3 The Housewife Assassin's Killer Christmas Tips Read online

  Well, he’s wrong. I’m crying for my children. I pray the day never comes when they learn the truth.

  Their biological father is a traitor and a monster.

  The other suspect is positioned in such a way that his face is hidden in shadow—

  As for the woman, all we’ve got is a partial image. Is she Allegra? No, she can’t be. We know for a fact that she wasn’t at the exchange. By simply handing off the thumb drive to her priest, she paid with her life on a later day.

  Finally, the woman shifts slightly to her right, pulling her face partially out of the shadows. Her head turns directly to the camera, if only for a split second, before she steps back into darkness.

  “That’s the money shot,” Arnie mutters. He clicks back to it and isolates it onto his computer screen.

  Bingo. She’s grainy, but he’s got her.

  I hold my breath as he zooms onto her face, enlarging the tiny square pixels into the peaks and valleys of skin and emotion.

  Because her head is covered with a headscarf, you’d have to guess if she’s blond, brunette or a redhead.

  Ah, but if the eyebrows are any indication, she’s honey blond.

  If you’re a man who had ever loved her, you’d still remember those almond-shaped eyes, those full petulant lips, and those sky high cheekbones.

  I’m guessing that’s why all the color has left Jack’s face.

  She’s Valentina, the wife who left him. The wife who ran away with Carl.

  She is also my nun on the run.

  The pain in Jack’s eyes now mirror my own, but for all the wrong reasons.

  “Okay, folks, you’ll get your marching orders as soon as we figure out our reconnaissance hot spots. Jack, if you’ve got a moment, I’d like to see you in my office.” As always, Ryan’s matter-of-fact tone doesn’t give a hint as to why he and Jack need to go behind closed doors this very second, when we should be tightening the noose around Valentina’s pretty little neck.

  Emma slaps Arnie upside his head.

  “Ouch! What did you do that for?” he yelps. Her kohl-eyed stare is making him sweat.

  “What, do you think I’m stupid? You’re using your new ex-ray software to check out her boobs under her habit, aren’t you?”

  “Well… okay, yeah. But you’ve got to agree, it’s the perfect application—”

  Emma isn’t buying it. She stomps off to her own cubicle.

  Arnie’s cockeyed wooing of Emma is a lot like a game of Chutes and Ladders. His desk jockey derring-do may earn him a few inches within proximity of Emma’s dark hardboiled heart, but in so many ways, he’s still a nerd and a Neanderthal. No amount of manscaping can change that.

  Valentina’s mesmerizing eyes draw me back to Arnie’s computer screen. Speaking of DNA, I have to admit. She’s drop dead gorgeous.

  The drop dead part happens later, if she runs into me again.

  The drive home with Jack has been conducted in complete silence. I can’t stand it anymore. Now that we’ve pulled into the garage, I’ll be damned if the rest of our afternoon is going to be haunted by Valentina’s resurgence in Jack’s life.

  Or I should say, in our lives.

  So I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Who did you draw for Secret Santa?”

  For the first time since we left Acme, Jack lips raise into a smile. “You tell me first.”

  I adjust the mirror so that I can apply some lipstick. “I pulled Emma’s name.”

  Not really. I pulled Jack’s. I wonder what’s considered an appropriate gift to a man whose wife you’ve just tried to kill. He’ll have to settle for a pair of cufflinks.

  “How about you?” I ask innocently. “Who’s stocking are you stuffing?”

  He shrugs. “I got Arnie. I was thinking I’d get him a shoe phone. You know, as a gag. He eats up all that retro spy stuff. The only television channel he watches is TV Land. He’s memorized reruns of The Avengers, I Spy and The Man from Uncle.”

  I can’t help but snort. “If you do, he’ll have it rigged into a satellite phone before the party’s over.”

  Jack chuckles, too. It’s great to hear his laugh again.

  “You know, Jack, you haven’t mentioned Valentina since she was ID’d as Father Casari’s shooter.”

  The smile disappears from his face. “What’s to say? The hit just earned her a few notches closer to Number One on the FBI and the International Watch lists.”

  “Was that Ryan’s consensus on the matter, too?”

