The Housewife Assassin's Ghost Protocol (2 page)

Wall-to-ceiling drapes give us complete privacy from the beach sides, if that is what we desire. We’ve yet to open them. Needless to say, we’ve been sleeping like newborns, partying like co-eds during Spring Break, and making love like the newlyweds we are.

So then, why do I feel as if our honeymoon is over?

“You’re not here with me,” Jack murmurs, despite the fact that I am nestled, naked, in the crook of his arm.

As usual, his intuition is spot on. My mind is a million miles away—in this case, the Beverly Wilshire on the day of my rendezvous with Salem Rahmin al-Sadah. My game plan was to retrieve intel secreted in his ring bearing the crest of the Quorum. His was to dominate me into sexual submission.
 

I got the ring. He got a bullet to the heart.
 

Now, I wonder: did Salem survive my kill shot? And, if so, how?

Under normal circumstances, post-coitus isn’t the best time for post-op analysis. Still, Jack asked, so in for a dime, in for a dollar. “Hearing the name al-Sadah spooked me, I guess.” I lift my head so that I can gauge his reaction to what I say next. “Jack, don’t you find it strange that Salem’s death was never made public? Why have we never heard a word about it?”

“Acme cleaned up behind us.” Hearing the wariness in my tone, he adds, “Would it make you feel better if I called Ryan to confirm?”

“No, no—don’t! I mean…well, we’ve been gone almost two weeks now, and we’ve held to our vow to stay away from work and home.” By the time I’ve flipped over onto his chest, I’ve got a smile on my face. “I guess I’m a little bored…not to mention homesick.”

Hearing this, his left brow almost hits the ceiling. “Oh, really? Despite having all of Hilldale on twenty-four hour surveillance?”

Okay, he’s right. As far as my three children are concerned, I’ve not exactly gone dark. I’m monitoring Mary, Jeff, and Trisha’s comings and goings, as well as those of our legal ward, Evan Martin.
 

“A parent can never be too diligent.” Even to my own ears, my retort sounds a bit defensive. To make my point, I add, “Have you forgotten they’re with Aunt Phyllis? It’s akin to leaving the craziest inmate in charge of the asylum!”
 

Jack shrugs. “Granted, she’s been lax about the amount of TV they watch, and the number of video games they’re allowed to play—”
 

“To say nothing about late bedtimes and the number of sleepovers she’s allowed,” I remind him. “Our home is now Hilldale’s teen party central! And let’s face it: she turns a blind eye to the obvious attraction between Mary and Evan. Since we’ve been gone, their flirting has become a full-court press.”

“Donna, doll, you’re jumping to all kinds of unfounded conclusions—”

“Unfounded?” It’s my turn to hike a brow. “They’ve been sneaking off to the playhouse in the back. It’s the only place on the property that doesn’t have a webcam.” Suddenly, I sit straight up in bed. “Oh, my God! There’s a bed in there! Granted, it’s only a twin—”

He pulls me back down into his arms. Gently, he puts a finger against my lips. “It’s only natural that they feel empathy toward each other. They’ve both suffered public humiliations: parents who committed heinous crimes, as well as the personal tragedies of a parent’s death. In Evan’s case, both his father and mother. How many kids their age can say that?”
 

I flinch, knowing that my mother’s fight with terminal breast cancer still haunts me. I was only eleven when she died.
 

Noting my reaction, Jack traces the curve of my face with his index finger. He has always been tender with me after lovemaking. But since his escape from Mexico, sadness deepens his already dark green eyes.
 

I concede with a nod. “You’re right. I’m overreacting. I guess I’m antsy because I’m not use to just being…well,
happy
.” I sigh. “I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Jack’s kidnapping, on the night of our nuptials, almost killed us, and I mean that quite literally. While his sadistic captor pitted him in a series of death matches against other prisoners, I was at the beck and call of another of the Quorum’s notorious leaders, Eric Weber.
 

Eric promised to release Jack if I followed through on a series of tasks that, when completed, would have marked me as a domestic terrorist. I did the tasks, but I had help. My team at Acme Industries shadowed my every move so that any intel I passed was black propaganda, and the kidnapping of an aeronautic scientist working on a top secret government project was extracted into WITSEC—the US Marshall’s Witness Security Program.
 

Granted, there was one screw-up: my final mission was to exterminate my boss, Ryan Clancy.

Eric’s directive was delivered at a time when I was naked, both in the Biblical sense and in the vernacular of our business—that is to say, I had no backup, and therefore no way to warn Ryan that I’d be gunning for him.

To save Jack, the hit had to take place.
 

So, yeah, I killed my boss and mentor.

As it turns out, Acme had my room bugged. Without my knowledge, Ryan’s death was faked. I would say “all’s well that ends well” except for the fact that despite jumping through all those hoops, I still almost lost Jack, both physically and emotionally.
 

Never again.
 

“I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend the rest of our honeymoon reliving the worst day of our lives.” If Jack’s vow echoes my very thoughts, his actions speak louder than words. He kisses me: first, fiercely; but soon his actions become a drawn out achingly gentle game of touch and feel.
 

He’s in it to win it.

He gains big points as his lips slide down my neck and between my breasts. There, he pauses for a moment. His eyes shifting to my right breast, then to the left, like a kid who has landed on a Candy Land game board and doesn’t know which way to turn.

The left proves the luckier of the two.
 

