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

by Josie Brown

  “A quick exit, with bodyguards at the door?”

  I shrug. “I’ll sashay out as if I don’t have a care in the world.”

  “Yeah, right, we’ll see about that.” He lifts a second finger. “What if he doesn’t take a drink?”

  I sigh mightily. “If he doesn’t go down one way, he’ll go down another.”

  To prove my point, I lift up my crewneck top, revealing my Glock 43, tucked in my FlashBang bra holster. “Talk about cleavage, right? It both lifts, and separates.”

  By the frown on Jack’s face, he’s still not convinced.

  Next, I put my right foot on the bed beside him so that he can admire my tall, gray stilettos. A second later I pull, quite literally, a stiletto from one of the heels.

  A third finger goes up. “You’re presuming that he won’t make you strip, or tie you down. If he does, you’ll have no way to defend yourself,” he counters.

  I shrug. “Don’t I always come up with something?” To be honest, he’s hit on a brain tickler, but I don’t need to let him know that.

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Okay, how about this? Did you know that the Tiffany lamps on the bedside tables in the master bedroom of the Beverly Wilshire’s Presidential Suite each weigh sixteen pounds? One crack over the head, he’s out like a light.” I lift my hand to my mouth in mock shame. “Oopsy, bad pun.”

  “Donna, have you forgotten what a sadist this guy is? If he has you tied to the bed, it’s game over.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Oh no? Explain.”

  “I can…” I can what?

  “Thought so.” He’s now pacing the room. “Look, let’s say you get out of that room alive. What if he’s got bodyguards, either in the suite, or posted outside? If they have even an inkling that something’s gone wrong, are you going to turn the Beverly Wilshire into high noon at the O.K. Corral?”

  “You’re mashing up two different westerns. High Noon was a fictional incident, and starred Gary Cooper, whereas Gunfight at the O.K. Corral depicted a real shootout, with Doc Holliday, Wyatt Earp, and his brothers on one side—”

  He rolls his eyes. “You’re specifically avoiding my question.”

  “No, I’m not…okay, maybe.”

  “That’s it. I’m going too.”

  When I sputter my objection, he holds up his hand. “Don’t worry. It’s your op. I’m just there for backup. I’ll book the room directly below Salem’s suite. I’m bringing Dominic too.”

  “Sure, what the hell? The more the merrier. But if he walks in on me in a compromising position, one smart-ass remark and his twenty-thousand-dollar pearly white grill will get kicked in.”

  “He’ll be duly warned.” Jack celebrates his victory over my stubbornness with a faint smile. “Are you wearing your surveillance lenses?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good.” He tosses me my jacket. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “I thought you’d stand me up.” Salem circles me as if I’m the last musical chair in some game in which there is only one winner: him.

  And he’s willing to sit on me to prove it—possibly with a saddle, a bridle, and a Rainbow Pony tail butt plug.

  If he does, the three bodyguards outside the suite—one in front of the door, and the other two standing sentry at each end of the hall—will pretend not to hear my screams. It’s not like they haven’t heard anything like that before, right?

  At least the one who frisked me didn’t cop a feel. He knows his boss isn’t into sharing, let alone sloppy seconds.

  “Shall we take a tour?” Salem suggests.

  I nod. “Sure, why not?”

  I stifle a shiver when he places his hand on the small of my back as he guides me through the penthouse.

  The rooms are modern and sumptuous in their appointments: thick rugs over hardwood floors, deep modular couches, and wall-to-wall-windows with views of Los Angeles from every direction.

  Our first stop is the suite’s luxury kitchen. “I hear you are quite the chef, Mrs. Stone.”

  I nod. “I do know my way around a kitchen.” And I’m relieved to see that this one is fully equipped—not that I plan on impressing Salem with my culinary skills, but because of what it offers me: lots of deadly devices.

  Something Salem may find out the hard way.