  He shrugs. “If you’re wondering what our little powwow was about, it’s exactly what you’d imagine. He wants to make sure I won’t have a problem exterminating her, if and when the opportunity presents itself.”

  Ryan’s question proves he and I are of like minds, which may not speak well for Jack’s and my relationship. “Well, will you?”

  Jack’s hands stiffen around the steering wheel. I imagine them grasping my heart, and squeezing a little too tight. “We’ve already had this conversation, Donna. As far as I’m concerned, when I learned Valentina left me for Carl, she sealed her own fate.”

  I wish I could believe him, but I can’t.

  To be honest with myself, I guess I won’t, until I see it with my own eyes.

  My silence must speak volumes to him because his gaze shifts toward me. “You once said the same to me. About Carl, remember?”

  How can I forget? I’ve had two chances to put a bullet through Carl’s heart, to shatter it, the way he did mine on the day I found out he’d faked his own death in order to join the Quorum for a payday that has nothing to do with faith, country, or family.

  No, I’m not being melodramatic. A woman scorned doesn’t mince words. She’ll cast a deserter out of her life with the dried-eyed efficiency in which she’d shear the dead blossoms from her garden.

  Granted, she may pause when faced with the thorny dilemma of killing the man with whom she bore three children, even if his hit is government sanctioned.

  But never doubt she’ll follow through, especially when she’s discovered that he also left her for another woman. In my case, learning that Valentina ran away with Carl has a way of stripping that rose of any withering bloom.

  I take Jack’s hand in mine and kiss it tenderly. That tells him all he needs to know. I too have already shed my ex.

  Does it surprise me when he takes me in his arms and carries me upstairs to our bed?

  No, not at all. The one thing better than make-up sex is revenge sex.

  But Jack’s touch is anything but tender. The buttons of my blouse fly off when he rips it away from my chest. With a hand on each shoulder, he twists the thread-thin straps of my camisole and pulls it straight down. Do my breasts pucker with goose bumps because of the sudden exposure to the cool air or are they aroused in anticipation of the touch of his tongue?

  I realize it’s the latter when he cups them both in the palms of his large hands, hefting them as if they were solid gold. Although his fingers are warm, my nipples harden as his thumbs roll over them oh so gently before taking them in his mouth, one by one. His lips are warm. A current of desire surges through my veins as his tongue gently circles them. I would stroke his head if I weren’t afraid that it would signal him to stop.

  It’s the very last thing I want him to do.

  Instinctively, he knows this. Why else would he drop one hand to my mound and the other to my ass? The one behind me finds the sweet spot where the curve of my cheeks meet. With fingers as light as feathers, he teases, squeezes and tickles me into a spasm of naughty joy, while the thumb of his front hand strokes and strums until I’m damp, giddy and aching to feel him inside of me.

  As if reading my mind, he places my hands on the dresser and arches over me. When he enters me, I gasp. The size and thickness of his member should no longer surprise me. And yet, when he plunges deep inside me, it always feels like the first time. Without missing a beat, we find our rhythm. Our grunts start out soft, but get louder as the tempo of our passion crescend
os into a mutual orgasm…

  Until he collapses on top of me, exhausted.

  I revel in the afterglow when suddenly the worst thought in the world crosses my mind. Was he was making love to me or wishing I were her?

  Lovers are like songs. Sometimes it’s hard to get them out of your mind.

  And yes, for that matter, Carl hit all the high notes, too.

  Despite all that has torn us apart, I know for a fact that Carl would love to come back to me. He’s made that clear.

  Too bad. It’s wishful thinking on his part.

  Why is it we always want what we can’t have?

  Chapter 7

  Poinsettia Time!

  Only one live blossoming plant captures the essence of Christmas: the poinsettia! Its flaming red flower and dark green leafy stalks are the ideal colors of this special time of year.

  Talk about perfect timing! The poinsettia, which blooms in early December, holds it flowers sometimes into February. And since the poinsettia is a perennial, you don’t cut and toss it after the season. Instead, prune it well, and feel free to leave it outside after the last frost. It loves moist soil and direct watering. Remember, let any excess water drain off!

