The Housewife Assassin's Killer App (4 page)

Lee may have just redeemed himself in my eyes.

“Is there any reason to think that Carl is the real culprit, leaving a red herring to take everyone off the scent?”

“Frankly, I’m hoping you prove exactly that. That way, we’d get rid of him once and for all. By the way, until the mission is announced by Ryan, my one request is that you’ll not say anything to anyone about it.”

He means Jack, of course.

“You know, Lee, you can trust Jack.”

Lee shrugs. “Why would I, when he doesn’t trust me?”

He’s got a point there.
 

“By the way, you’ll be the mission leader,” Lee continues. “This will give you free access to all of the IC’s computers—including Carl’s.” He pauses to take a deep breath. “Donna, about that thing we discussed back in Hilldale, around seven months ago—I have a feeling that Carl is keeping it on his laptop.”

Without coming out and saying it, Lee is asking me to do the one thing that will free him from Carl:
 

Erase the evidence that Carl is using to blackmail him.
 

That way, Carl can be brought to justice without any repercussions to Lee.

I can’t help laughing. “If I do, he’ll finally know where he stands with you.”

“I could not care less.” Lee shrugs. “A bigger question is where I stand with you.”

I’m taken aback by his declaration. When I finally answer, it comes out in a stutter. “Lee…I…I hope that I never let you down…or our country.”

“The country and I aren’t one and the same.” He frowns as he takes my hand. “Donna, are you saying that you don’t feel anything for me?”

“I…of course.” Yes, I feel something for him, but it’s not what he thinks, or what he’d want to hear.

I feel pity.

I’m sorry—almost as sorry as him, no doubt—that his company’s acquisition of the conglomerate previously owned by one of the thirteen leaders of the Quorum, the now-deceased Jonah Breck, put him squarely in Carl’s sights—and in due time, also under Carl’s thumb.
 

When Lee married Jonah’s widow, Babette, I guess he never figured the relationship was really a
ménage à trois
—one that includes Carl.

At Babette’s behest, Lee put money behind a presidential candidate—Congresswoman Catherine Martin. In due time, Catherine realized that his wide-open pocketbook and international business connections made him an ideal running mate, a heady proposition for a self-made entrepreneur. But when Catherine’s husband Robert learned that another source of her funding was the Quorum and threatened to divorce her right in the middle of the campaign, Carl convinced Catherine that it was Robert who was her biggest liability.
 

A telltale video caught her sanctioning Robert’s assassination. Unfortunately, Carl hid his features well from the camera, but I could tell he was her co-conspirator. A wife recognizes little things—the slope of her husband’s shoulder, the way he arches his fingers to make a point, even the pauses in a voice that has been electronically altered.

I was once his wife. Now I’m his enemy.

Even with Catherine in jail for life, Carl had his ace in the hole: Lee. His hold over our new president is information explosive enough to put him behind bars for murder.

Lee searches my face as he waits for the answer to his question: what does he mean to me?

I put my hand over his heart. It’s beating much faster than it should in the presence of someone whom I desire as no more than a caring friend.
 

I know my answer isn’t what he is looking for, but it’s the best I can do:
 

“I’ll always have your back, Lee.”

I keep my hand there, even as his eyes grow dark with the understanding that this is as good as it gets.

Impulsively, I lift myself up to give him a peck on the cheek.

He stares down at me. For a moment, it looks as if he’s going to draw me in close to him, but something in my face stops him. He, too, knows:
 

If it were to happen, it wouldn’t—it shouldn’t—in this way.

His shoulders straighten with his resolve as he nods his goodbye, then heads out the front door.

I wait fifteen minutes before I follow him out. But I don’t take the elevator. Instead, I walk down the fire exit. It lets me out in the back of the building.
 

It pisses me off that, no matter how loudly I whistle or how broadly I wave, for some reason, three empty cabs refuse to pick me up.

Finally, a fourth one pulls over to the curb. When I open the door, I don’t like the way the cab driver’s eyes sweep over me, as if I’m a piece of meat. Still, I jump in. “Union Square. Step on it.”

“Are you sure? You know, on the square, they patrol for you girls pretty heavily. And with all due respect, lady, you ain’t exactly the type that the Hyatt lets stroll through its lounge.” Through the rearview mirror, I watch as he eyes my cleavage, which is in full view, since there are no buttons on my furry pink coat.
 

I give him a wink. “Oh, they’ll let me in alright. Come on back here and I’ll show you why.”

That’s got his attention. I might have whiplash, what with the speed in which he pulls over into a deserted alley.

He jumps in the back seat with me and yanks me onto his lap, but I slap his hands away. “First things first,” I promise, as I unbuckle his belt and pull it off. The next to go are his pants, which I jerk down to his knees. “Wow! Look at that,” I gaze at the tent in his shorts. He’s so proud of it that he doesn’t react at first when I yank off his socks. When finally he opens his big mouth to squawk, I cram one of them into it, then I pull his sweatshirt up over his head.
 

