The Housewife Assassin Gets Lucky Page 15

  To be honest, doubt pummeled me at the moment as well. I twirled the ring on my left ring finger—a nervous habit. A ten-table ring, as my mother called it—so large it could be seen ten tables away. My chef didn’t scrimp—on anything. He was a man of his word. And one of very discriminating tastes. I’d made my promise and I intended to honor it.

  Now, how to get what I wanted without having to sacrifice my principles or break Mr. Fleming’s perfect Roman nose?

  I shrugged myself off the doorjamb. “I behaved badly. I’d like to make it up to you.”

  His cheeks were still flushed from the cold, his fingers cool when they brushed the small of my back as he ushered me inside. A chill shivered through me.

  You shouldn’t be here.

  A young woman had died. And I’d appointed myself Inspector Clouseau. Not that this was new or anything, but just once you’d think I’d learn to accept a seat on the sidelines. As I looked for my own little bit of Switzerland in which to stand—not too close to the bed, and not looking like I was ready to jump out the window—I studiously avoided the sex-in-the-Poconos set-up. “I thought you might let the wine breathe a bit.”

  “An oversight, but as I didn’t know when you might arrive…” Seductions usually weren’t lunchtime quickies. “Besides, I thought you might like to do the honors. An impressive and educated choice, I might add.”

  It was rather thoughtful of him, allowing me to see he hadn’t doctored the wine. Although, Dominic Fleming, as overstated as he was, didn’t seem the type to have to pull a Bill Cosby, but I appreciated his consideration all the same. I did the honors. “Wine?”

  He took the glass I offered. He did the gentlemanly thing, waiting for me to join him. I poured myself a healthy dose before he set his glass on the table.

  Maybe he didn’t need a quick shot of liquid courage, but I sure did.

  Despite my best efforts to hide it, my hands shook. I’d played out this cat-and-mouse game a hundred times…no, more than that. Sin City invited boorish behavior. Yet, tonight I felt somehow in over my head.

  Dominic Fleming was a foolish parody of the man he wanted to be. Nothing to worry about. I smiled as I eyed him over the lip of my glass, then took a sip. Sex in a bottle, someone had said when reviewing this particular vintage. Reluctantly, I agreed. One taste and lesser women would shed clothing for more. Probably not the right wine to have sent. Leave it to me to screw up a feigned seduction.

  My attention turned back to the man in front of me, oozing virility and confidence. A warning bell echoed somewhere in the dark recesses of my gut which tension tied in knots.

  Was he a fool, or merely playing one? A sliver of fear cut through me as my gut gave me the answer I feared. In over my head in a foreign country with no one to ride to the rescue and in a compromising situation. Would that be going out on top or on the bottom?

  Neither would be satisfying.

  “How do you propose making amends for your boorish behavior,” he pressed a hand to his chest, his most delicious chest, “and most hurtful rebuff?”

  “Well,” I sidled in close and played with the collar of his pajamas. “What could I do to possibly make you feel better?” Jesus, I sounded like a complete idiot. How did women do this without throwing up?

  Now I pretty much knew who was the fool in this duo.

  Without warning, he grabbed my wrist and jerked me toward the bed behind him. My wine went flying, hitting like blood spatter as the burgundy liquid stitched the wall. “Shit!”

  He landed on top of me, pinning me beneath him, his hands encircling my wrists, a knee in my stomach.

  Most of my breath left me in a whoosh. “Okay, you like it rough,” I wheezed, using my last bit of breath. “I’m down with that.” I was so not down with that! I sucked in a lungful of air. “But that was a waste of superb vino.”

  “A small price to pay to taste your delectables.”

  He so did not say that, did he?

  He’d called my bluff and raised it. “Enough!” I got a knee underneath him, then pushed upwards as hard as I could. At the same time, I lifted my head. Our foreheads met with a meaty thunk. I was prepared; he was not. His grasp on my wrists loosened with surprise. I yanked my hands free. Pushing him all the way off me, I rolled off the other side of the bed. I staggered as I centered myself over my feet. The blow had left me woozy.

