1 The Housewife Assassin's Handbook Page 6

  “What’s that?” Billy eyes my treat suspiciously. “It looks good! Hey, I want one, too!”

  “There’s only one,” Abu growls, “and it’s hers.”

  “But that’s not fair! She said she’d buy me whatever I want!”

  Abu and I look at each other. This is no ordinary ice pop, and we both know it. Encrypted on the inside of the wrapper are my mission orders.

  Nevertheless, I grace Billy with a smile. “Sure, it’s yours if you want it. My, you’re a brave boy! Not many kids love ice cream spiced with tamarind—”

  “What? What the heck is that?”

  “A Thai spice. They use it a lot in Mexico, too. To make chili. See? This has chili in it.” I point to the wrapper, where both ingredients are listed in big curvy letters.

  He wavers for just a moment, then says: “Forget that crap! I’ll take the Reese’s. And remember, it’s on her.” He grabs his bar and saunters off.

  “Brat.” Abu shakes his head sadly. “When I signed up for this gig, I thought it meant encryptions, translations . . . you know, the usual desk jockey stuff. Instead I find myself in this monkey suit. Sheez, what I won’t do for my country! Hanging around all this ice cream . . .want to take a guess at my last cholesterol count?”

  I nod sympathetically but take care to hold the ice cream tube away from my slacks. It’s hot out here, and it’s leaking. “You’re telling me! I’ve put on five pounds since they’ve come up with this cockamamie mission retrieval system.”

  “Yeah, well, if it weren’t for the extra cash flow–”

  “Wait . . . You mean to tell me that they actually let you keep what you make?”

  I’m still steaming over Abu’s nice little bonus when Lassie, always on the lookout for a treat, snatches the Tamarind Spice tube out of my hand, and runs off with it into the bushes.

  I chase after her, but no amount of begging or threats can loosen the tube from her slobbering mouth. In one noisy gulp, the who/what/where/when of my mission has been swallowed whole.

  Is it worth waiting to see if what comes out the other end does so in a decipherable piece? In a word, no. I’ve already taken a lot of crap for my country, figuratively. I refuse to do so literally, too.

  Always empathetic, Abu rolls his eyes. “Look, I’ve got to go finish my rounds first, but I’ll tell Boss Man about your little, um, problem. Try a Google search in a couple of hours, okay?”

  Acme has an emergency back-up system: in dire emergencies, the encrypted message is uploaded online. But unfortunately when it’s done that way, they make the encryption harder to break. Still, it beats the alternative: explaining to Ryan that the dog ate my mission.

  Mary is pounding on the car horn. “Mom! Mom! Can we go home now?”

  Holding Trisha’s sticky hand, I head toward the car and try to figure out what phrase to use while searching for Ryan’s alternate message: Tamarind Chili Cone? F. Scott Fitzgerald? Mommy Dearest?

  Whatever it is, it will have to wait until after Mary and I have our long-needed chat.

  I have come to the very important decision: Mary will finally get what she so desperately wants:

  I’m laying Carl to rest. Tonight. Once and for all.

  Something is different in our house. I can just feel it.

  Whatever it is, the kids are oblivious to it. Jeff, figuring that my talk with Mary will keep me too busy to notice, runs up to his room to sneak in a half hour of Call of Duty: Black Ops before I remind him that homework comes first. Sensing a serious showdown, Trisha follows him upstairs, knowing full well she can tune us out in the perfect Barbie universe waiting for her in her room.

  “Mary, I’m sorry that Mrs. Bing was such–such a–”

  “Bitch.” Mary folds her arms at her waist, waiting to see which way the wind blows.

  “You know I don’t like you to use that word . . . but yes, you’re right. There was no reason for her to behave that way.” Mary relaxes somewhat. Still, my voice is quivering, and I can’t help it. “I just wish you hadn’t lied because – well, I’m a perfect example of how some of the things we say can come back to haunt us. Which brings me to another topic: I think you’re right about something else, too. I mean, about your father–”

  “Mom–” Jeffrey is standing at the door, an ashen look on his face.

