The Housewife Assassin's Hostage Hosting Tips (Housewife Assassin Series Book 9) (25 page)

Really? Are you sure you want to know what I think?
 

Okay, Jack, if I’m to be honest, let me say right upfront: she scares the hell out of me. I think she’s here for the wrong reason. I think she blames you for how her life has gone…

But no, I can’t go there. He’s a man, which means I have to let him come to his own conclusion–

No harm, however, in pointing him in the right direction.

I purse my lips, as if I’m seriously contemplating his question. “I like her…a
lot..
.”
Not.

He takes my pause as a bad sign. (As he should. That’s Pavlovian. Well-trained men know to do this every time.)

“What?” Noting my pause, he braces himself against the back of the passenger seat.

“There is no ‘what,’” I assure him. “Frankly, I think she’ll fit right in.” I smile demurely. “To be honest, I think you’re right to let her ease back into things. You know, to make sure she’s not put into a situation in which she may sink as oppose to swim.” (And take the rest of you down with her, in Titanic proportions.
Iceberg! Iceberg!
)

His brows move closer together as he contemplates my assessment. Before he has a chance to speak, I add, “I presume her skills are a tad rusty?”

“We’ll know tomorrow after her shooting range and MA test.”

I pat his hand. “Good! And I presume she’ll be meeting with Dr. Bellows too.”

Jack shrugs. “He saw her before she joined us for lunch.”
 

He doesn’t sound too enthusiastic.
 

Of course, I want to know why. Arnie can wait. I’ve got to see if the good doctor is in.

Hopefully, he’s not.

Dr. Bellows must still be out to lunch, because his door is closed. Make that locked.

No problem. As a former Camp Scout Girl, I’m always prepared. Sadly, there is no scout badge for breaking and entering. When I’m done doing so, I peek in for visual confirmation: he’s not sitting at his desk.
 

All of Acme’s files are digital. I can only access his computer with a password–his, not mine, although mine is still active for now.

He should know better, but I try the usual stuff that most idiots use: 123456, QWERTY, PASSWORD, and his name (Bellows).

I’m getting nowhere, and it’s ten ’til the top of the hour. I may not have much more time.
 

I glance behind the desk at his credenza, to see if I can get some hint as to what his password might be. There are books on Freud and Jung. A picture of his dog (Freud) and his cat (Jung).

I can take a hint.
 

First I try FreudJung. Dead end.

Then I try JungFreud. Again, nothing.

Then it hits me: Phallus12

He wishes.

Bingo, I’m in. As luck would have it, her file is on his computer screen. Quickly, I skim it. I don’t like what I read.

Fear…Repression…Depression…

Risk for violence…Homicidal ideation…Possible suicidal tendencies…

More extensive evaluation strongly recommended.

Well, there it is, in black and white.

I’m sure Jack will be disappointed, but hey, better safe than sorry.

I hear snoring. I look around, only to realize Dr. Bellows is napping on his couch. Making that whimpering sound of a fearful dog. I guess he’s having a bad dream.

I’m not surprised, considering all he hears and sees.

I tiptoe out the door.

Jack comes home grumpy.

In anticipation of this, I have his favorite meal waiting for him: rare filet mignon, my famous garlic mashed potatoes, and braised Brussels sprouts. For dessert, I also try out a new recipe for angel food cake with an orange glaze.

Oh, and yes: a big tumbler of his favorite scotch.

I’ve dolled myself up. All through dinner, I smile. I flirt. I flutter my fingers against his skin to remind him who appreciates him.

He smiles, but it’s an effort. His eyes are weary. He’s got a lot on his mind. My guess is that after Dr. Bellows’ beauty rest, he buttonholed Jack and read him the riot act.

I guess the search for my replacement begins again.

In a way, I’m not disappointed when Jack heads up to the bedroom earlier than usual. I follow him up. While he undresses, I head for the bathroom. In the linen closet is a pretty pink box that holds just the right thing for making him forget his troubles and get happy: a new silk peignoir. It’s sheer white, short, and with a single silk ribbon to untie it, so that he may ravish me.

Or, considering his mood, I may be the one doing the ravishing.
 

When I’m through with him, he’ll call me his angel of mercy. He’ll feel invincible again. The error he made in considering Mara will still be an annoyance, but it won’t be the end of the world.

I am his world. And my goal? To make sure our world never ends.

By the time I get out of the bathroom, he’s asleep.

Hmmm.

I nudge him, but he’s out like a grizzly bear in winter.

I roll into bed beside him and wedge myself under his broad beam of an arm. I stare up at his face. Only while sleeping is his brow smooth and the corners of his mouth relaxed. I don’t remember a mission in which he was this tense. He is always the calm eye in the middle of every storm.

Then again, in the missions we’ve shared, he’s had me as his sounding board, his backup, his touchstone.

His gentle snoring lulls me to sleep too.

When I wake up, I’m shivering. The sun has yet to rise, but Jack is gone.

There is a note on my bedside table that reads:

Next time. I promise. –Jack

It’s nice to know he misses me as much as I miss him.

Chapter 16

Buffets

When faced with a large hungry crowd, forego the sit-down meal for a buffet! Here are a few tips on how to keep everyone happily fed and feted:

Tip #1: If the head count is over twenty, center your table in order to have two lines instead of one. That way, the line moves quickly–always a good idea if you expect a knock on the door from the local SWAT team.

Tip #2: Separate the silverware. Put all spoons in one easy-to-pluck-form preferably in a container, heads down; forks in another container, prongs down; and knives in a third one, blade down. Why? Because the last thing you need is for someone to reach in and cut their hand. However, if someone does and his blood splatters on the rare roast beef, fear not! You had the good sense to serve it rare, so just insist it’s “au jus”–anything to keep the line moving!

Tip #3: Inevitably, there is someone who has decided that chatting to the person behind them is more important than filling their plate and moving forward. For this person, a poke with a cattle prod is not at all inappropriate.

Bonus Advantage: Others watching him writhe in pain won’t dilly-dally either.

Bonus Disadvantage: They may actually run right out the door, so only use the cattle prod as a last resort.

As suggested in the Spooks Anonymous handbook, I must now work hard to fill my time with things that keep my mind off my old life, and focused on my new.
 

With that in mind, after school drop-off, I sign up for a class at Serenity Now, Hilldale’s yoga studio.

The woman at the reception desk–make that sitting upright on it, with her legs spread-eagled–introduces herself as Harmony. “Welcome! We look forward to having you live long and prosper!”

She’s certainly agile. Perhaps she’s Vulcan, as well. My eyes shift to her ears. I’m a tad dismayed to discover that they don’t have pointed tips. “Thank you, I’d like to sign up for your next class.”

“It starts in fifteen minutes,” she assures me. “But the true benefit of yoga isn’t a mere fifty-minutes of serenity, but a lifelong commitment to its virtues.” She grasps a class brochure with the toes on her right foot and holds it out to me.
 

Impressive. Of course, I’ve seen the same trick done by pole dancers, only in their case they’re reaching for a double sawbuck out of some guy’s jacket pocket.

The desk practically levitates as she goes over all the various plans, which when you cut the bullshit, boil down to this: minimally, a fifteen-class commitment for three hundred bucks.

Apparently, serenity does not come cheap.

But since it’s the price I need to pay to keep my mind off the life I left behind, I sign on the dotted line.
 

It’ll be worth it when I see the look on Jack’s face as I assume Harmony’s oh-so-bendy position.