The Housewife Assassin's Killer Christmas Tips (12 page)

“Why should I trust you?
You kissed him
. Or are you going to tell me that Trisha is lying, that it’s just part of her imagination?”

I start to speak, but what can I say? He’s got me there.

He just doesn’t
get
it. “If you think I’m still—that I still love him, you’re wrong! I
love you
.”

Jack jerks his arm out of my grasp. “I know. That’s what makes it so hard. I have to
share
you…
with him
.”

He’s halfway to the staircase when I shout, “No, that’s not why you’re upset. You’re pissed because you had to share
her
with him.”

This stops him cold.

He turns back around. His eyes look so sad, so pained.

I want to say I’m sorry, to run into his arms, to beat him with my fists so that he gets it. I only love him. I only
want
him.

And I want him to feel the same about me.

But I say nothing.

We hold the gaze we share for what seems like an eternity, until he mutters, “Carl only loves one thing. Power. Too bad you haven’t already figured that out.” He shrugs. “But you’ve always been slow on the uptake right?”

He turns back around and heads back toward the stairs.

At some point, the waffle iron must have beeped again, but I didn’t hear it.

I open it to find Mickey’s latest offering charred and petrified.

I unplug the waffle iron. I’m tempted to throw it at Jack, but he’s too far away.

Instead, I shout up to the kids, to hurry up before they’re late for school.

By the time I get to Acme, Jack is already there. I’ve got to admit, he’s right about one thing. Carl can’t be trusted. That said, I’ve brought the iPads and Trisha’s doll with me so that Arnie can sweep the toys for bugs. If the items are cleared, they’ll go back under the tree.

If not, I’ll have to replace them, which means more time elbowing my way through the Apple store, and getting back on eBay to outbid all the other mommies freaking over the Furby
du jour
.

Ryan and Jack are holed up in Ryan’s office. I know Jack well enough to recognize all the signs that he’s irritated about something. He’s not smiling. He’s got his back up against the wall, literally. His fists are balled up and stuck deeply into his pants pockets. If his eyes were knives, Ryan would be sliced and diced into small pieces by now.

I presume they’re talking about me.

This is practically confirmed when Ryan glances over at me. Without even a wave, he strolls over to the Venetian blinds and turns them so that he and Jack can conduct their business in private.

Okay, be that way.

Something tells me the subject has nothing to do with my resemblance to Pippa.

I can live with that.

What I can’t live with is the thought that Jack actually thinks Carl means anything to me.

Or that I’m right, and Valentina still means a lot to Jack.

Or that Jack is requesting a transfer.

If that’s the case, I’ll be broken-hearted.

So will the kids.

This is all Carl’s fault. The son of a bitch knew exactly what he was doing when he dropped off those gifts. He was goading Jack into doubting me.

Well, he’s succeeded. For now. Until I get him in my sites again. Then he better run.

But he won’t be able to hide.

I’m not just a woman scorned. I’m a woman fighting for the best thing that ever happened to her, ex be damned.

My Technicolor revenge fantasy fades into black-and-white reality when Ryan hollers, “Stone! Get in here.”

I smile pretty and wave casually, but all the while, my heart and head are pounding.

I need time to think things out, to recoup, and to get a grip.

Let’s face it.
I need a vacation.

“So, what you’re telling me is that Jack and I will be spending three days on a luxury Sapphire Cruise ship as it makes its way from Cabo San Lucas to Los Angeles?”

Ryan nods solemnly. “We received intel last night that one of the missing MANPADs is being transported on the ship. Your job is to search and seize.”

“Works for me.” Yes!
Yes!
A few days of fun and sun.

With Jack, no less.

Or, maybe not. Usually I’d see that ghost of a smile on his lips indicating he’ll enjoy this assignment as much as I would. But right now, he won’t even look at me.

“This isn’t any ordinary cruise,” Ryan continues. “It’s being chartered by Greg Lardner.”

Of course, the name is familiar to me. “You mean the Silicon Valley venture capitalist?”

“Yes. It’s a private holiday party he puts on every year, for a close set of friends.”

“How did we rate an invitation?”

“A special friend of Acme put you on the guest list.” Ryan’s face turns a soft shade of pink. “But this isn’t some fun in the sun excursion. You’ll have to be open to a little—well, let’s just call it role playing.”

I glance over at Jack. “I don’t get it.”

Jack shrugs. “Greg and his wife, Persephone, are notorious swingers.”

Ah.
Now
I get it.

“He only invites those who are into” —Ryan gives a deep cough—“his bondage club.”

In the silence that follows, Ryan’s face darkens to the shade of a ripe tomato.

Jack may not give a damn, but I feel I should say something before the poor guy passes out. “What does this have to do with the missing MANPAD?”

“Lardner’s company is the lead investor in Sapphire Cruises,” Ryan explains. “Not only does the party give him a chance to play rough, it showcases the ship to potential passengers and investors, and it provides Lardner with a write-off for his sex parties. And now it also allows him to bring the MANPAD into a US port without going through the usual customs search.”