  I sigh, and shake my head. “Not now, sweetie. Mary and I are–”

  “But Mom, someone is here!” Jeff’s eyes are open wide in fear.

  “What? Where, at the front door?”

  “No. He’s in – your bedroom.”

  “My – my bedroom? Where – where’s your little sister?” I try to keep the panic out of my voice as I hurry toward the stairs. Mary and Jeff are right on my heels.

  Too late. I see Trisha standing on the threshold of my bedroom door. She hovers there, as if deciding whether or not to go in.

  The rest of us freeze, hearing what has drawn her to the door: running water.

  Coming from the shower. No . . .whoever is there has just turned it off.

  I make it to Trisha in time to see the master bathroom’s door open slowly. I turn around and thrust my baby girl into Mary’s arms, who is close on my heels. But before I have time to whisper frantically for them to run back down the stairs and out the door, he is standing there, in front of us.

  Although I have my back to him, I know this because I see it on my children’s faces: fear, anger—

  Hope.

  Slowly I turn around and see him:

  He is tall, handsome, and humming off-key. One hand holds the towel wrapped around his taut middle. The other is wiping down his broad, muscled chest as he saunters over to us.

  Over to me.

  A wisp of shaving cream still clings to the dimple in his jaw. His dark hair has coiled into a bed of damp curls. His seductive grin is totally captivating.

  And boy, does he know it.

  “Honey, I’m home,” he murmurs casually, as if we’d seen each other just this morning.

  Is this a dream? How could this be?

  What the hell is happening here?

  Before I have a chance to catch my breath, he is standing next to the children. “Ah, so this is Trisha! My God, you’re the sweetest littlest princess in the world! Give me a big, big hug – yes, that’s my girl! Jeff – wow, boy, how about a shake, huh? You’re quite a bruiser, eh, kid? – ”

  Their wariness melts away under his awed, approving gaze.

  And now it’s Mary’s turn:

  Mary, the most jaded – and yes, the most traumatized – of all my children. He seems to know this instinctively, which is why he does all the right things: the tantalizing smile, the warm hug, and the gentle pat, as if she is a fragile piece of china that might break if he’s not careful . . .

  “Ah, Mary,” he murmurs softly, gently. “You beautiful little heartbreaker, you–”

  But none of this takes her in. Instead, she looks over to indicate that she’ll take her cue from me.

  It’s my call.

  So, what do I do now? Embrace him with open arms, or put him on the spot in front of the ones whose approval counts the most: my children?

  Then, before I know it, he has me in his arms. I feel his lips gently brush over mine, too quick to resist –

  The kiss is sweet . . . deep . . . tempting.

  Perfect.

  Jeff and Trisha, their radar always in tune, seem to pick up on this and shove us all, including Mary, into a group hug. They too are confused; but thrilled nonetheless.

  Finally, their father has come home to them.

  We stay suspended in the clinch for what seems like forever.

  Then, one by one, the children break away.

  Mary, her face a kaleidoscope of emotions, is the first. Slowly and awkwardly, she backs out of the room. The others, less out of doubt
than natural shyness, follow suit, closing the door quietly behind them.

  I wait until I hear the click of the knob.

  Then I turn to him, and with a shy smile, I give him a sidekick to the solar plexus that lands him flat on his face, gasping for breath.

  His pain is doubled when, a second later, I’ve wrenched his arm behind his back, straight up and out.

  “So tell me, you audacious son of a bitch,” I whisper, “Who you are, and what the hell you think you’re doing?”

  Chapter 4

  Recycling

  Besides the fact that recycling is eco-friendly and a great lesson for children on how to keep our Earth green and healthy, it is also a creative way to take something you may have felt was no longer of use and give it a second life.

  People can be recycled, too.

  By that, I don’t mean second chances or second lives. I mean that body parts make great mulch. (What, did you think I was getting soft on you or something?)

  “You know, you’re kind of cute when you’re angry.” When, finally, he can speak, his words come out in a husky mutter.

