“But I see how you are.”
“Maybe you do. And I appreciate that, I really do.” I slipped my hand from under his. “My life is a mess right now. I need to get back to my center, back to who I am, before I can invite anyone in close. Do you understand?”
“But this chef—”
“Is a man I need to deal with right now.”
He wheeled into the short drive at the FBO, stopping at the gate. The guard apparently knew him as he waved him through. “But, if…”
“No ifs.”
His face fell.
“I’m sorry.”
The gate to the tarmac opened as if by magic. Dominic eased the car to a stop by the stairs to the Babylon’s G-650.
One of the pilots rushed to open my door. “We need to hurry, Miss O’Toole.”
I turned to Dominic. Leaning over I kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.” I touched his cheek. “You really are something else.”
After reaching our cruising altitude, the pilot came back to check on me. “Oh good, you found the Champagne.”
I’d found it all right—half the bottle was gone.
“It’s a short flight. We have a helicopter waiting. The traffic is insane.”
I threw back the remnants in my flute. “Time for a quick shower.”
As it turned out, I had more than enough time since I’d done the heavy lifting this morning. All I required was a rinse, a touch up to hair and face, and someone to zip me into the incredible vintage Bob Mackie beaded sheath I’d stumbled upon before I’d left home.
Home.
The young pilot reddened when I enlisted his zipping services, then he left me to sink back into one of the club seats. I grabbed the satellite phone.
Mother actually answered her cell, which was something akin to the second or third sign of the apocalypse. “Lucky! Where are you?”
“Just starting the descent into Paris.”
She paused. “You’ll know what to do,” she said with a soft voice and a very unusual bit of insight.
“If I don’t, I won’t do anything.”
“A good plan, but not one you’ve used before.”
“Always a first time.” I stuck the phone between my shoulder and ear, then bent to redo the strap on my sparkly Jimmy Choo stilettos. Jean-Charles may kill me, but the odds were even better I’d kill myself in these shoes. Teddie had taught me to walk in the things.
Teddie.
Why did first loves hurt so much and last so long?
“We’re at the hospital, Lucky. Romeo told us you’d shoot him if we didn’t let him bring us here, and he was sure your father and I wouldn’t want his blood on our hands.”
Good for Romeo. I owed him—much more than I could ever repay.
“Thank you,” my mother whispered. “Your father is bleeding internally. At least that’s what they think. He’s weak and they have to open him up again. I’m worried.”
“Me, too.” At this point hollow assurances wouldn’t do either of us any good, so I didn’t offer any.
The distance and the fear echoed through the connection—a hollow sound that vibrated with the hollowness I felt inside.
“Any luck with the naming thing?” I asked, knowing there was comfort in the mundane.
“I think I’ve got them!” Mona’s voice brightened.
“Lay them on me.” I braced for impact.
“Samantha and Francesca. Frankie and Sammie for short.”
“As in Sinatra and Sammy Davis, Jr.” It wasn’t a question, but more of a verbal thought as I let the names sink in.
“They were good friends of your father’s, back in the Rat Pack era. Took him under their wing.”
A bit after their heyday, but I didn’t correct her. My father wasn’t quite that old. “I think you’ve got it. Totally perfect names. A link to the past. You did it, Mother.”
“But the girls will be our future, with a little bit of Lucky, that is.”
Everything worked like clockwork. The landing, the helicopter, even a car to whisk me a few blocks from the nearest helipad to the Bouclet’s flat on Avenue Kleber, between the Etoile and the Trocadero. From the curb, the building looked very much like the London club. Three stories instead of five and no restaurant that I could see on the top but constructed of large blocks of white stone with bay windows starting at a half-level a few feet above the street. Imposing, but in keeping with the neighborhood.
I was curiously calm as the butler helped me up the stairs.
At the elevator, he reached in and pressed a button. “Third floor. The entertainment level.”
The entertainment level. To a gal from Vegas that could mean so many different things. I checked my reflection in the polished metal of the doors as I rode up.
