Vacation to Die For (5 page)

Which shows only one bulge—in the right place, and too large to miss. 

Always in the background of these photos is a bevy of Miss Universe-worthy women—gowned, glammed and ready, willing and able to be ravished by this year’s winner of Spooklandia’s annual Undercover Lover award, better known as “the Undies.”

(I’m beginning to think that desk ops have too much time on their hands.) 

Whereas in the previous years the award has always been a toss-up between Jack and Dominic, this year he was the hands-down winner. I guess Jack being taken off the market—by 
moi
—had something to do with that.

He had to show up here, now? Of all the days for me to come in, looking like—

A mom.

No, not even a mom. More like a frump. A doofus. A bag lady—

A 
hag
.

I grab hold of Emma’s arm. “What the hell? Why didn’t someone tell me?”

Emma shrugged helplessly. “You know very well that our encryptions aren’t supposed to give away the deets of your mission.”

 “Couldn’t you have thrown me a tiny hint? I dunno, perhaps something like ‘Do yourself a favor and put on a push-up bra.’ Or maybe something in Pig Latin, like ‘Ominic-Day Emming-Flay ere-hay’?” 

I spring my hair from its not-so-fun-anymore bun, and tousle it. Without a mirror, I can’t tell if it now looks come-hither or Hag-Holding-Poison-Apple, but I’ll just have to take my chances. 

Jack taps me on the shoulder. “What’s the big whoop?” 

How do I break the news to the man who came in second place for the Undies that the victor is only a few feet away?

As if reading my mind, Jack scans the room suspiciously. When he sees the object of his female co-workers’ affections, his eyes narrow ever so slightly, and his smile hardens. “Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in.”

 “You know Dominic?” 

Jack’s lips curl into a smirk. “Yeah, you can say we’re old pals.”

Oh, duh. Stupid question. But of course he does. 

Jack and Dominic, a former MI6 agent, signed on with Acme in the same year. They were partnered on many assignments, some of which are quite legendary. My own training manual was chock full of their derring-do: the kidnapping of a Mexican warlord; saving a US ambassador from a terrorist plot—not to mention the time they tracked down and terminated a Russian triple agent who had defected with the schematic of our F-35 fighter jets.

But Ryan chose Jack, not Dominic, to head up the plum assignment of taking down the Quorum.

What would have happened if it had been the other way around?

This thought stops me cold. At the time I’d been angry at Ryan for presuming I’d give some stranger permission to pose as Carl in order to reel in the Quorum, which was in search of something they thought Carl had left in my house: a microdot embedded with a code that would give it access to the DaaS cloud holding Acme’s digital directory, which lists every agent and every mission, as well as all our leads, assets, agents, and contacts in nations and agencies around the world.

I’ve searched high and low for it. I presume Carl took it with him, but he never owned up to it. Perhaps it was to his benefit that his Quorum colleagues think otherwise.

In any case, we haven’t detected a breach, which would show itself in the exterminations of our key assets. 

When Carl was alive, he kept a close eye on two Acme assets: Jack and me.

He hated that Jack lives in his house. And that Jack sleeps in his bed.

Most of all he hated the fact that Jack took on the role of father to his children.

Maybe it’s a good thing that Carl no longer walks among the living for the sole reason that he made my life a living hell.

Is Jack cut out to play my husband? Some (say, the forty-two percent of the contest’s voters) would say no. Before the mission to take down the Quorum, Jack’s reputation as a womanizer was just as notorious as Dominic’s. 

But he won over my children. 

And in doing so, he won me over, too.

So, why does he feel threatened, now that Dominic Fleming is here in Hilldale?

No. let me rephrase that. He doesn’t feel threatened. He feels challenged. I’ve seen that look on his face before, in our most trying times. It says 
game on
.

 “Darling, they’re waiting for us.” Jack sounds nonchalant, but he’s anything but that as he places his hand in the small of my back and guides me firmly toward the conference room. 

As if he has anything to worry about. I love him with all my heart.