  Dominic didn’t appear at all affected, other than maybe being a bit put out. He rubbed the red splotch on his forehead as he eyed me across the bed. “You and I have slightly different definitions of making nice.”

  “You gave me every indication you like it rough.” My world spun. I blinked rapidly trying to bring the room into focus. Stars flitted by.

  “Why are you here? And what game are you playing?” Dominic inched closer, moving around the end of the bed.

  “Stay there!” I staggered once to the side. My hand found the window sash.

  He stopped.

  “What game am I playing? Me?” The room spun around me as if I was Dorothy being carried to Oz.

  I glanced at his glass of wine, still untouched.

  I had taken a couple of long pulls on mine before it had been sacrificed to foreplay.

  “What did you do?” My vision telescoped until a pinprick of light was all I saw. Then the light went out.

  The world faded. Noises retreated.

  He caught me as I fell.

  Then nothing.

  16

  Donna

  “The deed is done,” Dominic is heaving so loudly on speakerphone that I worry he may be having a heart attack. “I feel terrible about it!”

  It’s almost a quarter after three. Abu has procured a limo and driven us to an alley beside the Babylon Club London. Jack and I are in the back seat with Arnie, who is still hacked into the club’s security system. Since Dominic has already told the concierge desk to allow us to go up to his room, we probably won’t need to scrub footage. Still, planning for unforeseen circumstances is covert ops standard operating procedure.

  The goal is to walk Lucky right out the front door under her own power. By allowing her staff to see her leave of her own free will, they’ll accept her absence no matter how long she’s gone. If she refuses to tell us the truth about her role in Aziza’s death, she may be gone from here—and everywhere—permanently. The CIA doesn’t take kindly to one of its operatives being exterminated, let alone two.

  “I take it that means Lucky is out cold?”

  “Yes. But…I’m keeping her warm,” Dominic assures us.

  Jack covers the phone’s mic with his palm. “What the hell do you think that means?” he hisses to me.

  I drop my head, disgusted. “My guess is that he’s got her laid out on his bed, surrounded by rose petals and burning scented candles.”

  Arnie’s mouth drops open. “Like Sleeping Beauty?”

  “More like a fool in love,” I mutter.

  “No, more like the narcissistic knucklehead he is, especially to the one woman who’s turned down his come-ons,” Jack declares.

  “Hey, I turned him down, too!” I point out.

  “Barely,” Jack grumbles.

  From his sly smile, I realize he’s teasing me.

  Arnie is staring at his computer screen. “Well, whattaya know—Dominic has a video camera linked to his phone…and right now he’s changing out of his pajamas.” Arnie’s eyes open wide. “Did they…well, you know—do the dirty deed?”

  “If so, and he wore those pajamas, that might have been enough torture for the poor girl,” Jack declares.

  He deserves—and receives—a pinch for that.

  Then I open the car door and pull him through it.

  For our disguises, Jack’s hair is temporarily streaked blond and rises above his head, like blades of grass on an unruly lawn. He wears round tortoise shell glasses. A bright, red cashmere scarf gives his bespoke tuxedo a jaunty nonchalance.

  The curly auburn locks of my wig practically reach my waist. My silver s
equined dress covers so little skin that it might better be described as a well-placed Band-Aid. Despite the chill, my silver fox stole hangs off one shoulder; a large, gaudy Mylar handbag over the other.

  By the time the bellman opens the front door, Jack has lowered a hand, resting it on the center of my bum, like some cheeky chappy steering his tarty party girl into their first stop of many during this night on the town.

  As we waltz in, I look at the front desk, and suddenly it hits me: Nigel isn’t there to cast a disdainful yet knowing eye on us.

  He did an admirable job of hiding his fervent patriotism beneath a milquetoast demeanor.

  As if reading my mind, Jack draws me into a kiss but first whispers, “Don’t worry, Lucky will pay for it.”

  By the time we reach the concierge desk, I’ve pulled myself out of Jack’s lip lock and purr, “Breathless Mahoney and Sir John Finsbury to see Mr. Fleming.”

