The Housewife Assassin Gets Lucky Read online

  “Oh...” Jack and I murmur in unison.

  “Pardon?” Dominic’s tone warns us against pitying him.

  I opt for silence.

  Not Jack. He practically crows, “Wow! So, you really were just sleeping all this time!”

  My frown warns him not to rub it in.

  “Not alone,” Dominic sniffs. “Just…not with Lucky.” He must realize how disappointed he sounds because he quickly adds, “The subsequent conquest was worth it, if only to gather important intel on the target.”

  Not to mention how it might have assuaged his bruised ego.

  I smirk, “By conquest, do you mean Lavinia, or Prunella?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to mislead you. I meant to say ‘conquests,’ as in both lovely ladies.” The pride in his voice is broken with truculence as he adds: “Unlike Ms. O’Toole, I saw no need to crush anyone’s feelings.”

  I shake my head at his audacity. “How very kind of you. I’m sure they were both very appreciative.”

  “Thank you for that, dear Donna.” As always, Dominic somehow missed the sarcasm in my statement. “Indeed, their displays of gratitude were quite uplifting...Ah! Take note, Jack, as that was a jolly pun.”

  “Duly noted.” Jack shakes his head. “So, what exactly did your playmates divulge about Ms. O’Toole?”

  “They consider her buttoned-up. A perfectionist. Puts business before pleasure.” Dominic’s voice, low and languid, sounds as if he’s giving the play-by-play of a sex tape. I know him too well. He’s titillated by the thought of breaking her icy demeanor.

  “And rumor has it that she is engaged—to a Frenchman.” Dominic’s sigh was almost orgasmic.

  Ah, the ultimate challenge! Cuckolding a son from the Land of Love.

  Jack bows his head in disgust. When he’s able to collect himself, he mutters, “We’ll let you go, Dominic. I’m sure you’re anxious to report back to Ryan. God knows he’s chomping at the bit to hear from you.”

  “Oh…yes. About that, Old Chum. You wouldn’t mind covering for me, would you? Perhaps tell him that I’m working diligently to achieve…well, for a lack of a better word, shall we call it ‘infiltration?’” He laughs weakly. “Another indelicate pun, but apt.”

  I’ve never heard Dominic so disheartened. I pipe up, “Jack would be glad to contact Ryan on your behalf.”

  Jack slaps his forehead in disgust. I grimace as he grouses, “I’ll do it, but you owe me.”

  He says it to Dominic but he points to me too.

  To nudge Dominic out of his malaise, I murmur, “In any event, you’re still on Lucky’s radar—right?”

  There’s a long silence before Dominic vows, “Not to worry. After tonight, she’ll be obsessed with me.”

  He clicks off.

  Jack tosses the phone away. “Have you ever noticed that I’m ‘Old Chum’ only when he wants something from me?”

  “What have you got to complain about? No matter how many times I’ve pulled his fat out of the fire, I’m always ‘Old Girl’—emphasis on the old,” I retort. “Hey, that last thing he said before hanging up—it sounded…I don’t know. Ominous, I guess. What do you think he meant by it?”

  “Frankly, I couldn’t care less. Dominic needs to cut the lovesick schoolboy routine and get Lucky to tell him why she felt the need to check on Aziza as you were leaving; and if she came across the dead woman’s body. And if so, why wasn’t it a shock to her?”

  “If he’s smitten with her, he may not want to be the one to ask hard questions.”

  Jack frowns “Why not?”

  “She may be his…you know, his Valentina.” After this slips out I bite my tongue.

  Jack flinches at the name of his now deceased wife. “Or your Carl,” he replies evenly.

  “Fair enough,” I murmur.

  Valentina stole Acme intelligence from Jack, and then faked her own death—but not before turning the intel over to her lover: my ex-husband Carl, who also disappeared, presumed dead.

  Jack is right. Love is complicated.

  Up until now Dominic has always used sex as his super power. Here’s hoping Lucky O’Toole isn’t his Kryptonite.

  “Dominic asked you to call me on his behalf?” Ryan is shouting so loud that Jack must lower the volume on his cell phone. “Why the hell would he do that?”

  “He’s still…under cover.” How Jack is able to say that without snickering is beyond me. To keep from giggling I purse my lips.