  So that its flaming color returns, come fall, move it back inside for two months, into a space that gets no light at all, like, say, your dungeon! Its reddening blossoms will give any captive you have down there something to smile about…

  Yes! Yes! Hilldale’s Santa is the jolliest of elves.

  His sky blue eyes twinkle every time a child leaps into his laps. His “Ho, Ho, Ho” is deep and strong and has them squealing back in delight. After divulging their most secret toy fantasies, he nods slowly, then taps the side of his head as proof he’s already put it on the top of his list. After handing them a lollypop, he tweaks their noses and sends them on their way. Thirty seconds with him is all they need to be assured that all is indeed right with the world.

  That their mothers and fathers aren’t pulling the wool over their eyes about this Santa dude.

  Thus far, Trisha isn’t buying it. Her arms stay crossed at her chest as our place in line snakes closer to Santa’s ornate chair.

  In order to coerce Trisha into believing, I’ve bribed both Mary and Jeff to come with us.

  “I’ll ride along, but if you think I’m sitting on some old perv’s lap, you can just forget about it,” Jeff warns me in a whisper.

  I look him straight in the eye and mutter back, “First, up until two years ago, you thought he was real, so cut out the tough-guy routine. Second, the moment Trisha stands up, we’re all taking off. If she questions why you and Mary didn’t tell Santa what you want, you can say you felt guilty that the line was so long, and you wanted to make sure the other kids had a chance, before the mall closes.”

  Mary snickers. “That is sooooo lame.”

  She’s baiting me, and I know it. She’s still hurt because Trevor is crushing on me. At the same time, she knows I’m doing everything I can to discourage it. And yet, his last three visits to our house included too little shooting of hoops and too much mooning over me as I fussed in the kitchen.

  I know that letting her go wild with my credit card in Forever 21 won’t heal her heart totally, but maybe it’ll get me out of the doghouse through the end of the holidays.

  As if.

  Finally, it’s Trisha’s turn. I have to nudge her close to Santa’s beckoning arms. Mrs. Santa is a come-hither blonde in a tight, low-cut red jacket lined with white fur and adorned with tiny silver bells that jingle with each jiggle. When bends down to hand Trisha a gingerbread cookie, Jeff’s curiosity gets the better of him. He ducks in order to see what goodies she’s hiding under her much-too-short and flouncy red satin skirt.

  I smack his head so that he stands up straight, then I place Trisha on Santa’s lap.

  “Well, well, well, what have we here?” Santa goes in for a chin chuck, only to have Trisha slap his hand away.

  Santa’s smile wavers. “Feisty, aren’t you? Remember, Santa only visits good little girls and boys.”

  “Boys and girls aren’t the only ones who can do bad things. Aren’t parents naughty, too, if they tell lies?” Trisha looks just beyond Santa, at me.

  “You’re right, little one. Telling lies is naughty, no matter what your age,” Santa proclaims loudly. “Isn’t that right, Mrs. Claus?” He winks knowingly at his blonde sidekick.

  She doesn’t have a belly laugh. Her giggle emanates from her diaphragm, and shakes her breasts so boisterously that the tiny bells on her fur collar ring tinkle and chime.

  Gimme a break.

  I have to snap my finger in front of his leering puss to keep his eyes on the prize: my daughter’s faith in humanity.

  Okay, really her faith in me.

  “I’ll just bet you’re having a bad day, right, little girl?”

  Trisha nods as if sentenced to the gallows.

  “I’ll tell you what. You whisper right here in my ear what is the one thing I can put under the tree to make you happy, and believe me, by Christmas morning all will be right with the world.”

  I hold my breath as he sits through Trisha’s scrutinizing stare. Finally, she nods. I finally let out with a sigh as she cups his ears to whisper what I already know is her wish.

  Santa chuckles loudly and proudly. “Now, promise me you’ll be good for a whole other year.”

  “I cross my heart,” Trisha declares solemnly. “And you’ll be good, too! Right, Santa?” Her eyes look over his head, to me.

  What have I done now?

  Santa smiles and nods. He’s just about to say something when a shout rings out. “You liar! How could you!”

  A woman pushing a stroller with a toddler boy shoves her way through the line until she’s standing in front of Santa. Taken aback, he stands up, and Trisha topples out of his lap. “Honey? What are you doing here?”