  He comes up behind me and murmurs in my ear, “There is an apron hanging in the pantry—white and trimmed in lace. All day, I have been imagining you naked except for it”—He looks down at my shoes—“and perhaps your heels…Ah, but no! I bought you a pair I like even better, from Yves St. Laurent.”

  He opens a cabinet and pulls out a shoebox. He drops to his knees. Gently, he lifts my right foot and unstraps my shoe, replacing it with one of the two hot red four-inch designer sandals, adorned with a bow.

  Okay, now we’re talking: swag! And Saint Laurent, no less. I’ll be sure to take them with me when I leave.

  Soon, I hope.

  He places his hand on the countertop. “Marble—so cold to the touch. Come, feel it for yourself.”

  I place a hand on it.

  “The other as well,” he cajoles.

  I see where this is going. Still, I comply.

  He bends his body into mine, pressing down on me until I’m flat against the counter.

  “When you are naked, your nipples will harden.” His hands move between my legs. “You’ll dampen even before I touch you—”

  His buzzing cell phone interrupts his flight of fancy.

  He holds me down with one hand even as he pulls a cell from his coat jacket with the other. The Caller ID elicits an annoyed sigh from him.

  “Excuse me,” he murmurs, moving away.

  As I right myself, he turns his back to me and starts speaking in a rapid Arabic dialect.

  “Holy shit,” Abu murmurs in my ear bud. But of course, he can hear Salem too. I’m dying to know what is happening but I can’t ask, what with Salem standing ten feet away.

  I take these precious few moments to pull a steak knife from the butcher-block stand.

  Just in case.

  A second after I slip it into the sleeve of my top, Salem is off the phone. He seems distracted.

  Worse yet, his mood has darkened. “Time to tour the bedrooms.”

  This time, when he takes me in hand, it is by the elbow. He holds it so tightly that I want to scream out in pain, but I won’t give him the satisfaction.

  Salem stops in one of the suite’s long hallways. “I want you to choose which of the three bedrooms we should use for our inaugural tryst.”

  “Surprise me,” I suggest.

  “No, no. You see, each holds specific pleasures—a theme, if you may.”

  He opens the door on the right. The curtains are drawn. The room smells of incense. The sound of a Japanese lute comes from a speaker.

  Laid out on the bed is a red silk kimono, a white kabuki mask, ten-inch-high platform shoes, a silk Shibari bondage rope, an open brocade box containing two stainless steel Ben Wa balls, and a black wig with hair piled high in a bun.

  Salem picks up the Ben Wa balls with one hand and shuffles them so that they click as they hit against each other. “Geishas are elegant and submissive. Should you choose this room, I will bind your hands, and then draw the cords to your feet. It is one way to make you bend to my will. And then I’ll insert these,” he chortles.

  Wishful thinking on his part. I stifle a yawn. “Shall we continue?”

  In the next room, two spreader bars lay on the bed: one near the head, the other toward the foot. There are chains on the opposite ends of the poles, each attached to Lycra cuffs. Also laid out on the bed are three dildos, each a different size, girth, and stiffness. An anal hook, nipple clamps, crotchless black panties, and a studded leather breast harness complete the scenario of a good time had by one: Salem.

  “Classy,” I murmur.

  “Each accouterment provides a unique pleasure,” he assures me.

  Fo
r you, maybe. Then again, you’re one sick fuck.

  He jerks my arm behind me in such a way that if I pull away, he can wrench it out of the socket. “Maybe the master bedroom will be more to your liking.”

  The way he goose-steps me down the hall, my guess is no.

  Of the three bedrooms, the master suite shares the best view with the living room: one facing downtown.

  Sliding doors open to a large terrazzo tile terrace.

  There is no bed in the room: only a cage with chains dangling from bars on each side, and a bench with leather buckle restraints.

  A ball gag is on the bench, along with a mask, a leash, and a collar.

  The wall is lined with hooks, from which paddles, whips, and floggers dangle.