  I’m sure that Prunella and Lavinia’s scowls have nothing to do with my spot on Scottish accent and everything to do with Dominic’s rebuttal of their blackmail scheme. Watching Lucky waltz out of here on Dominic’s arm will undoubtedly add to their angst.

  “Yes, Mr. Fleming is expecting you,” Lavinia sniffs. She nods to Prunella, who saunters out from behind the desk to ring for the elevator. When it arrives, she inserts her security card then mumbles, “Third floor, room three double O seven.”

  “No surprise there,” Jack murmurs as the doors close.

  As the lift rises, we hide our faces from the camera the most natural way possible: by feigning uncontrollable lust.

  The second Jack backs me up against the back wall, his hands and lips wander over me. To make our touchy-feely game easier for him, my left leg snakes over his hip. When I draw him in so close, he murmurs, “I want to be able to walk out of here on two legs, not three.”

  Okay, full disclosure here: we ain’t faking nothin’.

  The elevator announces our floor with a chime that seems to have been stolen from Big Ben.

  Come to think of it that might be a cute nickname for Jack’s third leg. After our mission is accomplished, I’ll ask him what he thinks of this idea. It’ll give us something fun to remember this mission by, other than death, deceit, and a torture session that may be necessary but won’t be easy on any of us—

  Least of all, Lucky.

  I am happy to report that Ms. O’Toole is not the subject of a Sleeping Beauty diorama. Still, I find it disconcerting to find her on Dominic’s lap, propped up like a rag doll.

  Tenderly, he strokes her cheek. She mumbles something, but I can’t make it out. “Fuck off,” maybe?

  To Dominic, even that indistinguishable utterance is a term of endearment. Still, he is concerned enough that a tiny wrinkle is creasing his Botoxed brow. “During the interrogation, Craigs, I only ask that you don’t break her pert little nose!”

  “Gee, okay. Any other requests?” I open my bag as if rummaging for a notepad. Instead, I pull out a couple of clear, snap-on two-hand restraints along with a black wool crepe cape that we’ll fling over Lucky to shield the fact that her march through the lobby is being coerced.

  My question puts a grateful smile on Dominic’s lips. “Since you asked: please spare her eyes. They are the most lovely shade of blue!” He lifts one of her eyelids to make his point.

  Jack gives a grudging nod. “I’ll see what I can do. Hey, Dom, listen: I have no problem going in with a good cop-bad cop stance—you, being the good cop, of course. But, should things get a little rough—waterboarding, electric shock, I have to cut off a finger joint or two—can I count on you to hold it together? No crying, no tearful pleas to stop? You know, nothing that may make Ryan ask us to put you out of your misery too…” Jack’s voice trails off.

  Still, he waits patiently for an answer.

  I take it as a good sign that Dominic’s back stiffens with indignation. “You’re planning a full black-site interrogation? My God, man! By rough, I thought you meant a little slap and tickle—which, quite frankly, I could have easily handled here without you.”

  Oh, brother. “I think you have your answer,” I inform Jack.

  Before Jack slaps Dominic silly, I move between them. “Stand her up,” I tell Dominic.

  He does as I ask, but Lucky almost tips over.

  Thankfully, Jack catches her.

  I snap one side of a two-hand restraint on Lucky’s left wrist. I then position Dominic on her right and take his left arm and put it around her waist before snapping the second part of her restraint on his left hand.

  “Now, put your hand over hers.”

  As Dominic does this, Lucky’s cuffed arm bends naturally, giving the impression of intimate closeness. “Now, walk her around the room a few times.”

  At first, her movements are slow and sloppy, like a marionette with a few snipped strings. Soon, though, her sluggishness is barely noticeable.

  Staring at them in wonder, Jack asks, “How did you come up with this idea?”

  “When I go to Trisha’s ballet classes, I watch the choreography,” I explain. “Of course, the students aren’t doped and slurring their words.”

  Just as Lucky is doing now, unfortunately.

  “What can we do about that?” Jack asks.

  “We converse with her,” I reply. “Jack, you walk on Lucky’s left side. Be alert in case she slips or trips. Dominic, you and Jack should talk to each other, as if she’s all there and you’re having an intense conversation with her. I’ll laugh and chime in periodically.”