  Ryan’s silence is more ominous than his snarl. Finally, he says, “I see. Well, relay a message to him. If I don’t hear from him in the next twenty-four hours, he can stay in his homeland at the risk of MI6 rescinding his Acme-granted Interpol clearance based on the incident that got him tossed out of the agency in the first place.”

  Yikes.

  “For what?” Jack wonders.

  “That’s classified,” Ryan retorts.

  “Aw, come on. Give us a hint,” I ask.

  Silence.

  I’m not above begging. “Pretty please?”

  “Prince Harry. Vegas,” Ryan retorts. “Need I say more?”

  Jack’s eyes open wide. Like me, the incident is easy to remember considering the avalanche of news coverage it garnered.

  “I’ll make sure Dominic calls you with an update,” Jack promises.

  Ryan grunts his thanks. “By the way, I’ve asked Abu to tail the O’Toole woman whenever she leaves the hotel. If she’s working with others, we need to know it.”

  “Smart move,” I reply. As much as he’d love to, Dominic can’t have eyes on the O’Toole woman at all times. And if she spotted him, she’d surely find it suspicious based on the interaction they’ve already had—or, apparently haven’t had.

  “As for your meeting with Aziza’s handler, it’s to take place at 12:00 today,” Ryan adds. “You and Donna are to meet him on the southeast bench facing the Joy of Life fountain in Hyde Park. He’ll be on the lookout for a canoodling couple.”

  “That’s easy enough,” I reply.

  “His code name is Vulture,” Ryan continues. “He’ll have a pair of binoculars with him, and he’ll use it in a sentence after you give him the passphrase, ‘What a splendid place for bird watching.’”

  “Got it,” Jack says.

  “Thanks, Craigs. Now, let’s wrap this thing up.” He rings off.

  I frown. “No one is more anxious to do that than me. I’ve already gotten a ranting phone call from Penelope Bing, grousing about Aunt Phyllis’ choice for the prom’s theme: ‘Game of Thrones’”

  “That sounds innocent enough,” Jack replies.

  “It would be—if she hadn’t ordered a pyrotechnics show and a roomful of medieval weaponry.”

  “Frankly, I think it’ll be a big hit with the students,” Jack counters. “Penelope is just jealous because she didn’t think of it first.”

  “You’re probably right. Now that Peter is about to remarry, Penelope is afraid of losing Cheever’s affections to his new stepmom. Even Jeff has admitted that Peter’s fiancée is quite a hottie.” I sigh. “I guess Penelope is worried that Aunt Phyllis is stealing her thunder.”

  “If she’s so worried about it, why doesn’t she take over as prom coordinator?”

  I slap my mouth in mock shock. “But that might mean breaking a nail! And besides, if the prom is a flop, who would she blame then?”

  Jack tweaks my nose. “As always, you—even from fifty-five hundred nautical miles away.”

  My cell buzzes with another text. As I read it, I groan.

  “What is it now?” Jack asks.

  “Penelope again. My God, it’s the middle of the night there! Doesn’t that woman ever sleep?”

  “Not when she’s got a victim in her sights,” Jack reminds me. “In this case, Aunt Phyllis—and you. What does she write now?”

  “For some cockeyed reason, Aunt Phyllis thought that hiring a Goth band made up of little people would be the ideal entertainment at the dance!”

  Jack shrugs.
“At the very least, it fits the theme, what with the popularity of Peter Dinklage’s character—Tyrion Lannister.”

  I finagle with my cell phone settings. “They can duke it out. I’m muting their texts until we land in Los Angeles. In the meantime, we’d better get ready to meet ‘Vulture.’”

  “Not before we call Dominic and read him the riot act,” Jack reminds me. He hits the digits of the man in question.

  “Yes?” Dominic mutters.

  “Call Ryan.”

  “Dear Chap, isn’t that what you were supposed to do for me?”

  “‘Dear Chap’ did as requested and took it on the chin for you,” Jack retorts. “Ryan sends you a message in return. If you don’t call within twenty-four hours, then you can quote-unquote, ‘stay in his homeland at the risk of MI6 rescinding his Acme-granted Interpol clearance.’ He said you’d know what that means.”

  Silence.

  Finally, Dominic sighs. “I’ll call now.”