But it doesn’t hurt to flirt a little, now does it?

“Old chap! You haven’t changed an iota”—Dominic Fleming grabs Jack’s hand in a firm grip—“except perhaps for that slight pouch around your waist. Perhaps fake married life is agreeing with you a bit too much.” 

He ignores Jack’s glare, choosing instead to lock and load those baby blues on the object of Jack’s very real affection—

Me. 

Yes, I’m blushing. 

But before Jack blows a gasket, I step in between them and hold out my hand. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Donna Stone.”

“Ah! Finally I’m face to face with Acme’s infamous manslayer, Donna Stone.” The next thing I know, Dominic has lifted my hand to his lips. I can feel his gentle kiss on the back of my hand.

I’m not old enough for hot flashes, but right now, a warm tingle surges through me.

Very nice
.

“In fact, I’ve been following your career almost since Day One, Ms. Stone. I find you…
fasc
inating.” As he says this he draws out the last word, his voice strokes me—well, certainly my ego—with this velvet purr. “Your motive for joining Acme was pure of heart. Your spycraft is always spot on. Shall I say it? But of course! Everything about you is sheer genius, especially when your back”—His admiring gaze at my ass has me quite literally backing up, until I’ve smacked into the conference room’s batten-and-board paneling—“is against the wall.”

He looms so closely over me that I can admire the shadow plaid in his bespoke Savile Row suit. The musky scent of his cologne—Floris Number 89, I’m guessing (or at least it’s been rumored)—is quite dizzying. 

If I should faint, mouth-to-mouth resuscitation is always an option for my revival. Just putting it out there, front and center.

“Forgive me. I’m sure my adoration makes me sound like a foolish school boy.” His gaze sweeps over me before seeking out my eyes, where I’m sure he can read my every thought.

And yes, I have a few. 
Gimme some lovin’. Stroke me hard, fast, and often
.

But I say nothing because opening my mouth now would expose me as a blithering fool. Instead I melt into the closest chair—

Only to land on my ass. 

I wasn’t expecting Dominic to pull it out for me.

“Oh…a gentleman! How refreshing.” I glare at those who have the audacity to snicker: Emma, Arnie, even our field handler, Abu Nagashahi. 

And of course, Jack. 

At least 
he
 has the decency to give me a hand so that I can get back on my feet. 

Still, I make it a point to punish his impudence by grinding my heel into his toe. As Jack swallows a groan, I pat his taut belly. “Guess I’ll have to quit making desserts until you get back into shape.”

He shoves me down into the chair.  “I think Ryan wants to begin.”

In tandem, Dominic and Jack make a move for the chair beside me. Dominic gets there first. 

“Sure, okay, age before beauty,” Jack murmurs.

Dominic shrugs. “Don’t you mean pearls before swine?”

“You’re quoting Dorothy Parker?” Jack snorts. “Oddly enough, that doesn’t surprise me.”

“Nor should it, dear boy. After all, she was one of the last century’s foremost wits.” He scrutinizes Jack as if he were some odd specimen under glass in a natural history museum. “I dare say, your tenure in suburbia has made you quite a sexist! No doubt your female colleagues find it somewhat off-putting, what with having to endure your lascivious remarks”—Dominic’s sympathetic look in my direction catches me off guard—“not to mention a compromising position or two.”

  I pink up as I think of all the times Jack has kept me out of the loop, or made me the unwitting dupe of his shenanigans.  

Not to mention some of the compromising positions we’ve enjoyed.

“What? Donna will be the first to tell you that 
I’m
 the perfect gentleman.” Only now does Jack look over at me. Seeing me red-faced, he does a double-take.

His look says it all: 
traitor
.

Dismayed, Ryan shakes his head. “Now, now—
gentlemen
. I hope we’re able to play nice for the following week—seeing how you’ll be spending it together, in Paradise.” 

Well, that remark certainly has turned all heads.

Ryan gives his iPad a quick tap. A verdant island, ringed with white beaches and surrounded by an azure sea, appears on the large monitor that is mounted on the wall behind him.

