4 The Housewife Assassin's Relationship Survival Guide Page 5

  You’re live, sugar babe!

  What Arnie lacks in subtlety, he makes up for with enthusiasm.

  “But how can that be?” I ask, “We never sent photos!”

  “Heck if I know. Let me test your submission with a fake CEO profile.” He opens one, and types in a wish list with the exact profile I submitted.

  In no time at all, my profile falls into his email box.

  Except that my head now sports long blond hair in coiling tendrils, and has been superimposed onto a body that looks suspiciously like Scarlett Johansson’s.

  Jack gives a low whistle. “I’m not saying Arnie can improve on perfection, but he’s has sure as hell comes damn close.”

  I pelt Jack with a pillow.

  The next thing we hear is a few bars of “Easy Street” as a Sugar CEO meeting request drops into my Sugar Babe account.

  My very first gentlemen caller has come a’knocking.

  “It’s the bewitching hour,” Jack mutters with a sigh.

  The rest of the kissable positions on my must-do list will have to wait.

  I brace myself before clicking onto it.

  Sugar CEO Number 1 claims to be “one of the founders, and chief technical officer of a multi-billion dollar conglomerate.”

  “Bingo,” Jack says.

  The sugar baby profile that caught his attention states that I grew up in Chicago, and that currently I am working on my Doctorate in Art History at Columbia, in which I ruminate on the effect of France’s political turmoil on the Impressionists painters.

  I’m sure the fact that my picture shows sleek brunette, whose body busting out of a low-cut ball gown had nothing to do with his interest in me.

  Now that I know I’m expected to have Megan Fox’s curves (Arnie is proving to be a master at PhotoShop), I’ve got to squeeze into two more Spanx and a strapless Victoria’s Secret Bombshell bra.

  His email states that he is looking for “a companion with style and discretion.”

  “Codeword for ‘I’ve got a wife,’” Jack smirks.

  It also says that he was attracted to me because of my love of art. Or as he puts it: “How refreshing to find someone who knows a Monet from a Manet. If you’ll allow me, this Saturday evening I’d like to give you a private tour of the American Wing of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I’m hoping to impress you with my own modest donation to the museum’s Hudson River School collection. Shall we say eight o’clock?”

  “So, he wants an egghead arm charm,” I murmur. “Talk about a change of pace. I guess we better pack a bag for the Big Apple.”

  “Emma is already here at the house, so the kids have some coverage. Still, perhaps you should call Aunt Phyllis and ask her if she’ll stay the weekend, too, in case they need rides to their basketball games.”

  “God help the good folk of Hilldale,” I mutter under my breath. Aunt Phyllis’s speeding tickets are bankrupting me.

  Jack nods. He knows exactly what I mean. “I’ll ask Ryan to set you up with a Gramercy Park address that fits the bill. Then you can write back to CEO Number One.”

  “I better brush up on late nineteenth century American art. So, who do you like better, Church or Bierstadt?”

  “Depends. Which of those dudes painted a better nude?”

  I sigh. “Just….never mind.”

  Chapter 5

  When and How to Kiss

  Kissing is an art form, one which true connoisseurs delight in pursuing!

  By the third date, give yourself permission to go beyond the chaste acts of polite conversation and handholding, and allow him to kiss you. Here’s how:

  First, position yourself next to him. You must be close enough for him to bend forward to kiss you, but not so close that he can’t breathe naturally. (That said, for the time being put away the hood and noose, and forego any thoughts of a choke hold.)

  Next, pucker up! To do so properly, don’t open so wide that he thinks you’re about to bite. (Of course you do like a toothy nip now and then, but there’s a time and place for everything. He’ll know when he’s on the receiving end of your incisors, and it won’t be pretty). Nor must you open your mouth so slightly that he feels the urge to pry it open with a tire jack. (Albeit, it does give the illusion of chastity. I leave the need for that to your discretion.)

  Now, don’t be surprised if you find him counting your cavities with his tongue. He’s trying to impress you with his knowledge of French: French kissing, that is! Neither of your tongues should feel the urge to (a) tongue wrestle (b) skitter down each other’s throats, or (c) stick to the roof of the other’s mouth like day-old bubble gum. French kissing is a mouth waltz, a sign of desire, a show of acceptance.