  I circle the room to peruse his collection of instruments of pain. “This is quite a mini-bar of torture! Speaking of mini-bars, aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”

  “Such libations are against my religion.”

  “It’s not against mine,” I point out. “I can’t imagine that Allah will frown upon you and your progeny for toasting our union with a glass of water.”

  He picks a flogger off a hook. “I will enjoy breaking you of your will, then mounting you.”

  “I take it that’s a no to the drink?”

  He lashes me across the shoulder. I wince, but I stay put.

  He smiles. “Everyone has a crutch. I fear yours is alcohol. It makes most women silly—or worse still, sad.” He raises his arm again—

  Bringing it around to my backside. The slap is just as loud as it is painful—which means it hurts like hell.

  My grimace makes him chortle with glee. “Ah! You liked it.”

  “No. I did not.” I start for the door.

  He beats me to it, blocking it. He’s no longer smiling. “I did not give you permission to leave.”

  “Out of my way,” I mutter.

  This time, when he raises the flogger, I elbow him in the gut.

  When he doubles over, I punch him in the kidney.

  He falls with a thud and curls up in the fetal position.

  “Well done,” Jack murmurs into my ear bud.

  I walk over to the bench and pick up the ball gag. It’s a start, anyway. The leash and collar may be fun too.

  I’m contemplating whether to leave him in the cage or to bind him, spread-eagle to the spanking bench when I feel a slight sting on my calf.

  I turn around to find that Salem has managed to crawl over. He’s pricked me with something—

  And, suddenly, my leg is numb.

  Before the rest of me goes that way too, I pull my gun from its holster under my shirt. I’m somewhat dizzy, but I can still aim and pull the trigger.

  And, besides, if I miss the first time, I’ve got six other bullets.

  I’ll need them, because first one misses him completely. Thank goodness the master bedroom is down a hallway far enough from the front door that his guards can’t hear the shot. Even if they did, I would imagine they’ve heard enough strange noises during Salem’s exploits to stay put.

  But this is no ordinary sex play. Salem knows he must fight for his life. Coming in close again, he trips me and I fall on top of him. He rolls on top of me as we wrestle for the gun.

  Still, I hold on with all my might and pull the trigger one more time.

  The next bullet’s the charm: right to the heart, and muffled by his chest.

  I can barely breathe as I shove him off my body.

  “Donna, hang in there, I’m on my way,” Jack calls out.

  “But…how…?” Jack’s O.K. Corral scenario comes to mind.

  “The terrace.”

  I’m woozy, but I bend down anyway so that I can twist Salem’s ring off of his finger. Then I rummage in his jacket pocket until I find his cell. I place both items in the secure pocket of my jacket.

  I stumble out to the terrace, just in time to see a rappelling hook attached to a nylon cord fly over the banister.

  Shit, I think, does he really think I’m climbing down in these heels? No way…

  Not to worry. Jack tosses me over his shoulder. Thank God my eyes are too drowsy to stay open. Otherwise, I might barf.

  Thinking of doing so brings Babette to mind. What will she do when she hears about Salem’s death? Her exit strategy from the White House just went up in smoke.

  She’ll hate me even more for knowing I killed him.

  Before I pass out, I hear Dominic. Despite the fact that he sounds a million miles away and under water, his voice still grates on me, especially when he declares, “I say, Jack, before we take off, would you mind if I clamber up and grab a few of the old boy’s sex toys? I doubt he’ll be needing them now…”

  Chapter 17

  Wedding Bell Blues

  Whereas the whole process of planning and holding your wedding should be blissful, in most cases it is stressful and, let’s be honest, scary. You wonder, “Have I made the right decision about the day/the venue/my bridesmaids/(and, most of all), the man with whom I’ll be spending the rest of my life?”

  That depends on how you answer these three questions:

  Question #1: Are you looking forward to your wedding day, despite all the things that could—and inevitably will—go wrong?

