The Housewife Assassin's Hostage Hosting Tips Read online

  Then again, at the time I joined, the same could have been said about me.

  “Donna, I won’t lie to you–I need this gig. I hate the fact that I’m always looking over my shoulder. If it ain’t to see if the Carduccis are on my tail, I’m dealing with the Feds, who want to make sure I don’t get whacked on their watch.”

  It looks as if Witness Protection is getting its wish–

  And it’s happening on my watch.

  The car rounding the corner doesn’t have its lights on, and it’s going much too fast for this small alley.

  I leap onto a debris box.

  Pucci can’t because her heel is stuck in a crack.

  “Jump!” I scream.

  “But…it’s a Jimmy Choo!” She tugs at the ankle strap, but it’s too late.

  Pucci is low enough that he rolls right over her.

  She disappears under the car’s wheels, only to be dragged halfway down the block before her bloody, broken body breaks free from the chassis.

  My first shot takes out a tire. The second one shatters the rear window. When the car rolls into a lamppost, I realize the second shot also found its mark: the back of Toenails’ head.

  My initial instinct is to go back and take care of Pucci, but a few people have already crowded around her, not to mention I hear the sirens, which means the place will soon be crawling with cops.

  The last thing I need is to explain myself from a jail cell. Besides, there were enough witnesses around to get a handle on what went down. And once the cops run Pucci and Toenails’ fingerprints through the Interpol database, they’ll know why.

  I hightail it out of the alley until I’m back on Melrose Place. Most of the shops are closed, so I crouch down in the darkened doorway of a closed lamp shop and call Ryan.

  “Get out of there, and fast. I’ll call my buddy at the L.A. Sheriff’s Department to give him a heads up.” From his tone, he’s not too happy to hear that he’s got to clean up this mess. “What the hell were you doing at Ago, anyway?”

  “A little female bonding. Considering the circumstances, I know that sounds silly. But I really liked her, Ryan.”

  “Getting her killed is a hell of a way of showing it.” He sighs. “Who’s up next?”

  This time, I’m playing it safe. “The Defense Department wonk.”

  “Line her up. And remember, she’s not your buddy, she’s your replacement.” He hangs up before I can say anything else.

  Chapter 9

  Creative Decorations

  Decorations play a very important part in setting the theme of your party, and will have your guests talking about your event for the rest of their (hopefully not too short) lives!

  Best tip: use authentic accessories. Now that you’re an adult, crepe paper, cardboard and papier-mâché just won’t do! If your theme is, say, “Oktoberfest,” surround your outdoor event with bales of hay, and have your guests sit at long tables where they will swill Spaten and other German beers while listening to an authentic oompah band. And if one of your beer-sodden guests tips over a lit torch and the bales catch fire, don’t worry, the fire truck’s red color will blend well with your Bavarian green color scheme!

  From what I can tell, Mary got my message and is behaving herself.

  I don’t take her word for it–not at this point, anyway. Believe me, I wish I could, but I need verified proof. It comes via the following:

  1: Despite the mandate that she’s not to do any social networking, I’m still monitoring her email, texts, and Facebook account. She uses the same password for all three, and it was easy enough to crack: RinTinTin

  The bad news: she’s broken my rule. The good news: I’m happy to see she’s still such an innocent. She and her friends text about clothes, boys, movies, and music. I don’t pick up any conversations with her mystery man, thank goodness.

  2: Parental control software. This old standby is tried and true. There are numerous cell phone-tracking services available to parents. Right now, it shows me that Mary is right where she should be–in her world history class.

  3: Acme’s satellite surveillance. As long as I’m on the payroll, I have access to it. So what the hell, why not put it to some good use? Although she’s not a terrorist or even close (I pray) I’m able to slide through the order to track. Can I help it if the SS surveillance manager, Clint Zuckerman, has a crush on me? I tune in just before every class break to make sure my hoody-headed eldest is on her way to her next class.

  So far, so good.

  And yes, I hate myself for doing this.

  I pray she never finds out, or she’ll hate me even more than she does now, if that’s possible.

  Now, for my next unsavory task of the day: negotiating a better event contract with the Savoy.