  As opposed to his hand up your skirt, since it is thoroughly improper.

  Should you find it there, biting is now appropriate: down hard, on his tongue. Without having said a word, he’ll certainly get the message; move it, or lose it.

  It’s been a while since I’ve been on a real date, one where you’re thrilled to learn that someone desires you, and only you, for a few hours. Perhaps for a night. And maybe for the rest of your life.

  You adorn yourself in the hope of living up to all his expectations. You put on a dress that clings and flows. And a bra that not only lifts and separates, but plumps cleaves and perks you in the direction of the stratosphere. Forget the granny panties. Time for rip-it-off-of-me ass floss. And finally, you strap on high heels that force you to stand up straight, saunter slowly, and topple seductively into his arms.

  On the appointed night, you’ll flex well-honed skills that entice and allure, like the come hither smile; the wide-eyed admiration; the flirtatious aside. You’ll conjure the magic that makes him obsess over you; to want you, and only you, for a lifetime.

  For Sugar CEO Number One, I have to be that woman, and more.

  He anticipates a woman named Lorelei Saunders, who is in her early thirties, and is well-traveled and well-bred. Lorelei is demure, and can converse on many subjects, but specifically the subject that interests him the most: fine art.

  His smile is proof that I live up to his expectations.

  As for Sugar CEO Number One, he is balding, slight, and soft-spoken. He is also dressed casually: a black crewneck sweater under an expensive wool herringbone jacket, and Corneliani brogues under tan slacks with razor-sharp creases.

  At the appointed time, he greets me on the front steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art with a gentle kiss on the cheek. When a brisk breeze wraps my sheer, gauzy dress around my thighs, he does the gentlemanly thing and glances away.

  Having personally known two Quorum leaders and their best hard man intimately, he isn’t at all what I expected. Jonah Breck exuded power and masculinity, but he was also a sadist who raped women, and sold them into slavery. Greg Lardner, the Silicon Valley venture capitalist, was a freewheeling, free spending playboy with a need to be sexually dominated. Both were forced into uncompromising positions (by me) to divulge the Quorum’s secrets, but Carl killed them before they were able to do so.

  It’s a good thing for both of us Carl is now on the run.

  Sugar CEO Number One is about twenty years older than me, which means I’m still young enough to have been his daughter, and most certainly younger than the woman he has been married to for the past thirty-three years, and who bore him the three daughters he presumes I’ll never find out about.

  Wrong. Because he scrutinizes me as openly as I do him, Arnie’s facial recognition software is able to place his broad, florid face immediately: “Benjamin Rooney, president and chief technology officer of Bosco Systems,” Arnie whispers into my ear. “Bosco supplies the coding technology for the Department of Defense’s unmanned missile systems. Rooney is one of the founders, but he chafes under a board of directors that would prefer he take a golden parachute so that they can take the company public, something that would expose his Quorum link, and the revenues it generates.”

  Well, there you have it. He’s got a motive for sellin
g out his company, and he certainly has something important to offer the Quorum.

  I note a slight Midwestern accent as he declares, “Tonight I’ll be your personal tour guide. Afterward, I’ve arranged for us to have a private dinner under Cloud City, in the roof garden.”

  I smile. “Ah yes! I’ve yet to see Tomás Saraceno’s masterpiece. I guess VIP membership has its privileges.”

  He smiles modestly. “You caught me red-handed, trying to impress you.”

  “Well, you’ve succeeded.”

  The guards know him well enough to smile reverently and let us pass by with no more than a deferential nod. The American Wing is on the third and highest floor of the museum. Once here, we are left alone. As we walk through the gallery, I flatter his ego by complimenting his knowledge on such renowned paintings as Thomas Cole’s View of Mount Holyoke, and John Frederick Kensett’s Lake George. My own facts are courtesy of MMA’s website, which Emma whispers into my diamond stud earpiece.