I nod. “I take it then, Lardner is involved with the Quorum?”

Finally, Jack turns to address me. “Donna, Lardner is one of the Quorum’s money men. Emma cracked one of the files on Jonah Breck’s hard drive with his name on it, along with records proving his role in the funding of Quorum terrorist acts. Apparently, Breck’s death left a vacancy on the Quorum’s controlling board of thirteen. Lardner is one of three Quorum members vying for the position. Getting the MANPAD through port security will get him the votes he needs to get on the board.”

“Do we know the other two contestants, or for that matter, the other twelve board members?”

Ryan shakes his head. “We’re working on it. But at the same time, we’ve got to stop the Quorum from taking down a plane. If our government folds to the Quorum’s blackmail demands, who knows what they’ll ask for next time?”

He’s got a point. And there is always a next time.

“The ship is one of the smaller ones owned by Sapphire,” Ryan says. “It’s called the Good Ship Lollipop.”

He can barely say this with a straight face.

He clears his throat, then continues, “There are fifty couples onboard. Everyone goes under assumed names. During their—well, for lack of a better word for it, ‘rendezvous’—Venetian masks are worn. Whomever Lardner chooses to partner up with for the evening will have access to his suite. It’s the only area within the ship in which Acme’s micro-drone surveillance hasn’t cleared, and that our AIT—advanced imaging technology—has not been able to penetrate, so it’s got to be in there.”

I nod. “Do you presume it’s under his bunk?”

“You should be so lucky if all he has in there is a bunk bed,” Jack mutters under his breath.

He’s still pouting. Well, that’s too bad. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Let me put it this way. If you thought Breck was sadistic, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Don’t be surprised if Lardner doesn’t respond to your ‘safety word.’”

Super duper. Why do I always get the sickos?

“But don’t worry,” Ryan says soothingly. “You’ll be mic’ed. That way if something goes wrong, Jack will be right there for you.”

A sudden coughing jag has Jack doubled up.

Okay, I get it. That’s his way of telling me I’ll deserve whatever I get.

I can’t wait to get out of Ryan’s office.

On my way out the door, Arnie hands back the kids’ presents. “These iPads and the Furby are as clean as a whistle.”

“Wow. Are you sure about that?”

The look he shoots me reminds me of Lassie, when I’ve taken away her favorite bone. “Okay, okay, sorry if I insulted you. I just—you know, I had to make sure.”

“Make sure of what?”

My spine stiffens involuntarily when I hear Jack’s voice coming from behind me.

Before I can give Arnie the high-sign, he responds, “Donna’s paranoid. She asked me to make sure these items weren’t blinged out with spyware. Hey, I know Apple can be intrusive, not to mention all the toy apps. But when it comes to online tracking they’ve got nothing on Google.”

I grab the stuff and head out to my car.

You’d think operatives working for an undercover organization could keep their lips zipped, right? No way. Working here is worse than high school.

And I’ve just been dumped by the captain of the football team.

Nothing new there.

“Welcome to the Good Ship Lollipop,” the Sapphire stewardess’s breathy murmur is more than a welcome.

It’s an outright invitation.
To Jack
.

The way she licks her pillowy lips, I’m guessing she gets lots of RSVPs.

Not that he’s looking at her lips. Her little sailor get-up is a feast for the eyes and wandering hands. Her captain’s cap, angled over one of her big glitter-lashed eyes with a jaunty tilt, gives her a naughty come-hither look. Her generous breasts and tiny waist are accentuated in a tight, low-cut candy apple red patent leather double-breasted jacket, which boasts two large pink buttons, at nipple height.

The tight matching skirt is also at the perfectly tempting height of nonexistent.

Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a bit about how short it is, but you get my point.

After devouring Jack with her eyes, she finally looks down at the invitation he has just handed her. “Mr. and Mrs. Smith?... Ah yes, here you are, on the ship’s guest  manifest. Among all the other ‘Mr. and Mrs. Smiths.’” An updraft of derision lifts one of her well-shaped brows to new heights.

However, it doesn’t stop her from stroking Jack’s hand gently as she hands over our room keys. “But seeing that you’re the only ‘X. Smiths,’ that makes life a bit easier. In fact, everyone on the ship goes by an alphabetical alias. You’re the last couple to board, so we’ll make yours ‘Mrs. X and
Mr
…
X.
’” 

She purrs the word “Mr.” as if it’s the most tantalizing morsel she’s ever put in her mouth.

My guess is that a lot has passed through those lips.

“You can call me Candy,” she offers. “Now, if you’ll please follow me to your suite.” As she slinks down the hall in her stiletto heels, she looks like a cat out on the prowl. Her skirt cups the curves of her bum like a second skin.

I’d slap Jack’s face out if its stupor, but I don’t want to attract an army of men begging me for more of the same. In this crowd, telling the tops from the bottoms is a cinch. Call me old-fashioned, but when a man puts on a tuxedo, it should be paired with a bowtie, not a spiked collar with a jeweled leash being yanked by his Plus-One.