His mouth seems to swallow it whole. Instinctively, I brace for the tingle due to come from the feel of his tongue on my nipple. Soon, I’m moaning from the pleasure of his touch. But in no time he has circled back down into the valley of my bosom and over to my right breast, licking my nipple until it too goes taut.

His lips meander. The stubble on his cheek tickles the slight swell of my belly. He takes my frenzied groan as the signal to quit teasing me.
 

He’s right. It’s time for the main event.

As Jack enters me, his body, cantilevered by his thick muscled arms, hovers over mine.

His eyes open wide in rapturous adoration. The late afternoon sun’s rays, streaming through the undulating curtains, fan out behind his head, crowning him with a halo.

Am I imagining it? No. He is my protector.

The one true love of my life.

My angel.

His thrusts, steady and deep, fill my heart with joy. As Jack’s ecstasy swells within me, all thoughts scatter from my mind, like crispy leaves whipped out of reach by a brisk autumn gale.

Finally, spent, he shudders as he collapses onto me.

We lay there for some time, chest to breast. His heart pulsates in tandem with mine.
 

As it should be.

Always.

If only.

A scream wakes us from our post-coital slumber.

The wailing doesn’t stop, but only gets louder, more agitated. A moment later, voices are raised in raucous accusations.

The chorus of shouts also gets louder as time goes by.

Jack groans. Still, he unfurls his arms and legs from me in order to ease himself from our bed. His small nod to modesty is to open the curtain only partially, in order to view the ruckus.
 

It is evening. Right now the only light is coming off the super yachts. The glow, mirrored in still waters, casts long shadows on the man who still thrills me. It darkens his soulful eyes, heightens his cheekbones, and etches the sinews of his muscular physique. If his curls were alabaster instead of naturally dark brown, I’d swear he was a sculpture by Michelangelo.
 

My newly piqued lust quickly dissipates under the singsong blare of police sirens. I leap out of bed, too, scooping up a fallen robe and wrapping it around me before joining Jack at the window.

From what I can tell, a crowd has gathered on the beach a mere hundred yards from our terrace. Police officers seem to have taken control, shooing away the gawkers.
 

“A drowning?” I wonder out loud.

I’ve barely had time to take note of the action when we hear a rap on our door. I tie my robe tight around my middle while Jack slips into loose sweat pants and a T-shirt. When I see he’s fully clothed, I open the door.
 

Two policemen face us. Jean-Pierre stands between them. He is wet and smeared with sand. Tears and fear brighten his red-rimmed eyes.
 

What the hell is going on?

“
Oui, les agents
?” Jack’s nonchalance doesn’t betray his own shock and awe.
 

As he asks, the nose of the older and bulkier of the two officers twitches. Perhaps he has noted our post-coital musk. “
Pardonnez-nous
, Monsieur and Madame Craig. May we have a moment of your time?” Switching to English is a courtesy proffered by most public servants along the French coastline, which is heavily trafficked by British and American tourists.
 

“But of course.” Having lived in this country for many years, Jack’s French is excellent, but for my benefit, he responds likewise. He leans forward in order to read the officer’s nametag. Noting it, he nods. “How may we help you, Captain Duclos?”
 

The younger officer hides his smirk in a cough. Perhaps it has something to do with Jack’s generous promotion for his partner, a mere beat cop.

“Jean-Pierre Gambon claims he has spent the last few hours here, with you. Can you confirm this?” Duclos’s way to silence Jean-Pierre before he says anything is to clamp his hand so hard on our cabana boy’s shoulder that he winces.

Jack looks to me, then to Jean-Pierre.
 

Jean-Pierre’s eyes say it all:
Help me.

Before Jack opens his mouth, I purr, “He gives wonderful massages, Captain. You should try one some time.”

Duclos’s response to my suggestion is a wary glare. “This is not a joking matter, Madame. Jean-Pierre was found on the beach, clinging to the body of a dead woman: Nicolette Beauchamp.”

Jack’s smile fades. “But—if she has drowned, why detain Jean-Pierre?”
 

Duclos shakes his head. “Drowned?
Non.
She was strangled. The coroner will soon determine the time of death.” Duclos turns to me. “I ask you again, Madame: when exactly did you receive your massage?”

Jean-Pierre’s mouth gapes open, but nothing comes out. His eyes implore me to save him.

To believe him.

For some reason, I do. When Jean-Pierre looked at Nicolette, his eyes were filled with adoration. With love.
 

And, sadly, regret.
 

He has so much more to regret now.

“Jack’s massage was first. It ran over an hour, didn’t it, Jack?” I turn innocently to my husband.

His eyebrow arches. Still, he nods his head. “Yours was immediately afterward. And about the same amount of time.” His tone leaves no room for doubt.

The younger officer takes a pad from his pocket and scribbles this down.

Duclos scowls. “Again, Monsieur, what time were these massages?”

“Well…” Jack looks skyward, as if searching his memory. “Jean-Pierre left only, say, a half hour before the sirens began.”

“And only because I asked him to walk out onto the beach. I’d misplaced my sun hat. It’s black, with a white band around the rim,” I add. I tilt my head in Jean-Pierre’s direction. “By the way, did you find it?”

Slowly, Jean-Pierre shakes his head. Still stunned, he says nothing.

Inspector Duclos is no idiot. He realizes his number one suspect has not just one alibi, but two. His grip loosens on Jean-Pierre. With a tip to the brim of his hat, he growls, “Good night
,
Madame and Monsieur.”