moment there, he’d forgotten why she’d become one.
 

Forget sex, let alone love. She lived for one thing only: revenge.

Ah, hell, they’re home. Already? What the—

Damn it, they’re right here, in the bedroom!

He’d let his guard down—in fact, he was humming as he shaved.
 

But a sixth sense warned him that he wasn’t alone.

The door was open, just a crack. Through it, he saw the little one: Trisha. Her eyes were open wide, in awe.

His instinct was to smile at her, to wave, to promise her she had nothing to fear from him.

But before he could do so, Donna was there, too, and Mary and Jeff. Jack had never seen such a look on Donna’s face. Gone was the cold calculation, the wariness.
 

In its place was fear.

She scooped up Trisha and shoved her into Mary’s arms. She whispered so softly that he couldn’t hear what she was saying. No matter: they’d frozen, like statues, staring at him.

On the other hand, Mary, Jeff, and Trisha looked fascinated.

Make that hopeful.

He took a deep breath and thought, Okay, show time.

When Jack turned on the charm, seriously, what was not to love?

He came out with one towel wrapped around his waist and patting down his damp hair with another, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

As if seeing them all there was the most natural thing in the world.

He was all smiles. That way, the kids could see he was harmless.

He looked Donna straight in the eye as he murmured, “Honey, I’m home,” casually, as if they’d seen each other just this morning.

By now, she should have lost her wary stare. She should have fallen into her role in Acme’s grand scheme.
 

Instead, her eyes narrowed.
 

If looks could kill, he’d have dropped dead, right then and there.

What the hell was wrong with her?

Okay, so be it. She was still pissed at Ryan. He’d carry the show on his own.
 

First he bent down, so that he was nose-to-nose with Trisha. “Ah, so this is Trisha! My God, you’re the sweetest littlest princess in the world! Give me a big, big hug.”

The little girl gave him a shy pat on the shoulder, but when he rewarded her with a sly wink. She practically jumped into his arms. “Yes, that’s my girl!”
 

Seeing her brother move one step closer to him, Jack added, “And Jeff! Wow, boy, how about a handshake, huh?” Jack held out his hand.
 

The boy took it. When their eyes met, Jeff’s wariness melted away under his awed, approving gaze. He pumped Jack’s hand desperately, as if he never wanted to let go.
 

Jack was touched by the boy’s show of emotion. Still, so that he didn’t embarrass either of them, he made light of it. “You’re quite a bruiser, eh, kid?”

And then it was Mary’s turn:

Mary, who he knew to be the most jaded—and yes, the most traumatized of all Donna’s children.
 

I can’t blow this, he vowed. Otherwise, this mission dies, right here and right now.

We’ll never again have a chance like this to end the Quorum.

He started with a smile: one filled with adoration. He followed it up with a real hug—one he hoped would make her think,
he really missed me. He really loves me.

He’s really Dad.

She shivered slightly under his pat. Still, he persisted, albeit more gently, as if she were a fragile piece of china that might break if he wasn’t careful…

“Ah, Mary,” he murmured softly. “You beautiful little heartbreaker, you–”

But none of this takes her in. Instead, she looked over at her mother, as if to ask,
what now?
 

Donna stood there, speechless. Emotions flickered behind her eyes.

She’s going to blow it, he thought.
 

To hell with that
.

A second later, he was at her side. Before she could react, he took her in his arms. His lips brushed over hers, gently. Instinctively, she tried to pull back.

But he wouldn’t let her.
 

His kiss stopped her.