The Housewife Assassin's Tips for Weddings, Weapons, and Warfare (Housewife Assassin Series Book 11)

by Josie Brown

  I’ve just laid the cell phone back on the desk when I notice something else on the night table: a ring with the large black crest and the number thirteen.

  Babette’s lover, the Quorum operative, is here now with her.

  Frantically, I rummage through the pockets of his suit jacket. No phone.

  I’ve just reached for his pants when the sauna door opens. Babette, naked and skin mist-dampened, is being kissed, as her tall, dark, and handsome lover carries her into the room.

  I duck and roll—

  Under the bed.

  The bed’s frame sinks as they land on top of it.

  From the full-length closet mirror, I watch as Babette positions herself over him, her face pointing toward his feet, in order to take him between her lips. The mattress’s squeals, from her bobbing and his thrusting, are drowned out by the lovers’ grunts and groans.

  But, just at the moment of his climax, she releases him—

  So that he comes on her cheek.

  After patting it all over her face, she licks her palm.

  Yuck.

  Satisfied, she flops down beside him.

  They lay so silent that I wonder if they can hear me breathing.

  Finally, Babette laughs. “I was a very bad girl. I didn’t drink it.”

  “Yes, you were,” he murmurs. “Do you remember what I told you would happen, if you did that again?”

  She says nothing.

  The sound of a slap cracks the silence.

  “Harder,” she begs. “With the buckle. Please.”

  He accommodates. The smacks are slow at first, but build to a furious crescendo, along with her moans.

  Their love play gives me cover to roll back out from under the bed. I crawl on my hands and knees until I get to the courtyard.

  Unfortunately, the Secret Service agent is still guarding the door. How did Babette’s lover get in? Do Zeb and his team know about him, but keep their mouths shut?

  No wonder Zeb can’t wait to retire.

  Since I can’t just waltz out the gate, I climb over the bougainvillea trellis and over the stucco wall—

  Only to topple over it, onto a row of azalea bushes.

  Damn it, by the time I climb out, I’m scratched and bloody.

  The other hotel guests stare as I limp back to my suite. I can only imagine that my facial has hardened into a kabuki mask by now.

  I arrive with just two minutes to spare before my facialist walks in. Noting my scraped knees, she asks, “Oh, my goodness! What happened to you?”

  I shrug. “Rough skin. I inherited it from my father.”

  She picks up the jar holding my facial cream. “I’d rub this into it, but I’d get in trouble because it’s so expensive.”

  “Really? What is it, exactly?”

  “Spermine.” She smiles benignly.

  “As in…cum?”

  The woman nods apologetically.

  Well, at least that’s one spa treatment that Babette didn’t have to pay for.

  I limp through the Locklears’ front door, toward the couch, where Arnie is sitting, computer on his lap. When he looks up, I toss him the scanner.

  Seeing me, Jack meanders over. “What the hell happened to you? Most women look refreshed after a spa day.”

  “I got a workout instead.” I wink. “Oh, and so did your girlfriend. Her mystery lover joined her in the Presidential Suite.”

  Jack sits up straight. “The guy with the ring?”

  “Yep, one and the same. Why, are you jealous?”

  He greets my jibe with a roll of his eyes. “By any chance, did you happen to scan his cell phone too?”

  “I tried, but they were coming out of the sauna.”

  Frustrated, he shakes his head.

  “Still, I guess we have our answer,” I point out. “She’s in bed with the Quorum. Ergo, she’s our target.”

  “Wrong,” Arnie says. He holds up the scanner. “As far as texts to Xia, her phone is clean.”

  Shit.

  “Could it have been scrubbed?” Jack asks.

  Arnie shakes his head. “From the back-end coding, my guess is no. The archive is original, and complete.”

  “Well, there goes my excuse for bowing out of drinks with Lee,” I mutter.

  “Really? You were looking for an excuse?” From Jack’s tone, I can tell he doesn’t believe me.

  “I had one when you had your chance to invite him to hang out with you,” I counter.

  Jack frowns. “We all heard the man. He’d much rather be with you.”

  I don’t have time for his sulking. I grab my purse and leave.