The elevator bounced to a stop the way an old lift will do. The doors opened.
Jean-Charles was waiting. Resplendent in a tux with a hand-knotted bow tie—tonight’s was blue to match his eyes, he gave me a smile and extended his hand. He pulled me in for a lingering kiss.
I added my heat to his. My heart tripped at the connection. Would the fire go cold?
Time would tell.
I pulled back. “Am I in time?”
“Cocktails are just being served.” He hooked my hand through his elbow. “You must’ve had quite a time.” With a forefinger he traced the angry red where a bullet had just grazed me somewhere in the melee before the helicopter had exploded.
Funny, I’d almost forgotten, but the thing stung like hell now.
A frown creased his perfection, then cleared. “I want to hear all about it. But first, let me introduce you to my mother.”
26
Donna
“You were in Paris over the past twenty-four hours, and you didn’t see Lucky O’Toole?” Dominic sputters angrily. “I am livid! Ryan had no right to lie to me about some ‘secret assignation’ that took you to the Continent!”
Dominic has waited until Acme’s private jet—a Bombardier Global 8000—is thirty-nine thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean before he explodes.
And all this time I thought he was sulking over the fact that Julie wouldn’t allow him to switch from his room to the one just vacated by Lucky. No doubt it had something to do with his request that “no housekeeping is needed. Everything must stay just as the last occupant left it.”
The thought that he’d be sniffing Lucky’s bed sheets must have curdled the poor girl’s stomach.
“No, I swear we never saw her!” I point to Jack. “We swear! We were there on a…a strictly personal matter.”
Dominic’s eyes narrow in disbelief. “Pray tell, what was it, then?”
“What part of ‘personal’ do you not get?” Jack retorts.
Enthralled by Dominic’s accusations, Abu and Arnie don’t even pretend to feign interest in a Celtics-Warriors game on the plane’s TV monitor.
“I want to believe you, but I’m reticent.” Dominic’s head drops to his chest. “I’ve never felt like this. It’s as if shards of despair have pierced my heart.”
Whereas Arnie is riveted by Dominic’s drama, Abu has now opted for earbuds to tune in the game instead of hearing the latest episode of the Dominic Fleming soap opera.
Jack’s eye roll evidences his lack of concern.
I’m left with the task of being the sympathetic ear.
I believe in karma. Perhaps if I hold Dominic’s hand during this emotional crisis, he’ll be there when it’s my turn to cry on his shoulder…
Oh hell, who am I kidding?
I’m only doing it because none of us wants to watch him pout for the next ten hours.
I take Dominic’s hand and nod toward the plane’s only bedroom. “Let’s talk, just the two of us.”
He eyes Jack warily. “I don’t want to put him out.”
“He thoroughly understands,” I assure him.
Proving my point, Jack waves us away, as if swiping at two pesky gnats.
Dominic shrugs. “Well…okay. I guess I
had him all wrong.” He raises a brow. “And for that matter, you too.”
He allows me to lead the way.
Although I take a seat on the edge of the bed, Dominic stays standing. I guess he’s still wary about my agenda.
Patting the comforter, I say, “Why don’t you sit?’
He frowns. Finally, he murmurs, “I thought you’d never ask,” and does as I ask.
How do you approach a wounded animal? Slowly. Carefully. Gently.
So we sit there for a while. After a couple of minutes go by, I ask, “How were your goodbyes with Lucky?” I ask.
“As you’d expect.” Dominic shrugs.
“So, the two of you are…” My voice trails off. No need to rub salt into an already wounded heart.
He nods. “We are indeed.”
“Well…I’m sorry for you, Dominic. Truly I am. I hope you know that I’m always here for you.” I lay a hand on his wrist. “She’s one in a million.”
“Irreplaceable.” The word rises from the dark depths of his well of sorrow.
“Not necessarily, Dominic.” I tilt my head and move it closer, as if willing him to look me in the eye. “Women love you—and you know it. When you’re with them, you make them feel special. Alive. Beautiful. Loved.” I grin. “Even if it’s just for an hour.”