  We stop to admire the thunder clouds roiling over the darkened skies in Martin Johnson Heade’s Newberry Meadows. I am making some comment about the shaft of light illuminating one of the haystacks in the painting when he leans in to kiss me.

  I freeze for a moment before kissing him back. When he pulls away to gauge his effect on me, I blush.

  He squeezes my hand. “You seem like a nice girl. Excuse my bluntness, but in all honesty, it surprises me to find a woman of your caliber trolling Sugar CEO.”

  I laugh. “And you seem like a nice guy. I guess I could say the same about you.”

  “Have you heard that old adage, ‘It’s lonely at the top’? I live it every day of my life.”

  It will seem lonelier once he hears what I have to say to him.

  I’ve got a saying for him, too: If you play with fire, you’re sure to get burned.

  My face must reflect this thought, because his smile fades. Up until now, everything has been peachy keen. To ensure it stays that way, he puts a hand on the small of my back and leads me toward the elevator at the end of the wing. “You must be famished. Shall we move on to Cloud City? I hope you like steak au pouvre. It’s from my favorite restaurant.”

  Sure, whatever. Every condemned man is allowed a last meal.

  By the time dinner is over, between the worm already planted in his smart phone and the facial recognition ID, we should have the necessary data to convict Mr. Rooney.

  I wonder how he’ll break the news to the wife whom he no longer loves, and to the daughters who certainly adore him.

  When life as you know it goes on life support, it’s easy to roll through the five stages of grief:

  Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

  For Benjamin Rooney, denial is a blank incomprehensible stare, even when confronted with the specifics of how he’s tampered with the codes of two US anti-aircraft missiles aimed at North Korea, so that they are capable of taking down a few of our commercial jets instead. “So, you’re not Lorelei Saunders?”

  “No, sorry. But my name isn’t important. However, the fact that you are one of the Quorum’s leaders means a lot to the US government and many other governments around the globe.”

  That’s when his anger kicks in. “Who the hell do you think you are, accusing me of this crap?” He tosses his napkin on the table and jumps up.

  “Mr. Rooney, the moment you try to exit the building, you’ll be handcuffed by Federal agents. We already have evidence of your Quorum activity, from your own computer and cell phone.”

  I pull out my cell, where Arnie has already sent me a screenshot of a decrypted message that Benjamin is sure to recognize: his terms of negotiation with the Quorum, for the North Korean code. “Your only hope of escaping prison is to cooperate fully with us.”

  His eyes dart from side to side as he feels his world caving in. Depressed, tears stream down his face as he paces the length of the rooftop. “They approached me! They made it seem so easy, so fail-proof—”

  “Who is ‘they,’ Mr. Rooney? Can you in fact identify other members of the organization?”

  “Yes….no!...Well, okay, one, maybe. I only met him once. But when they need something, he calls.”

  “So you can recognize his voice.”

  “Yes, I guess I can.” He buries his head in his hands. “But you don’t understand! He’ll…he’ll kill me!”

  “By cooperating, you’ll get immunity from prosecution. We can protect you. You and your family will be put in Witness Protection.” I pause then add, “I’m sure you’ll want them safe at all costs.”

  He pauses at the far edge of the roof in order to stare at me. He stands still for so long that I feel he has hardened into one of the Rodin sculptures we just recently admired. The Head of Sorrow may be etched in despair, but Benjamin Rooney’s frown is deepened by fear.

  Finally he nods. “Yeah, okay. Call your people. Tell them I’ll talk.”

  He looks up, as if cursing the heavens over this twist of fate. Twinkling stars blanket the sky above Central Park’s vast white gray lawn.

  I don’t need to reach for my cell. Arnie and Jack already hear all and see all. In fact, they both shout “Shit…he jumped!” into my ear when, like me, they watch Benjamin topple over the side of the roof.

  I run to the edge and look over. His head, turned to one side, lies in a pool of dark blood. His body, arms and legs akimbo on concrete, is laid out like an Egyptian hieroglyphic.

  In no time at all several people have already gathered around him, including a few MMA security guards, Jack and Abu. Abu blends in because he’s also wearing an MMA security guard uniform, while Jack is in one of his expensive suits, as if he’s just an upper East Side swell taking a stroll on a mild spring evening.