  Think for a moment. You’re having an outside wedding, and it rains. A groomsman gets drunk and tosses his cookies onto your mother’s shoes. You rip your veil on the heel of your shoe. Despite the fact that all of these things may seem frustrating at first, if your answer is “yes,” good for you! You get the big picture: that, as time goes by, even those things that went wrong now add to the laughter and memories you’ll have of the day.

  Question #2: Are you ready for “the big day” to be over, so that you and your beloved can move on to the rest of your life? If you answered yes, then congratulations! Certainly, a lot of time and effort has been allocated for this one day of celebration of your lives together. Still, you realize that it dwarfs in comparison to the time and effort that will go into a marriage that will hopefully last to the end of your days.

  Question #3: Will you ever question the love you have for your betrothed? The right answer here is “yes.” If you never question it, the relationship never grows. There should be misunderstandings and disagreements, because love isn’t a fairy tale. It is a challenge—and sometimes a struggle—to shape two lives into one.

  That being said, if a third person gives you reason to question his love, don’t settle it by wrestling with her in a tub filled with scented lube. Better to end your misery in a game of Russian roulette—for him.

  (Helpful Hint: Load the gun for him. And yes, the more bullets, the better the outcome.)

  “Rise and shine, sleepyhead.” Jack’s voice nudges its way through the brack and brine of my drugged slumber. “It’s our wedding day, remember?”

  I bolt upright so fast that my shoulder slams into his face. “Oh, my God! How long have I been out?”

  “Jesus, Donna! Slow down! Both of us have to be there for the I Do’s, or it doesn’t happen,” he growls, as he places his hand over his eye. “You slept for twelve hours.”

  “Let me look at your eye,” I insist.

  He hesitates before moving his hand away.

  I wince. “No shiner…I hope.”

  “If one appears, you’ll officially be a husband beater.”

  I shrug. “Ha! Trust me, that rumor has been circulating for years! Why else would you have hung around, if not afraid of what I’d do if I caught you?”

  And why else would the real Carl have up and left me, and our family, in the first place?

  If only my neighbors knew the truth.

  I grab Jack’s arm. “How was the reaction to Salem’s death?”

  “There hasn’t been any. The second Arnie broke the encryption on his phone, Abu texted Salem’s bodyguards to stand down until further notice. They were last seen headed to the Silver Rein Strip Club. They’re under the assumption that he’s having too much fun wi
th his new concubine.” Jack gives me a sly wink. “In the meantime, the cleaners have taken care of the Beverly Wilshire suite, and Emma deciphered the microdot. It contains a detailed floor plan of Lion’s Lair, including all security codes, panic rooms, and the locations of armament caches kept within the compound.”

  “Why?” I wonder out loud.

  “From the directive also embedded in the microdot, a full-scale jihadist invasion is to take place during the Middle East summit at Lion’s Lair, which starts the day after tomorrow.”

  I leap out of bed and head to the window. Lion’s Lair looms over Hilldale, crowning the summit of its tallest bluff. “Has Ryan informed Lee of this?”

  “He won’t do so until he’s positive Lee wasn’t the owner of the cell phone used to contract Catherine’s assassination.”

  “It makes sense, since the person who put out the hit and may be sabotaging the summit are one and the same,” I murmur.

  Jack holds up a finger. “Speaking of which, Arnie just texted me. Thanks to the false cell phone tower in Janie’s birdhouse, the cell’s GPS signal has been picked up within Lion’s Lair.”

  “Good. Let’s go.” I hop into a pair of jeans and throw on a T-shirt. “Have Arnie link us to the cell’s GPS so that we can track the user.”

  “Um…yeah, sure.” Jack looks at his watch. “Hey, what do you think, should I take your dress and my tux along—you know, so that we don’t have to run back home and grab them before the wedding begins?”

  I lift onto my toes in order to kiss him on the nose. “Silly man. There’s been a change in venue. Emma and Mary have it covered.”

  “Smart move. My tux is a rental. Considering all that’s going down at Lion’s Lair, one bloodstain and I own it.”