He allows himself a tepid smile. “My staying power is much longer than that.” He shoos away any doubt with a nonchalant flip of his wrist.
“Duly noted.” No doubt there are enough women to take a Gallup Poll on the issue. Still, I’ll take him at his word.
Dominic lays all the way back. After a deep sigh, he rolls to one side and props up his head. “I can guess your mission here. I can’t say I’m not touched at your…well, shall we call it generosity of spirit?”
I blush. “Thank you for recognizing it.”
“Only because we are alike in many ways.” He grins slyly. “Like me, you recognize that the act of making love is as easy as it is momentarily satisfying. The terms are acknowledged in advance: flirtation, sensual tension, sexual release. Afterward, the parties go their merry way—until the next time.” He smiles ruefully. “On the other hand, love breaks hearts.” Gently, he raises my hand to brush my knuckles with his lips. “And that is why, no matter how much you beg me, I will not take you as my lover, Donna. Not here, not now, not ever. You see, Donna dear, I refuse to break your heart.”
WHAT THE HELL?
I leap off the bed. “I…beg your pardon?”
“Of course, I’m flattered,” he declares sincerely. “Still, if I’m to be honest, I am very wrong for you. So I beg of you: please don’t put your marriage in jeopardy over what would have never been in the first place.”
“You are seriously mental!” I sputter.
Dominic sighs. “Oh dear! I was afraid you’d take it badly! Please, Donna, try to understand—”
“Understand? You actually think I don't ‘understand’?”
Dominic chuckles. “Well, Ducky, when it comes to love, you’ve always been a wee dense.” He holds his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “Your first marriage was proof of that.”
Noting my glower, he drops his hand before I have a chance to break it.
To his credit, he adds, “Come, now! Gullibility is not necessarily a bad trait in a woman. In fact, many men find it appealing. Jack for instance.” He winks. “Then again, he’s just as thick.”
“How dare you say that about Jack!”
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” Dominic smirks. “Just a moment ago, your blatant attempt to seduce me went right over his head.”
“He didn’t react ‘thickly’ because I did no such thing!”
Incensed, my hands are already curled into fists. As relaxed as Dominic is, they would so easily find their mark—say, pulverize one of his sky-high cheekbones. Or, perhaps, shove that aquiline nose out of joint. The dimple in his chin makes a perfect little bullseye…
“Don’t play the coquette,” he chides me. “You suggested I follow you here, into the bedroom. How did you put it again?... Oh yes: ‘Just the two of us.’” He clucks his tongue. “Then, when I asked if Jack would mind, you replied, ‘He understands.’” Dominic waits for that to sink in. “No need to feel ashamed of it. By profession, you’re a honey trap. At times, Jack is too. That’s proof in and of itself that you both enjoy some extracurricular activity.” Dominic shrugs. “But I refuse to be toyed with while I’m in such a vulnerable state.”
“I didn’t invite you in here for any so-called extracurricular activity,’” I snap. “And I certainly didn’t ask you to dissect my relationship!”
“You’re right. On the other hand, you wished to set me straight on mine.” Dominic rolls his eyes. “Did you succeed?”
“Not at all!” I retort. “But now knowing what you think of Jack and me, I no longer give a damn. As far as I’m concerned, you deserve your broken heart!”
His wince is proof I’ve hit my mark. “Blimey!” he mutters. “It never fails to awe me how women wear their feelings like a second skin! Love, hurt—and in this case, hate—are all felt with such intensity! And yet, men are supposed to feign nonchalance—especially those in the profession of cold-hearted killer. Such rubbish!”
In that instance, the reason for Dominic’s little mind game dawns on me:
Even assassins aren’t immune to heartbreak.
“I’m sorry, Dom,” I say softly. “And you’re right. There’s no shame in admitting to having that one love who got away.”
Dominic hangs his head. “It’s the one club I had hoped never to join,” he mutters ruefully. “‘Lovesick toff’ is nowhere in the job description for an ‘international man of mystery.’”