  I take the cape and tie it around Lucky. It covers the restraints, no problem.

  “Are we ready?” I ask.

  Dominic nods hesitantly.

  And we’re off.

  “You guys look great,” Arnie murmurs through our earbuds. He’s watching us through the club’s feed.

  The elevator chimes when it reaches the ground floor. Dominic and Jack, steering Lucky between them, begin a heated discussion of a recent Premier League football game between Tottenham Hotspur and Newcastle United. Walking beside Jack, I giggle and lean in as if sharing asides with Lucky, whose tongue is too thick to form words with vowels.

  We’ve almost made it to the front door when one of the receptionists comes rushing over: the sweet one, Julie. “Ms. O’Toole? Ms. O’Toole! I’m sorry to disturb you, but Mr. Ahern seems to have disappeared—”

  At that second, Dominic suddenly stops short, and Lucky’s head swings right: giving Dominic the perfect opportunity to kiss her.

  It is a long kiss.

  Too long.

  My God, if he doesn’t let her come up for air, he may kill her before we get the answers we need...

  I turn to Julie, who seems to have turned to stone. From the look on her face, she’s more than shocked; she’s horrified.

  To break the spell, I tap her on the shoulder. “Are you inquiring about the club’s manager, dear?...Yes?...As it turns out, Ms. O’Toole received a phone call just as we left Mr. Fleming’s room. It seems that Mr. Ahern was called away on a family emergency.”

  “Oh…” Julie frowns, seemingly perplexed by this new bit of information.

  As Dominic and Jack sweep Lucky out the door, I add, “She tried to reach someone else in the front office—someone by the name of Julie, I think?”

  “That would be me.”

  “Ah, brilliant! She wanted to ask you to take over Mr. Ahern’s duties this evening while she entertains Mr. Fleming.” I nod in their direction. “Don’t they make an adorable couple? Granted, it all happened so very fast!” Nudging her, I add, “It may look as if he’s swept her off her feet, but in truth, she made the first move—with a bottle of Chateaux Margaux! Smart, wasn’t it?” I wink knowingly. “Well, ta-ta for now!”

  “Where is the black site?” I ask.

  Lucky has passed out in the back of the limousine. Dominic cradles her head in his lap. In that dubious position, it dawns on me that, at least for now, Lucky isn’t living up to her name.

 
Dominic shrugs at my question. “Barchester Manor. It’s across from Regent’s Park, on Outer Circle.”

  “Posh area,” I murmur.

  “It should be. I paid enough for it,” Dominic murmurs.

  I raise a brow.

  “Acme rents it from me, but I’m allowed to use it when I’m in town.”

  “Is it secluded?” Jack asks.

  “It’s on four acres.” Dominic glares at Jack. “No one should hear her screams if that’s what you’re asking.”

  It is, but Dominic already knows this.

  It’s only a fifteen-minute ride.

  A brick wall surrounds the home and its massive gardens. Dominic gives Abu the security code that swings open the wrought iron gate. A four-story brick Gothic-era mansion crowns the circular quarter-mile gravel driveway.

  The estate’s exterior boasts three arched entry doors. A turret sits on its left like a crown shoved to one side of a monarch’s head. Above the gabled attic, there are enough chimneys to employ an army of sweeps.

  “Give us the tour,” Jack suggests to Dominic. “Arnie, come in with us. Abu, watch Sleeping Beauty for a few minutes, okay?”

  Abu nods as he repositions the rearview mirror on Lucky.

  The interior is just as impressive: each of the main floor’s rooms—foyer, living room, dining room, library—is traditionally styled with oversized Queen Anne furnishings and portraits of regal ancestors. And yet, no modern amenity is spared.

  “This is more like a grand hotel than a black site,” Jack notes.

  Dominic nods towards an alcove tucked off the central hall. “You’ve yet to see the dungeon.”

  The alcove holds an elevator. When Dominic pushes the button, it opens immediately. “Entrez vous.”

  We descend into a basement. Okay, to be honest, it’s more like some dominatrix’s fantasy lair.