  Chapter 12

  Your Bachelorette Party

  Ah, your bachelorette party! Time to kick back with your gal pals for one last night of carefree, salacious singledom!

  To ensure you survive it without regrets—or for that matter, a perp walk of shame—remember these caveats:

  First, don’t drink so much that you don’t remember anything. A blinding hangover makes for a really funny movie, but if you show up at the wrong time and the wrong place for your nuptials, the last laugh will be on you.

  Next, go for real thrills, not cheap ones. Bungee-jumping, zip-lining, parasailing or whitewater rafting will net lifelong memories. Hiring an instructor to demonstrate the art of putting a whole banana in your mouth is not the kind of pre-wedding memory you’ll want to share when it’s time for your daughter’s big day.

  And, finally, don’t worry about what he did during his bachelor party. What happens that night should be allowed to reside in the dark recesses of his memories—filed under “Stupid Things I Did as a Single Guy.”

  However, should he insist on confessing, remind him what a great shot you are, with a trip to the shooting range. A stray bullet whizzing past his ear will keep his lips zipped for good.

  This is so not my scene.

  Evan, too, is pop-eyed at the view before us: women—hair fussed to a frenzy, bodies trussed in tight spandex, feet hobbled within pointy sky-high stilettos—who are lined up behind the Meat Market Lounge’s red-velvet rope.

  The former furniture store that now houses Los Angeles’s hottest male strip club throbs to the pulsating percussion of Marco Bailey’s Injection. The song’s title aptly reflects their ideal fantasies.

  Mary—anxious, her cheeks flushed—waits for me by the front door between two slabs of beefcake, who are the club’s bouncers. She waves frantically until I’m at her side, then hugs me tightly, as if she never wants to let me go. “Mom, these women are—crazy!”

  I have to laugh. “What, exactly, did you expect?”

  “I don’t know. I guess…well, I guess I expected Channing Tatum.” She blushes at the thought.

  I pat her hand. “I know, honey. Sorry you’re disappointed. But the sooner you learn that real life is nothing like the movies, the happier you’ll be.” I look toward Evan, who has idled the car in order to gawk at women gone wild. “Listen, Mary, if you don’t want to stay—”

  Before I can get another word out, she showers me with grateful kisses and leaps into the passenger seat next to Evan.

  I wonder if he’ll have the same reaction if he’s allowed to step foot into the Playboy Mansion. My guess is no.

  Ah, men.

  The bouncers nod to me. Another slab of buffed man meat, wearing nothing but a bowtie and tights, takes my elbow in order to ferry me through the panting crowd. Apparently, Aunt Phyllis has already greased palms—among other things, if my guess is right.

  I shudder at the thought.

  It’s going to be a long night.

  The club is dark, except for meandering strobe lights, which flash for a mere second on a face here and there throughout the crowd.

  I’m led to the “party playpen” that has been secured for us. It is snuggled next to the stage, allowing me and my guests to be up close and personal to the action, which at the moment is three of the club’s male strippers dancing around the woman who sits on a chair in the mid
dle of the stage to Dire Straits’ Single-Handed Sailor. They’ve shed their sailor whites from their torsos. In unison, with one hand they rip their flare-legged pants from their legs. What they do with the other hand has the woman spellbound, even as she stuffs their G-strings with fivers.

  The women in my party hoot and holler and entice with bills of their own.

  Except for Emma and my aunt, I don’t recognize any of them.

  But when my escort opens the red rope to the playpen so that I may enter, these strange women rush me in order to squeeze me with hugs.

  The last one, a comely brunette with deep dimples on either side of a cupid-bow mouth, declares, “Oh, my God! Finally, we meet!”

  I detect a posh British accent. “Excuse me, who are you again?”

  “Lady Daniela Braxdale-Cuthbert, my dear! But, please, call me Dannie! All my friends do.”

  Before she can pull me down onto the playpen’s curved and cushioned bench, another woman does so, but with such gentility that I feel as if I should know her. And, yet, for the life of me I can’t place her.

  She air-kisses me in close proximity of each cheek as she proclaims, “Ma cherie, what a lucky bride you are! Voici la belle vie!”