  I’m guessing that’s because I’ve got my kitten heel on his jugular.

  He’s lucky I’m not wearing my six-inch fuck-me stilettos.

  “You think so? You should ask around about that . . . Oh, sorry, you can’t—because anyone who’s seen me really angry has never lived to tell about it.”

  Despite my chokehold, he’s able to mumble out, “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

  “Oh yeah? Tell, me, do you love it when I do this?” I press his arm to the breaking point. “And how about this?” I lean down on my heel again, but just enough . . .

  I’m enjoying the sound of him rasping for air when, from the other side of the door, I hear Mary ask, “Mom . . . is everything okay in there?”

  That breaks my concentration, enough for him to grab my ankle. Next thing I know it’s me who’s facedown, on the bed. I can feel his knee in the center of my back. The pressure he’s putting on me is excruciating, but I’m not going to let him know that.

  “If you don’t answer her, she’ll walk in here and find us . . . like this.” This is murmured more as a promise than a threat. I don’t know what makes me angrier: the thought that he thinks he’s scaring me or the realization that the warmth of his breath on my cheek is turning me on.

  Either way, I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing it.

  I resist the urge to spit in his face. Instead I collect myself, and then in my best sing-song mommy voice, I answer: “Yes, honey, everything is fine! We’re just moving a few boxes in the closet. Why don’t you go downstairs and check on the chicken? If it’s browned, lower the oven to 275. Oh! And do me a favor, and mash the potatoes.”

  “Um . . . Okay. . . Just call down if you need anything.” She sounds uncertain, but a moment later I hear all three of my children clomping down the stairs.

  He’s listening closely, too. I inch my one free hand up slowly. I’m hoping to punch him in the groin—

  As if reading my mind, he grabs my arm and curls it behind my back. “Gee, Mrs. Stone, I didn’t take you for the kind who liked the rough stuff, but whatever turns you on.”

  To keep from groaning in pain, I let loose with a litany of words that, had I’d heard them coming from my own kids’ mouths, would have me reaching for a bar of soap.

  “You’ve got quite a little potty mouth, now don’t you?” To drive his point home, he gives me a smack on the ass. “You know, I can play like this all night, but the boss man may not be too pleased that we’re keeping him waiting.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I hiss at him. “Just who are you, anyway?”

  I guess he realizes that this really isn’t my idea of a meet-and-greet because suddenly he eases his knee off my back. “You mean you really don’t know? And all this time I thought this was just your way of welcoming me to the family. I hadn’t had you pegged for the type who gets into rough foreplay—”

  “Foreplay?” I’m so riled that I sit straight up. So, he wants it rough? Wait until I pull out the Taser I’ve stashed under the mattress . . .

  Then it hits me: “Wait, start over. What do you mean, ‘welcoming you to the family?’ Just who are you, anyway?”

  “I’m Jack Craig—”

  The name sounds familiar. Where have I heard it…?

  Now I remember! What is it that they call him on the spook loops? Oh, yeah: Wild Card Jack. The agent known to shirk protocol whenever it suits him, to bend the rules according to his whims. He’s not above going rogue when the impulse hits—

  Especially if there’s a woman around to impress.

  “—but you can call me ‘Carl darling.’ That’s as my new alias.”

  I can’t believe my ears. “The mission calls for you to pretend to be my husband? No! No way in Hell—”

  “Look lady, don’t shoot the messenger. It was Ryan’s idea. I told him it was crazy, too.” He shrugs. “No one in their right mind would believe I’d be attracted to someone like you—”

  “Oh yeah? What’s wrong with me anyway?”

  “Well to be honest, you’re not exactly my type.”

  I’m trying hard not to snicker. “Considering what I’ve heard about your ‘type,’ I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Your reputation precedes you, too—or haven’t you noticed that Wikipedia uses your photo beside the definition of ‘man-ho.’”

  “You see? This is exactly what I told Ryan. You’re one of those women who have no self-control. You’ll just fly off the handle, mission be damned. Being saddled with you would just tie me down.”