  I hate to hit him when he’s down, but it’s time I remind him that he’s got something near and dear to my heart: “Dominic, can we meet up in a couple of hours? How about Berkeley Square Gardens at, say, thirteen hundred. Bring the Hermès handbag. Mama misses her new baby.”

  With all the traffic going in and out of his room, he’d better return it before one of his liaisons finds it too tempting to resist.

  “But…but what if Lucky leaves the club in the meantime?” Dominic sputters. “Ryan will have my head if I miss another chance to interrogate her!”

  “Ryan knows you’ve got her covered inside the Babylon. He’s asked Abu to tail her should she roam from the club,” Jack informs him.

  “Abu?” Dominic’s voice cracks. “So, that’s it! Ryan is losing confidence in me!”

  The look on Jack’s face reflects mine. Obviously, Dominic’s response has him just as worried.

  “Not at all,” I say in the same soothing tone I used with the kids when they were teething toddlers. “It’s just that you’re on Lucky’s radar, whereas Abu won’t be noticed. Listen, Dominic, the park is only a few blocks from the club.”

  “Your damn purse can wait!” he retorts. “Ms. O’Toole is the first priority.”

  I flinch at his fear. Covering the phone’s mic, I hiss, “I’ve never seen him like this! He’s losing it over that woman!”

  “Not on my watch,” Jack vows. “We’ve got to get him out of the club, if only to talk some sense into him,” He takes the phone. “Dominic, you agreed you owed me one. Well, this is the one. No arguments! You’ll meet us in Berkeley Square Gardens at 13:00. It’ll take all of ten minutes, tops, which still gives you plenty of time to get back and into your goddam bespoke tuxedo in order to impress Ms. O’Toole at the casino table.”

  “Blimey…” Dominic’s anguish is palpable. Finally: “Well then, so be it.”

  The phone line goes dead.

  “I’ve never seen him so lovesick,” Jack mutters.

  “Men are always taken with the woman who plays the hardest to get,” I point out.

  “No—in this case, I’d say he’s got it—and bad,” Jack counters.

  If so, it’s with the worst person possible: Our target, Lucky O’Toole.

  We’ve got to make him realize what’s at stake.

  Jack and I stroll arm in arm into Hyde Park. We’re dressed casually—jeans and heavy jackets, woolen caps tugged low, and scarves around our necks. We also wear sunglasses—wishful thinking that the sun will win its game of peek-a-boo with a frigid, thickening fog.

  We’re not shy with our public displays of affection. The fact that it’s part of our cover makes it all the sweeter. Sure beats all the times we must pretend we don’t know each other.

  We are twenty minutes early. The park bench that is the rendezvous point with Aziza’s handler is currently Ground Zero for a gaggle of giggling schoolgirls, no more than seven or eight years old, who are taking their recess. Other students dip their hands into the fountain’s basin in order to sprinkle chilly drops of water on each other and then run away, squealing with delight.

  Ten minutes later their teachers round them up and walk them out of the park, leaving us to sit on a far side of the designated wooden bench.

  I lean my head on Jack’s shoulder.

  “That’s not exactly ‘canoodling,’” he reminds me.

  “You’re right. And since we’re to give off all the right signals…” I swing my legs into his lap and stroke his cheek.

  He puts his arms around me and pulls me closer.

  When our lips meet, it’s all too easy to lose myself in our kiss. As my eyelids close, drowsy with delight, the sounds around us seem to intensify. The chirping birds flying overhead are symphonic. The bits and pieces of conversations of others as they walk by rise and fall with a self-deprecating British lilt. It’s a welcomed reprieve from the humble bragging you’re sure to hear in my neighborhood of L.A. movers-and-shakers and yummy mommies.

  My eyes finally open when the crunch of gentle footsteps on gravel stops short.

  The man, short and slight, wears a heavy wool reefer and bowler hat pushed so low that it covers his eyebrows and grazes his dark glasses. He sports a fake goatee and mustache: Well, at least the goatee is pasted on. A faint auburn smudge is a telltale sign that his mustache has been dyed to match his chin fringe.

  And yes, he wears binoculars around his neck.

  Jack nods genially. “What a splendid place for bird watching.”

  “Indeed,” the man declares. “In fact, from here I’ve even spotted a vulture or two…” As his voice trails off, his eyes grow large.