  Dannie hands me a champagne glass, while lifting another flute of bubbly toward the other women—the Frenchwoman, Aunt Phyllis, Emma, and three others: a much-too-buxom blonde with a Southern drawl, a sultry Latina, and an ebony-skinned beauty, who is so tall and exquisitely beautiful that she must be a supermodel. They all chatter at once, but with the blaring music and the buzz of the crowd, I can’t hear a damn thing.

  To cover my ignorance, I nod and smile benignly, as I inch my way toward my aunt. I grab her wrist just as she’s about to slip a bill into the banana hammock of the dude giving Emma a lap dance.

  “What the hell, Donna?” she declares, but I don’t let go.

  In fact, I take both of her hands and hold them in her lap until she looks me in the eye. “Aunt Phyllis, who are these women?”

  “What do you mean, who are they? I got them out of your cell phone’s contact book!” She shrugs. “Sorry the gang is small, but these VIP lounges don’t come cheap! I had to promise the club a minimum of a hundred dollars per person, so I only chose women you earmarked with plus signs.”

  Horrified, my jaw drops. “My point exactly: I don’t know any of them.” A strange thought dawns on me. “Which cell phone?”

  “The gray one. It was on the kitchen counter.” She giggles, “I guessed at the password: your initials, then each of the kids’, then the year you and Jack met.”

  “You opened Jack’s cell. Mine is red.” Oh, hell. For some reason, Jack held on to these women’s digits.

  At the same time, the thought sinks into Phyllis’s pea brain. She goes white under her tan. “Donna, I am so sorry! Had I known he was playing off on you—”

  “Is that what you think—that he’s…?” Tears cloud my eyes.

  “Nah!” she chortles. “Gotcha!” She sweeps her hand toward the others. “Hey, put it in perspective! Who better to tell you what you’re getting into than women who share a mutual respect for the man you’re about to marry?”

  “‘A mutual respect?’ Please, don’t sanitize the situation. He still has their contact information for a very obvious reason.”

  “Oh, really?” Aunt Phyllis’s smile fades. “And what would that be, missy?”

  I feel my right brow inching up. “Look at them. They’re all gorgeous! Do I really have to paint a picture for you?”

  Disgusted, Aunt Phyllis shakes her head. “Oh, ye of little faith!” She puts her fingers to her lips and lets loose with a whistle that should summon every cab from here to Carson City.

  My guests’ heads turn in our direction, surprised.

  Aunt Phyllis points at the supermodel. “Umma, how long have you known Jack?”

  The young woman thinks for a moment. Then, softly, she says, “Practically all my life. I consider him”—she blushes—“baba.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know the term.”

  “In Kiswahili, it means ‘father.’”

  My heart sinks to my stomach. How could Jack have a grown daughter? “You mean, he and your mother—”

  “No! ...Oh, no, no, no!” The thought elicits a giggle from her. But, when her smile disappears, sadness deepens in her eyes. “My mother was killed when I was five, by militants. I was sold into slavery. Jack Craig stopped the convoy that would have taken me to my fate. He arranged to have me sent to England, where I was schooled.” The memory clears the anguish from her brow. “I owe him my life! I came to celebrate his happiness with you.” She takes a sip of her champagne. “And to enjoy the eye candy.” Everyone laughs. She raises her glass. “To Jack!”

  “To Jack!” the women shout.

  I turn to the Frenchwoman. “And how do you know him?”

  “Jacque and I were lovers.” The statement comes with a wink. “Surely he has mentioned Coquette Rambert, has he not, mon amie?” Noting my blank stare, she shrugs. “But, of course not. It was a mere moment in time, I assure you. Just long enough for him to convince me that it was worth risking my life by spying on my lover—a Russian general who thought nothing of murdering innocent women and children in Latvia. When the pig discovered my duplicity, Jacque risked his life to smuggle me out of the country.” She raises her glass, “To the health and happiness of a man who gave me purpose”—she winks slyly at me—“and was one of the best lovers I never had.”

  Everyone laughs. Everyone drinks. And, apparently, everyone has a story.