  “You’ve got some nerve, saying that to me!” I reach for the phone. “I’m calling Ryan right now.”

  “Fine by me. If we’re going to take down the Quorum, I’ll need a swallow who doesn’t carry around her emotional baggage like a —”

  “The Quorum? What’s that got to do with you?”

  A brow raises just as the smirk hits his lips. “What, you haven’t had time to read the directive? I saw you at the drop. I know the cut-out in the ice cream truck handed you the order—”

  “You were there, watching us in the park?”

  “Sure. Hey, I’m no fool. I didn’t want to walk in here and get blown away for breaking and entering.”

  I can’t help but shrug proudly.

  But then he ruins it by adding “Besides, it’s ice cream. From the looks of things”—he scrutinizes my backside critically—“I’m guessing you’re not opposed to a sugar fix every now and then. I would have guessed you’d have torn into it before you even got into that mommy mobile they’ve saddled you with.”

  “How dare you—”

  “Just teasing . . . Serious, it’s not as if you’re a total heifer but a little toning up wouldn’t hurt. Might get rid of those love handles.” He has the audacity to put his hands on my hips.

  When I try to slap them away, he raises a brow but doesn’t let go. Instead he nudges me closer, as if we’re playing some sort of game, until I’m right up against his rock hard abdomen—

  And it’s not the only thing that’s hard—

  “You know what they say: sex is the best exercise,” he coaxes seductively. “Since we’ve got to play house anyway, might as well enjoy the fringe benefits, right? Hey, I won’t even mind if you close your eyes and call me Carl—”

  My punch to his jaw has him reeling backward, into the wall. “Dream on, you son of a bitch. Just to let you know: you’re not half the man Carl was.”

  He grimaces as he rubs his jaw. “Just trying to do my conjugal duty.”

  “Get dressed. And make it snappy. I want to get this meeting with Ryan over pronto. I’ve got to be home before eight, to put Trisha to bed.”

>   “Speaking of beds, do you like the right side, or the left? For that matter, are you a top or a bottom? Not that I’m partial, either way—”

  To shut him up, I toss his clothes at him.

  As he grabs for them, his towel drops to the floor and I’m given a full-on view as to what all the spook loop fuss is about—

  Wow.

  Okay, I’m wrong. He’s got at least one thing in common with Carl.

  To hide my shock and awe, I turn and walk out of the room, slamming the door behind me.

  Even from the bottom of the stairway I can hear him laughing.

  I tell Mary that we’ll be back in time for dinner, but just in case our “run to the store” takes longer than expected, to put Trisha to bed no later than eight**, and for Jeff and her to go down no later than ten**.

  She gives Jack a shy peck on the cheek. On the other hand, Trisha throws herself into Jack’s arms, body, and soul. It only takes a second for his initial look of shock to melt into gentle appreciation. Jeff’s wary handshake is taken just as seriously.

  I wonder if this cover is going to be harder for him than he initially imagined.

  Already my heart is breaking. Shame on Ryan for putting my family’s emotional wellbeing at risk! He better have a hell of a good reason for doing that . . .

  Jack and I take separate cars. He refuses to be seen in my “mommy mobile.” That’s fine with me. The way he peels out in his Maserati GranTurismo, I’ve no doubt he’s just an accident waiting to happen.

  Three heads that turn as he races down Main Street are those belonging to Penelope, Tiffy, and Hayley. They’re sitting at one of the outdoor tables in front of our local Starbucks, dishing some neighbor’s dirt, I suppose. As Jack idles at the corner, Penelope licks her Collagened lips, and lifts her sunglasses in order to get a better view of him.

  This is not lost on Jack. Through his side-view mirror, I can see him honoring her with a wink and that lazy smile of his.

  It’s all I can do not to ram him from behind.

  Instead I lay on the horn.

  As he screeches out of the grand gates fronting Hilldale, I wave at them sweetly. The way they show their obvious disappointment is to ignore me.