Desperate to break through his misery, I make my way to the closet and pull out a garment bag emblazoned with the Valentino couture logo. “This is the reason Jack and I went to Paris.”
I unzip it so that he can see the dress inside: a pale pink jewel-neck lace-over crepe ruffle-cuffed party dress.
Dominic whistles appreciatively.
“It’s for Mary’s prom next weekend,” I explain. “She wants to look...well, sophisticated.”
“There must be a boy involved,” Dominic reasons.
“Our ward, Evan. He’s away at college, but he’ll be her date.”
“I’ve seen them together around Hilldale,” he reminds me.
But of course, he has. Dominic’s faux-Tudor castle is just a few blocks over from our house. Having no children of his own, he doesn’t qualify as one of Hilldale’s highly desirable DILFs (Dad I’d Like To…well, you get the picture).
Except for Penelope’s soon-to-be-remarried ex-spouse, Peter, Dominic is our gated community’s only full-fledged bachelor. It certainly plays to his favor that he’s tall, blond, and handsome. If his low, silky British accent doesn’t turn the heads of Hilldale’s yummy mommies, the news that he owns Hilldale’s only thirty-four-room Downton Abbey look-alike mansion stops them in their tracks.
I can only imagine how many times a week his doorbell rings for requests to borrow sugar, cup optional.
“With or without the dress, Mary has nothing to worry about,” Dominic declares. “Evan is smitten with her. How could he not be? She’s positively peng, just like her mother.”
I blush. She’s gorgeous—like me?
Dominic takes his leave with a wink and a grin.
Not exactly the stoic stiff upper lip. Still, it doesn’t hide the sorrow in his eyes.
It must be lonely being you, Dominic Fleming.
“Oh my God! Mom! Valentino! I love, love, love you!”
Mary pirouettes around the family room in her new dress for all to see—that is Jack, Aunt Phyllis, Jeff, Trisha, me—
And Evan, whose eyes are as large as saucers at the lean, long-legged vision of loveliness dancing in front of him. Noting my gaze, he stammers, “I guess I wasn’t supposed to see her until the big night.”
Jack’s right brow arches. “She’s not a bride,
you’re not a groom, and that’s no wedding dress.”
Evan’s face turns various shades of red.
“I’ll say!” Jeff pipes up. “It’s waaaaay too short!”
Mary sticks out her tongue at him.
“Can I have a designer dress too?” Trisha asks hopefully.
“Wait until your senior year in high school. Then we’ll talk,” I promise.
“I wouldn’t mind borrowing that hot little number myself,” Aunt Phyllis exclaims. “What do you say, Mary? Maybe for the upcoming Senior Dance at the Hilldale Community Center?”
Horrified, Mary’s mouth drops open.
The cackle of my seventy-going-on-twenty year-old aunt fills the room. “Just kidding, my fabulous little fashionista! I couldn’t stand the thought of causing some old codger’s heart attack.”
Ah, it’s great to be home.
I take Evan’s hand in mine. “This is a pleasant surprise. We weren’t expecting you until next weekend.”
His smile fades. “I hadn’t planned on coming. However, something came up that may be of interest to you and Jack—really, to Acme. But we should talk in private.”
Evan nods toward the window. Beyond it, the backyard beckons.
“Lead the way,” Jack says.
Evan waits until we’re settled on the patio chaises before beginning. “Yesterday I got a call from an old friend. Actually, Jonathan Presley was a friend of my dad’s. He’s also Vice President of Military Projects at BlackTech, one of my dad’s companies.”
Before I was a spy, my heart was broken twice. Evan’s father, Robert Martin, was the first love of my life. At the tender age of eleven I had a crush on him. I knew him then as Bobby.
I was also lied to, and cheated on, in my first marriage: to Carl Stone.
So yes, I know well that no one—least of all, someone in my profession—is immune to heartbreak. Maybe it’s why we spy in the first place.
The Housewife Assassin Gets Lucky Page 24