  “You’re positive that Mrs. Bing won’t be joining us?” Henry Massey, the Savoy’s buff, handsome hotel manager, looks nervously over my shoulder and through his office’s glass wall, which overlooks the hotel’s large, elegant lobby.

  “You’ll be dealing exclusively with me,” I assure him.

  He rewards my comment with a smirk. Worse yet, he walks around to the front of his desk and leans on it, right in front of me, which puts me at eye-level with his man candy.

  Okay, yeah dude, I now know what Penelope saw in you. Or, I should say, about you.

  I lean back to get a little air. “Mr. Massey, there are a few terms to our event contract which need altering.”

  His eyes narrow into tiny slits. “Such as?”

  “I’m sure you’re aware that the event is a children’s dance. That being said, we’ll have no use for liquor.” Other than the few bottles of wine I’ll have stashed in my suitcase to help me survive the night, but this is something that I need not divulge to him.

  “It wasn’t a deal breaker with Mrs. Bing. And, apparently, until now, it wasn’t one with you either.” He points to my John Hancock on the event contract.

  I hate the fact that I allowed Penelope to trick me into signing it.

  Seeing me wince, he shrugs nonchalantly. “Sorry, but at this late date, there is nothing we can do about the liquor order. However, I will have the beverages kept bottled and left in their cases, in one of the hotel’s private storage rooms, adjacent to the kitchen. Your security key will be the only one that can access it. And to sweeten the deal”–he lets the word linger between us, as if it’s a tantalizing fragrance, as opposed to a flagrant come-on–“I’ll throw in the Savoy’s Academy Awards Suite. It’s only one of three suites on the penthouse level, along with the Emmys Suite and the Golden Globes Suite.”

  “Seriously, Henry, I’d much rather have the refund.”

  “Shhhhh!” He has the audacity to put a finger on my lips to silence me. He opens a drawer and pulls out a gold security card embossed with an A. “You don’t know what you’re saying. Follow me, and you’ll understand why I’m doing you a favor.”

  He strolls out the door. I follow because I have no choice.

  He doesn’t head for the lobby’s elevator bank. Instead, moves beyond it to a small alcove containing a wide double door.

  He uses his security card to access it.

  Within the alcove is a bank of four elevators: three on one side and one directly across from them. The bank of three are marked with letters over the door: “A,” “E” and “G.” The elevator on its own wall is marked “C.”

  He pushes the button beside the one marked A, for the Academy Awards Suite, I presume.

  Maybe once we’re up there, he’ll realize I mean business and that there’s no way he can change my mind.

  He’s changed my mind.

  It’s not the one-hundred-eighty-degree view that runs from the Hollywood sign to the Pacific Ocean that does it for me. (Okay, maybe.) Or even the custom-made California King Bed, with its mattress made from Latin American curled horsetail and Mongolian cashmere, and costing almost two-hundred-thousand dollars. (Okay, yes, it might play a factor.)

  As with the other penthouse suites,
this one has a private roof-top terrace, with a staircase that accesses the hotel’s helicopter pad. The football-field-sized living room is filled with antique furnishings, as well as a full-wall LED-LCD HDTV, and a Bang & Olufsen full-space integrated sound system. There’s a white baby grand Steinway piano, and a private kitchen with an on-call chef.

  This plush entertaining environment is flanked by two bedrooms. Each has its own spa bathroom, with showers large enough for two.

  Jack and I will share a bed and a bath.

  The other will be blissfully empty.

  Okay, yeah, I’m sold. Wait until Jack hears about this!

  “Each of the penthouses has two stories. As you see, the bedrooms are located on the top floor for complete privacy.” He purrs those last two words.

  Ignoring the implication, I ask innocently, “I presume Mrs. Bing’s room is on a much lower floor?”

  “Yes, and unfortunately, her room is somewhat more modest–but no need to let her in on that secret.”

  “Agreed.” I shrug nonchalantly.

  I have more incentive than ever to hustle up a few more chaperones. But to play it safe, we will put webcams in all the kids’ rooms. An even better idea: hire a battalion of armed security guards to put in front of every door, on every floor.