“Donna and Jack, you might recognize this island as Misfit Quay—Jonah Breck’s former getaway.” The monitor’s screen has changed to show recent development on the island. “Since his demise, the trust that manages his estate has partnered with a hospitality corporation, Fantasy Properties. In fact, Misfit has been renamed Fantasy Island, and portions of the island have been developed into three very distinct resorts.” 

The monitor now shows a photo from a brochure. In it, a tow-headed boy and girl are building sandcastles on a beach with a man and woman in medieval dress. A thirty-something couple who are just as blonde as the children toast each other while relaxing on nearby lounge chairs. 

“One of the resorts is called Kamp KidStuff,” Ryan explains. “Its slogan is, ‘The Best of Times Have Both We Time and Me Time’ because it promises parents a lot of time to enjoy each other, while their children are occupied with activities led by counselors who double as famous storybook characters.”

He had me at 
me time
.

The screen dissolves to another picture. In it, boardwalks raised over sugar white sand lead out to tiki huts that are suspended on stilts. On the beachside, more huts seem to be floating in the palm trees. Because it’s sunset, all the people in the photo—mostly couples, although some are foursomes—can only be seen in silhouette as they lounge on beach chaises, or sip cocktails on the tikis’ decks. 

“This resort is called Eden Key, and it’s for singles only. In fact—” Ryan pauses under the pretense of wiping his eye glasses—“both 
Cosmopolitan
 and
Esquire
 rate it Number One in the categories of ‘Casual Hook-Ups,’ ‘Rum-Fueled Romances,’ ‘Sex on the Beach' and 'Worthy of an Irish Layover.'

“Pardon?” Dominic murmurs. “Or, as the midget tart said to the bishop, ‘That went over my head.’”

“It means you wouldn’t mind missing your flight home, because the previous evening’s drunken debauchery was worth it,” Emma pipes up.

To Arnie’s consternation, Emma seems to go limp with lust as Dominic graces her with a smile.

“And the third resort—a fish, game, and gambling lodge–goes by the name of the Hunt Club. Reconnaissance will be more difficult there because access is by membership only—and its members must prove an income in the billion-dollar range.”

“Well, that leaves me out,” Arnie says much too loudly and much too jovially.

Dead silence.

Arnie turns beet red. “By that I mean…never mind.” The flop sweat dripping off his brow is creating a puddle on the table. 

Before the poor guy drowns in it, I take it upon myself to change the subject. “Ryan, why the sudden interest in Misfit—I mean, Fantasy Island?”

“Last week, the public was enthralled with Teddy Grodin’s disappearance”—I wince when he says this. I can hear the accusation in his voice. Yes, I know, I screwed up. I should have never left Teddy alone—“but the real threat to our national security is Dr. Lionel Mandrake, whereabouts unknown—until now.”

“Who?” Emma asks.

“I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of him,” Ryan responds. “Under the auspices of the NSA, Mandrake was leading the team working on Operation Bugaboo—a weaponized plague bacteria. The plague is one of the world’s deadliest infectious diseases. The infected cannot be cured with drugs.”

Dominic shudders. “How barbaric.” 

Ryan smiles. “An appropriate word for it. In fact, plagues have been used as weapons since the Middle Ages. Infected dead bodies were left where the opposing army would find them, or rebels catapulted them over castle walls.” Ryan waits for our uncomfortable chuckles to subside. “Both China and Russia have been developing strains of the pneumonic plague, which can be administered in an aerosol form. It could affect a whole building’s ventilation system, even structures as large as stadiums. Mandrake was nearing completion on an antibody-based vaccine,” Ryan frowns. “Last week, when word came down that government budget cuts at the NSA would affect his project, he disappeared without a trace, taking the project files and active bacteria  and antidote samples with him. He has since surfaced on Fantasy Island.”

“How do they know he’s there, of all places?” Jack asks.

“During a routine colonoscopy procedure, the NSA encrypted him with a GPS chip.”