  The adorable Texan reaches over to squeeze my hand. “Oh, mah Gawd—on that note, I’ve got to go next!” She waits for my nod, then shakes my hand vigorously. “I’m Katy May Cuthbert. I worked a pole at the Hanky-Panky in Waco. It was a biker hangout, y’all.” She bats her eyes. “Turns out, one of the skinheads—their leader, truth be told—was sweet on me. I’ll admit it, I played up to him ’cause he tipped well. He was always conducting business in the club, so the tips came regular, not just from him but all of his boys—that is, until word got out that I was his girl. Soon, none of the other patrons would ask me to dance for them ’cause they was all scared of him.” She blinks back her tears. “He was rough trade, if you catch my drift. Some nights, he’d whale on me until I was black and blue!” Katy May shakes her head sadly. “When he got picked up by the Feds, Jack was sent to interview me. He realized I was in the catbird seat to hear and see a lot of the skinhead’s shenanigans, maybe even some things I wasn’t supposed to, right?” She shrugs. “It ain’t like I was just a piece of furniture or something, although the other Feds treated me that way. Not Jack. At first, I was afraid to talk. But he convinced me to turn state’s evidence, and made sure I was placed in Witness Protection.” She wipes away a tear. “I was able to start new. I went back to school and got my teaching degree. And now I’m married to a good man.” She holds up her hand so that I see the simple band of gold on her ring finger.

  The audience’s hoots and hollers are so loud now that they get her attention. Her head turns toward the stage, where the sole dancer gyrates in full Native American headdress and nothing else. She smiles slyly.

  Of course, I’m wondering: Did he sleep with her?

  As if reading my mind, Katy May shakes her head. “Your Jack is one hot piece of lead. And don’t think I wouldn’t have done been his gal if he’d asked.” She sighs. “Maybe it’s for the best. Jack would have been a temporary detour. When I met Franklin, my heart knew it had found its home.” Her eyes drift to the dancer on the stage. “My Franklin doesn’t look anything like that man. He’s got a potbelly and bad teeth. But he brings me flowers once a week, and built me a cabin in the woods, far away from Waco. I would never have found him if it hadn’t been for Jack.” She raises a champagne bottle. Pouring a little in everyone’s glass, she proclaims, “This one’s for your Mr. Craig.”

  My Mr. Craig. I like the sound of that—so much so that I down mine along
with everyone else.

  “Ay, Dios mio!” The Latin beauty purrs. “Gringas, you are much too sentimental! Donita, I am Maria Dolores Sostré Colón.” She nods, but doesn’t offer her hand in greeting. “And, to be honest with you, I am here for… cómo se dice? Ah, yes”—her smile flatlines—“payback.”

  Oh, no. And, wouldn’t you know it? Tonight I’m not packing heat.

  Her right hand moves into the folds of her shawl.

  Is she reaching for a gun? My thoughts are how to deflect her aim. I’d never forgive myself if her bullet hit my dear Aunt Phyllis.

  Or, for that matter, Emma.

  Outside of Jack and my family, she is my dearest friend. It’s funny how the experiences we share with others bind us deeper to their fates.

  In the time it takes Maria to remove her hand from below the shawl, I’ve shaken the champagne bottle—

  And spritzed it directly into her face.

  “Caramba!” she sputters. “Why did you do this?”

  Her hand goes up to deflect the fuzzy liquid and to wipe her face. That’s when I see what she’s holding: a beautiful card.

  “Because you said ‘payback,’ I thought you meant, well…a hit.”

  Droplets of champagne in her hair are flung off as she shakes her head no. At least she’s laughing—uproariously, in fact. Slowly, she holds out the card to me. When I take it, she leans back, as if to prove that she means no harm.

  I look down at the card with one eye, but keep the other glued to her.

  “What does it say?” Emma asks.

  “Read it out loud,” Aunt Phyllis insists.

  “It’s…very sweet,” I concede. “‘Jack, mi amigo, I will always remember your kindness during a tough time. Please know that, when needed, I will return the favor, no questions asked. Con amor, Maria Dolores.’” I close the card. “What does it mean?”

  “We faced off in Rio,” she begins. “My target was an Argentinian contractor, who was handing over the design for a new U.S. long-range missile to a Russian diplomat. Jack was after the Russian.” She shrugs. “He got his man, but mine ducked out of the way.” She smiles slyly. “Later that night, he made it up to me.”