  Try as I might, I can’t tamp down my smile. It’s all Henry needs to know he’s won me over.

  But he loses me all over again when he adds, “Of course, I will personally be on hand to turn down your sheets.”

  It’ll be much more fun to see the look on his face when he finds Jack under the blanket.

  He assumes the smile on my face is my pleasure regarding what’s to come that night. Hardly.

  I’m just about to pluck the security card from his hand when he slides it back into his pants pocket.

  No, this isn’t a game of Go Fish. It’s straight out high stakes poker.

  As if reading my thoughts, he says, “The card will be waiting for you at check-in, as soon as you sign the new event contract.”

  Fair enough.

  The next candidate for my job, Jenny McDougal, is not exactly a femme fatale.

  Let me put it this way–calling her “homely” is being generous.

  Gargoyle is a more apt description.

  The former CIA analyst is tall and thin. Her nose is hooked, her skin is pockmarked, her teeth are bucked, her glasses are Coke-bottle thick, and her bright red hair is coiled so tightly that it looks like a rusted Brillo Pad.

  It also doesn’t help that she sports a ’stache that’s thicker than Henry’s.

  Well, too bad. Jenny is a crack shot, knows several Chinese dialects, and she holds the highest belt in Judo, Chun Kuk Do, and Japanese fencing. Not to mention that her psychological profile came through with flying colors–

  Okay, except for one little anomaly. Dr. Bellows gets straight to the point: “While under hypnosis, she divulged her fear of rejection, because of her looks. Or as she put it, ‘No guy will mug me, let alone date me.’”

  “Is it so bad that it’ll be a deterrent to her role as a honeypot?”

  “Afraid so.” He grimaces. “Unless her target is a blind man.”

  I’m glad she’s outside in the reception area and can’t hear him.

  I make it to her side just in time to witness the true test that she may not work out. Dominic has just entered the building. When he sees me, he asks in his typical stentorian decibel level, “Ah, Mrs. Stone, there you are! I presume your comely charge will be joining you any moment now?”

  “As a matter of fact, she’s right here.” I grab hold of Jenny by her arm in order to pull her onto her feet.

  It seems I’ve caught her off guard. Jiggling her arm while she freshened her lipstick created a larger lower lip than what’s really there.

  When she smiles, Dominic backs away, horrified.

  To break Dominic’s stare, I say, “Jenny and I were just about to go to lunch. Would you care to join us?”

  He gives the lamest excuse possible–that he’s needed on a conference call with POTUS–and scurries off in the opposite direction.

  Totally bogus. I know for a fact that the last person Lee Chiffray would call at Acme is someone whom he refers to as, “that pompous pretty boy.”

  That’s okay. Where I’m taking Jenny, we don’t need him tagging along. “You’ve passed all your tests with flying colors,” I tell her proudly. “What do you say we go out and celebrate? We’ll have a spa day!”

  Perplexed, her unibrow knits together like an Amazonian underbrush hit with a stiff wind. “Um…okay. If you think it’s necessary. I’m a soap-and-water kind of girl, myself.”

  “All the more reason to reward yourself–on Acme’s dime, too.”

  As we head out the door, I text the Sunset Tower Hotel to reserve two suites, as well as a deluxe spa package. Jenny will be given the works: a Turkish Hammam treatment, seaweed detox, milk bath, the premiere HydraFacial, and an hour-long massage. Afterward, she’ll be treated to a haircut and highlights, and a makeover by one of the Tower’s celebrity salon stylists. By the time she gets back to her suite, she’ll find it filled with designer duds and shoes in her size, courtesy of Beverly Hills’ go-to personal shopper, Nicole Hopper.

  Not only will Jenny feel like a million dollars, she’ll look like it too. Tomorrow when she’s good and relaxed, on the way back to the office I’ll talk her into laser surgery to correct her vision.

  Okay, yeah, and maybe just a smidge of rhinoplasty.

  This job changes you in so many ways.

  The Sunset Tower Hotel’s terrace bar is crowded. It goes without saying that all the chaises around the pool are taken. The only place left to stand was against one of the three-foot-tall glass guardrails that separate the terrace from a dead drop, some eleven stories above Sunset Boulevard.