  After the shock of what they see in front of them melts, their eyes instinctively move skyward, toward the roof.

  Toward me.

  Just as I duck out of sight, I see Abu trying to direct their attention back down toward Benjamin. Playing along, Jack kneels over the body but whispers, “I’ve pocketed his cell phone. Get out. Now.”

  I’m already running down the nearest stairwell.

  “When you reach the ground floor, head outside. I’ve disarmed the alarms,” Arnie says. “And I’m already erasing the webcam footage of Rooney and his ‘date.’”

  “Good, because at least two guards saw me with him.” Even in wig and contact lenses that are a different from my real eye color, a digital video picture would make it easy for someone to place me.

  The Feds, for example, who think I’m home in Hilldale under lock and key.

  I don’t stop until I reach the ground floor. Hearing footsteps, I duck behind a statue just as two guards run past me up the stairwell.

  “Take the path around to the left, to the 79th Street Transverse Road,” Jack says. “I’ll meet you on the corner. Move quickly. The cops and an ambulance are already on the way.”

  My heart is racing, not because a black-and-white has just passed by or from fear or exertion, but because of my own anxiety over Rooney’s death. He seemed sincere about playing ball. In fact, he seemed relieved.

  But nothing in life is black or white. No one is all good, or all bad. I got the feeling he was just some guy too smart for his own good, who had found himself in over his head.

  I’d done what I could for him. I’d given him a way out from his pact with the devil.

  So, why did he choose to jump?

  I wish I hadn’t been the last person he’d kissed, let alone the last person to see him alive.

  Chapter 6

  How to Handle His Promise, “I’ll Call You…”

  The date was fantastic. Sublime. Perfect.

  You’ve given him... what, all of twenty-four hours to contact you for a second date, which will also confirm your gut instinct that the two of you were meant to live together for eternity…. Right?

  So why won’t he return your calls? (fifteen so far, and counting….)

  Was just one date
enough for him to make up his mind that he’s “just not that into you?”

  That is not acceptable.

  No time for a pity party! He loves you. He really, really loves you. Here’s how to get him to realize his mistake:

  First, put a webcam on his house, so you can track his comings and goings, which will allow you to intercept him and ask him, “What the hell? Why haven’t you called?”

  Next, put a GPS tracker on his car, in case he somehow gets away from you. That way, you can pretend to run into him, allowing you to say, “Wow! Fancy meeting you here… So, why haven’t you called me?”

  Finally, when he gets the restraining order issued, apply for a legal name change, so that you can keep close to your precious. In time, he’ll suck it up and accept what you’ve known all along:

  You complete him.

  ”

  “Well, that didn’t go so well,” Ryan says.

  Like, duh. “Go ahead, be blunt. Tell me what you really think.”

  It takes a moment, but finally he gets the fact that I’m joshing with him. He shakes his head. “Not funny, Donna.”

  “I’m sorry, Ryan. And yes, I get it: I screwed up. I should have turned Benjamin Rooney. Frankly, I thought I’d done just that. When he jumped, I didn’t see that coming.”

  “No need to apologize. I was watching along with you, and it threw me for a loop, too.” Ryan rubs his eyes, as if doing so will wipe away his concern over the turn of events. “Well, we should have more luck with the others. In fact, a second Sugar CEO has already contacted you, and not a moment too soon. Emma has picked up some new chatter on Carl. Apparently he’s planning a surprise retaliation to prove he’s back in full force.”

  “Do we know where, or when?” Jack asks.

  “Emma is trying to connect the dots, but she’s had no luck as of yet.”

  I sigh. “I guess I should get Jeff out of her hair.”

  Yes, it’s true, Jeff has discovered girls. Make that women. Well, one in particular. While he wouldn’t be caught dead talking to the giggling ten-year-old hussies who call our house asking for him, he’s been panting after Emma since she moved into the bonus room over the garage. Who knew his very first crush would be a kohl-eyed Mohawked nymphet with two nose rings and a penchant for platform boots and tight black leather jeans?