  Jack follows his stare—

  To me. More specifically, to my right ring finger.

  When the man takes off his sunglasses to get a better look, I find myself staring at Nigel Ahern.

  I’m shocked enough to leap off Jack’s lap.

  I land on gravel.

  “You?” Nigel and I hiss in unison.

  “Sit down—both of you,” Jack warns us in a low snarl.

  With as much dignity as I can muster, I rise and take my place beside Jack on the bench.

  Slowly, Nigel lowers himself beside me.

  I collect myself enough to murmur, “I’m certainly surprised to see you in this capacity, Mr. Ahern.”

  “You surprise me as well, ‘Princess Maja.’” He does a piss poor job hiding his smirk. “Although, I suppose, I should have suspected the princess would eventually come into play in this mission.”

  “I don’t know how. She didn’t exist until the moment I stepped foot into your club.”

  “As a mute, no less.” He glances skyward, as if the answer to all riddles could be found in the fog draping our heads. “Mr. Fleming’s ploys should be less transparent.”

  I shake with anger. “He gave me away?”

  “Not at all,” Nigel assures me. “If you must know, when I bowed over your hand, I noticed you’d chipped a nail.” He points to my right ring finger.

  “You’re quite observant.” I shrug, silently cursing the oversight. Note to Self: always carry your last polish shade with you, along with a bit of polish remover, especially if you’re going to beat someone to a bloody pulp.

  “My keen eye has saved me on numerous occasions.” He bobs his head proudly. “As for Mr. Fleming, as an MI6 case officer, I am quite aware of his bona fides as an international bon vivant. Whereas his exploits—or, more correctly, his sexploits—provide great cover for his missions, they’ve also made him legendary in our tight-knit covert community. Who hasn’t snuck a peek at his Interpol dossier, if only for a few moments of titillating diversion, courtesy of the perennial winner of the Undercover Lover Award?”

  “I, for one,” Jack mutters. He glances in my direction.

  My blush is my tell. If he’s looking for company, he ain’t getting it from me.

  Noting my discomfort, Nigel adds, “Rest assured Mr. Fleming’s cover is safe with me. I must admit, though, I’ve admired his technique—from
afar, that is. As for his relationship with Princess Maja, I assumed she was a target as opposed to one of us. Dominic usually works alone, for obvious reasons.”

  No better time for me to change the subject. “We are sorry about the loss of your asset, Aziza.”

  Nigel’s eyes cloud with tears. “She was a true patriot—not just to her country and region, but to the Organization.”

  “Did Aziza reveal to you the contents of the intel, or at least give you a clue?” I ask.

  He lowers his head. “No. But because her goal was to foster peace in the Middle East, her intel was always useful in that regard. This time, however, she warned me that it was explosive in its nature and insisted that it was to be passed up the line by her and only her. She said it was her way to protect me…in case anything should happen to her. She knew she was in danger.”

  “What did you think when she disappeared last night?” Jack asked.

  “I did my best not to panic—especially when a maid informed me that something was amiss in the room.”

  “What did she mean by that?” I ask.

  “Aziza left a clue for me, in the Royal suite,” Nigel explains. “The flowers were all wrong.”

  Jack frowns. “I don’t understand.”

  “The sheik usually requests yellow roses. The housekeepers are keen to his demands, and I know they’d followed through with the right order. But the flowers had been replaced with red dahlias.”

  “And you think this had something to do with Aziza’s disappearance?”

  Nigel nods. “I’m sure of it. We’d worked it out as a signal that she’d be in danger.” Nigel shakes his head angrily. “I must admit, it shook me to my core! I’m sure the club’s owner felt my demeanor was off-kilter.”

  “You mean Lucky O’Toole,” I say.

  His eyes widen, surprised I’d know her name. “Yes. Albeit, Ms. O’Toole’s actions were no less strange. She appeared yesterday with just a few hours’ warning. She specifically asked for Aziza. When she heard she was in the Royal Suite assuring that the next guest’s requests had been met, Ms. O’Toole went up immediately as opposed to leaving word for Aziza to join her in the manager’s office. When it became obvious to me that Aziza had somehow disappeared into thin air, I asked Ms. O’Toole if she knew where she might have gone. Ms. O’Toole’s answer was both coy and ambiguous.”