  Even before we turn back around from admiring the sunset view, a waiter hands us a couple of champagne flutes.

  Jenny looks flustered. “We haven’t ordered yet,” she tells him.

  He points toward a man lying on the chaise furthest from us. I recognize him as a lead actor in one of the latest and greatest Marvel blockbusters.

  “Not too shabby,” I murmur as I nod toward him.

  Jenny follows my gaze. Her eyes grow large when she realizes who he is. She practically faints when she notices that her drink is accompanied by a written invitation to meet him tomorrow for dinner.

  “He’s smiling at you,” I murmur.

  She blushes at the thought. “Hot damn! I guess he’s as blind as me.”

  At my suggestion, she took off her clunky old lady glasses for the evening. I figured, why muck up a work of art? In the past few hours, her ’stache was zapped with electrolysis, and the make-up artist did wonders in hiding the manly arch in her nose while accentuating her sky-high cheekbones.

  Action Hero Hottie isn’t the only one vying for her attention. Gawking is rampant. A five-foot eleven beauty with a long mane of red tendrils in an electric blue Alice + Olivia croc leather V-back mini-dress and five-inch heels is sure to cause a fuss, even in Hollywood’s see-and-be-seen hotel.

  Finally, Jenny honors Action Hero Hottie with an uncertain wave. “I feel like Cinderella,” she murmurs.

  “Good, because your new job is all about role playing,” I remind her. “Being beautiful is all up here, anyway.” I tap my forehead with a newly manicured finger.

  Her smile fades. “So is being ugly. I was told that enough when I was a little girl.”

  “Your parents?”

  “Singular–parent. My mother. But only when she was sober, which wasn’t often.”

  I guess that’s why it took me some convincing to have her order even a white wine spritzer. “The cut is always deepest from those we love most.”

  “Cut? Ha! It’s the only thing she didn’t threaten to do.” She looks down into her drink. “I thought getting punched in the face was bad enough”–she points to the bridge of her nose–“until she put out he
r cigarette on my thigh.” She lifts her skirt just high enough to show me a large dark blemish.

  I shake my head. “How old were you?”

  “Twelve. One of her asshole boyfriends had just made a play for me. He got a blowjob, and I got this.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Jenny.” I glance around the terrace bar. “Well, I guess tonight is proof that Mommy Dearest was dead wrong about you. I mean, just look at you now! You could pass as a runway model. Most women would envy your figure.”

  She snickers. “Hey, let’s give my new push-up bra credit where it’s due. It’s the only reason I look even a tiny bit curvy. Let’s face it, I’m way too skinny for my height.”

  To prove it, she turns sideways–only to trip on the low-lying ledge securing the glass wall that stands between us and oblivion.

  Quickly, I grab her elbow and hold on until she catches her balance.

  She sighs. “That proves I’ll never be on a couture catwalk.”

  “It’s okay. In our job, being built for designer couture is an asset. You fake a model’s life only if the mission calls for it.”

  “Good to know. At least there’s one advantage to starvation. Your stomach shrinks so much that you never develop an appetite.”

  “Didn’t your mother qualify for food stamps?”

  “You better believe it! And on good days, the cuisine was baloney-mayo-and-white-bread sandwiches. But Mama had a habit of washing down her sandwich with a fifth of cheap vodka.”

  “I thought you couldn’t buy booze with food stamps.”

  “You can’t. She earned her drinks the hard way: on her back, legs spread.” Her eyes darken with sadness.

  Time to change the topic. “How did you end up at Langley?”

  Once again, her smile emerges. “All it takes is one great teacher to inspire you, right? Mine was my ninth grade French teacher. She was shocked at how easily I picked up the language. When Mama disappeared on a permanent binge, she talked my social worker into allowing me to be her ward. It paid off with a full scholarship to MIT in Asian Studies, with a minor in Geography. I was recruited right after earning my Masters in International Studies.” She smiles sadly. “The rest, as they say, is history. No, make that salvation, because that’s what it was. I became someone because of it.” She looks down at her dress. “And now I’m reborn again. No longer an ugly duckling, but a swan.”