He’s gagging, so I can’t exactly make out what he’s trying to say, but it sounds like, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Hold still, big boy. I’m just helping you get comfortable,” I purr, as I jerk his arms up over his head and lasso them together.

He gets the hint that something isn’t right when I pull it tight and loop it over the handle above the side door. To make sure he stays that way, I roll down the window just enough that the belt can slip out, then I roll it up again.
 

He squeals through his stinking sock when he hears me say, “You may think I’m no lady, but I know you’re no gentleman.”

As I jump out, I lock the door behind me, slipping the key over the driver-side wheel.

I’d rather take the subway, where no one judges you. If they’re going to talk smack, at least you don’t have to pay more than two bucks for the privilege.

Maybe Creepy Taxi Driver is right—how I look now would make me stand out at the Hyatt. But that doesn’t matter because our room is at the W Hotel, and by its standards, I could be a boho artist, or a slumming starlet, a rocker’s groupie—or yes, one of the many call girls casually lounging in the bar.

Jack is already asleep when I enter our room, but he stirs when he feels me slipping into bed with him.

“Sorry I came off like a jealous fool.” By his drowsy drawl, I can’t tell if he’s awake, or if he’s saying this in his sleep.

To prove to him there is nothing to forgive, I spoon him tightly. My arm snakes slowly through the smooth valley that falls between the hill of his hip and his mountainous rib cage. As we lie together like this—with my fingers nesting in the curly chest hairs over his heart—I realize just how large he really is.
 

He will keep me safe—from others, and from myself.

Slowly, he rolls over so that he’s facing me. There’s enough light slipping in through the shuttered windows for me to see that his eyes are open. One of his hands finds one of mine, and holds it tight. The other hand’s index finger strokes my face gently. His deep kiss sends a pulse through my body.
 

Still, I wait for the inevitable: a question about Lee.

But, no, he stays silent.

Yes, I am grateful. To know he loves me.

To know he trusts me.

Granted, he sucks in his breath when I take him in hand. And there is a sigh of anticipation as he hardens.
 

When I ease onto him, he groans with joy.
 

In no time, he matches my pace. I plunge. He thrusts. I squeeze. He surges.
 

Together, we explode.

Spent, he lets loose with an ecstatic groan.

Afterward, I lay in his arms. Silently, he circles my nipples with his fingertips until he falls asleep.

As his chest rises and falls beside me, I finally realize that he’s taking me at my word—

That I know what I’m doing.

I wish I were as confident.

Chapter 3

Trojan Horse

Hi, ho, Silver! Away—

With your files, your pictures, and all the work projects you had to put on your boss’s desk in the next twenty-four hours.

That’s what happens when you download a “Trojan horse”—a.k.a., malware (a malicious code) program designed to corrupt your files—onto your computer.

The email or text that put it there seemed innocent enough. Apparently, you clicked on it because it promised, YOU CAN BE A HOTTIE! ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS—

Of course you clicked the link.

Ouch, wrong move! You’ve just allowed some baddie to slip into your computer through the back door, and now he knows more about you than, say, your mother.

She may have warned you about wearing dirty underwear, but he knows where you hide it.

The text on my cell says:

LET’S HAVE DOUBLE DARK CHOCOLATE DEVIL’S FOOD CAKE FOR DESSERT TONIGHT. OKAY? XO J

I guess this is Jack’s way of saying that he doesn’t want to share my diet misery. How thoughtless of the man!

But, hey, I can think of a few ways he can make it up to me when he gets home from coaching my son Jeff’s baseball game.
 

My youngest daughter, Trisha, is tagging along with the boys. My oldest daughter, Mary, will be returning from a sleepover later this afternoon.
 

In other words, I have the whole morning to myself—a rare treat indeed.

But, alas, the cake will have to wait. Yard work is long overdue. Besides some unsightly weeds, I’m ashamed to say that my sweetly pink Heritage roses now flow so far beyond the front picket fence that they are nudging passers-by practically onto the roadway.
 

Time to get clipping. I don my broadest sun hat and I grab my sharpest shears from the garage, along with a pair of gardening gloves and a bucket.
 

Many of my neighbors are of like mind regarding the best way to spend this beautiful Saturday morning. I wave at those who live closest to us—the Shumways, who own the hacienda-style mansion to our left. The husband, Will, salutes me with his hedge clippers, but the wife, Mitzi, frowns. I guess she hasn’t forgotten the FBI SWAT team’s middle-of-the-night visit to my house last year.
 

Talk about holding a grudge.
 

And since I also stopped the annihilation of several major cities all over the world, frankly, I think it’s time that Mitzi cut me some slack.