  “Catching you in the act! Your little plaything over there left this in the back seat of our car! I found it was in Little Alvin’s booster seat!” She holds up a tiny silver bell, then tosses it at Santa, hitting him squarely in the eye.

  “What? Wait a minute! You mean to tell me you’re married . . . to her?”All the blood leaves fake Mrs. Claus’s face as she glares at Santa. “But you told me the baby gear and toys back there were being dropped at Toys for Tots!”

  Santa’s real wife opens her eyes even wider. “You’re giving away your own son’s toys?”

  Santa flinches. “Of course not! I—I lied to her!”

  “Why, you son of a—” Fake Mrs. Santa slaps his face.

  Mary is smart enough to cover Trisha’s ears and hustle her down the aisle before Mrs. Claus takes a swing at him, too.

  I think that’s enough holiday cheer for one afternoon.

  I head out of the mall, pulling Jeff behind me, but it’s a struggle. “Mom, let me stay!” He pleads. “I don’t want to miss any of this if it turns into a catfight!”

  The coded instructions delivered onto my voicemail by Hilldale’s foremost librarian, Miss Marion, is short and sweet. “The book you reserved, The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, has been returned.”

  That is Acme’s way of telling Jack and me that our mission’s directives are ready for pick up, from Abu, and that we’ll find his ice cream truck is on the far side of Hilldale Park.

  “Why would we want a popsicle? It’s cold outside!” Mary protests as Jack and I herd Jeff, Trisha and her out the door.

  “Mary dear, we live in Southern California. Winter is optional.”

  She shrugs. She knows I have a point. If the temperature here drops below fifty, you’ll see people in bubble boy jackets.

  While the kids make up their minds, Abu hands me a Yosicle Torpedo. I laugh out loud when I see what he has for Jack. A Captain America Cyclone. “How appropriate.”

  Jack nods. “Yeah, well, someday they’ll make a Bond pop, and I’ll have to switch.”

  I shake my head. “I can just imagine it being gold, and
tasting like a martini, shaken not stirred.”

  Abu warms his hands on his biceps. “I’ve got to get a different franchise for the winter. Business has been deadly.”

  Jack looks at him as if he’s crazy. “I’d think that’s a plus, considering this sideline is just a front.”

  “Trust me, if you got to keep the proceeds, you’d be looking harder at the bottom line, too. I’ve got a kid ready for college. All she’ll consider are the Ivy Leagues! Have you seen what tuitions run these days?” He shakes his head in wonder. “I’m thinking about a food truck. Cupcakes maybe.”

  I tilt my head as I consider that option. “That would go over pretty big in this neighborhood. Tell you what. If you get Ryan to approve it, I’ll slip you some of my recipes. I’ve got a killer one for coconut, and also my red velvet is to die for.”

  He hits me with a high five. “You’re on.”

  When my kids finally make up their minds, their choices are predicable. Mary wants a Fudgesicle, whereas Trisha goes for a Dreamsicle, and Jeff can’t make up his mind.

  “Oh, hurry up already,” Mary mutters to him.

  “Why?” Jeff smirks back. “Is your boyfriend coming over again tonight to tutor you in ‘math?’” He makes kissing sounds as he hugs himself.

  “He might.” Mary glances over at me as she tosses her hair from her left side to her right one. It’s a nervous trait. “What’s it to you?”

  “Nothing.” Jeff shrugs. “But I would have thought that, by now, you would have gotten tired of him flirting with Mom.”

  Before I can say anything to put a stop to Jeff’s nonsense, Mary rubs her Fudgesicle in Jeff’s face and stalks off.

  Jeff licks the tip of his nose. “Not bad! I’ll have another, garcon.”

  I put my hands up. “No, Jeff, you won’t. Enjoy what’s left of Mary’s pop.”

  “But Mom—”

  “No buts. Just go apologize. Take Trisha with you. And by the way, you’re doing the dinner dishes tonight.”

  He knows better than to argue. He trudges off after her, hauling his sister behind him. I can hear him begging her for a bite of her Popsicle. Her way of saying no is to stick the whole thing in her mouth.