Recipes for Disaster

by Josie Brown

  I open my mouth to protest, but he shoves his tongue down my throat.

  So I bite down—hard. He howls in pain then slaps me—hard.

  I taste blood, but I stand my ground, backhanding him with all my might.

  His head snaps back with the force of my slap. Smiling, he lifts his hand to the red whelp that shadows his face. “You always did love it when I played rough.”

  I’m so shocked that all I can think about is to say the obvious. “But … back in Cabo, you fell into the bay! I thought you’d died!”

  “You know what they say. What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger. I’m at the top of my game now, dear wifey, at everything. At hating. At wanting it all—especially you and my sweet little family.” As one hand holds me against the wall by my shoulders, the other clutches my gown and inches up my leg. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to get you alone like this.” Realizing that I’ve gone commando, he winks and murmurs, “That's my girl. Nice! You don't know how long I’ve waited for this moment.”

  I don’t think his fantasy included me kneeing him in the groin.

  He groans as he doubles over. I run toward the elevator door and pound on it hard, but it won’t open. Frantically, I smack every button in sight.

  He straightens up and chuckles—hard to do when you’re gasping for air. “Almost didn’t recognize me, eh?” He strikes a bodybuilder’s pose. “I’m broader in the shoulders. Can you tell? I tell you, Gitmo has a great workout facility. It’s the only thing I miss about the joint. But I found a workout routine that will serve me for a lifetime.”

  “With the price on your head, you won’t live long enough to find out.”

  “You’re wrong. Since I’ve seen you last, I’ve taken out a couple of insurance policies.”

  “Such as?”

  “For one, I ensured Catherine’s nomination with a sympathetic nation.”

  Now I have the answer to my question. “You were Robert’s shooter.”

  He laughs. “I was disappointed you didn’t realize it at the time. That voice changer software is a technological marvel, don’t you think?” He smiles. “You know how much it turns me on when you’re so helpless. It was doubly sweet to find out he was your first love.”

  “You’ll fry for what you did to him!”

  “Nah. Don’t think so.” He turns to me. “Not now that my second insurance policy has kicked in.”

  “Oh yeah? What would that be?”

  With the help of the elevator’s mirrored door, he’s able to straighten his bowtie. "Take a wild guess who's being nominated as the Director of National Intelligence.”

  When I don’t answer, he grins at me through the mirror. “C’est moi, mon cher.”

  I shake my head in disbelief. “But you’re a terrorist—a fugitive from justice!”

  “Not anymore. I was pardoned just this afternoon—by our new president.” He nods proudly. “What are friends for, anyway?”

  “Lee Chiffray … is your friend?”

  “Why mince words? We’re the best of bros! And I’ve promised him that there will be a lot of changes in how our spy networks will be run. For example, all the recent scandals with our black ops contractors will be a thing of the past because we’re taking our business in-house. In fact, we’ll be conducting a thorough audit of all contractor activities, to determine if any of them have been taking advantage of the country’s goodwill. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find out that a contractor like, say, Acme, has been double-dealing with our enemies. Hey, here’s a thought: maybe Acme made up the Quorum-you know, created a shadow organization, just to hang on the tit as long as possible. That’s fraud, and that’s jail time for our friend, Ryan—and of course Acme’s agents, too. No one can say they were ‘only following orders.’” He makes a Nazi salute. “In any event, it’s goodbye Acme. How do you think Jack will fare in prison? Anyone who doesn’t like your slick boyfriend could pay an inmate to bury a shiv where the sun don’t shine.”

  Suddenly I feel ill.

  “You look a bit queasy. Maybe you should put your head between your legs. Better yet, put it between mine. That’ll make us both feel much better.”

  In his dreams. To make that point clear to him, I raise my knee to his groin again—

  But he blocks it with his own knee, and the next thing I know he’s slammed me up against the back elevator wall again.

  He gazes down at me, as if I’m dessert. “You wouldn’t dare,” I growl.

  "Who’s going to stop me?” He laughs raucously. “Look at me, Ma! I’m king of the world! Your world, anyway, my little honeypot. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  His lips loom down over mine—

  But I’m saved by the bell.

  As the elevator chimes our ascent onto the mezzanine level, a group of tipsy revelers bound in; Carl pulls me close and whispers in my ear, “Wish we had more time, my dear wife. But we’ll soon meet again.”

  The thought roils my stomach.

  When the doors open again on the first floor, I dart out between two barrel-chested sailors in full dress uniforms adorned with chest candy.

  “Was it something I said?” Carl shouts out after me.

  The elevator crowd laughs, as if the joke is on me.

  Wait until they learn that it’s on all of us—and it’s far from funny.

  “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Jack presumes he’s joking until I pull him aside and hiss, “I did—Carl. He’s here.”

  Any joy Jack felt is now a thing of the past. He takes my hand and pulls me with him, out of the ballroom and into the lobby, so that we can hear each other over the band.

  “Lee pardoned him, just this afternoon.” I try not to be hysterical, but I feel cold panic surging through my veins. “Not only that, Lee is choosing him as the new director of the CIA.”

  “He can nominate the pope, if he wants. That doesn’t mean the Senate Intelligence Committee is going to agree to let a known terrorist and assassin head up the CIA. Talk about a public relations disaster.”

  “You’re right. It’ll be interesting to see if Carl can leap that hurdle, and how Lee will help him do it.” I hold his hand tightly. “And more to the point, you were right all along, about Lee Chiffray. Despite his squeaky clean paper trail, I guess he was Quorum all along.”

  He smiles. “A man always loves it when the woman he loves declares he’s right, about anything, but talk about a pyrrhic victory.”

  Suddenly, I don’t feel the urge to party. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “You mean, go to the White House?” He rolls his eyes. “Our gear is stowed in the Lincoln bedroom. Remember?”

  “What? Not on your life. I don’t want to be anywhere near Lee Chiffray! Let’s grab Trisha and take the next plane home.”

  “The last flight left DC for the West Coast at least an hour ago. We’d have to wait until tomorrow.”

  “Then let’s get a hotel room somewhere.”

  “With the Inauguration going on? That’s impossible. Look Donna, I know the news that Carl is alive is upsetting, but he’s not going to hurt us now—not if he truly wants to go straight. Let’s just go on and live our lives.” He takes my face between his hands. “And guess what? We’ve got the best room in town.”

  Hell yeah, we do.

  I grab his hand and start for the coat room.

  “What’s your guess, did old Abe really sleep here?” Jack stares up at the Lincoln bedroom’s ornate oval rosewood headboard that rises all the way to the ceiling. It is topped by a partial gold canopy, shaped like a crown. Its white lace sheers are draped in black velvet trimmed with old braid. The Lincoln bedroom’s other elegant furnishings are also from the Victorian era.

  Despite the embossed invitation, the private tour of the White House and the West Wing, and all of today’s whirlwind of festivities, I still can’t believe we’re here, and for such a momentous occasion as a presidential inauguration.

  T
o convince myself, I run my hand over the suite’s wallpaper, a gold-white-and-red diamond pattern that mirrors a darker, larger pattern of the rug on the floor. “Mary Todd Lincoln chose the bed, but apparently he never slept in it—although several other presidents have had the honor—not to mention some deep-pocketed presidential supporters.”

  A desk sits in the far corner of the room. On it sits a holographic copy of the Gettysburg address, signed by the man himself. In his own handwriting, I read the familiar words that every school child in the nation learns about and should never forget, considering the bloodshed that inspired the most famous presidential speech of all time:

  … We here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain — that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom — and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

  Every president since has kept this vow.

  Now it’s Lee Chiffray’s turn.

  One way or another, I plan on holding him to it.

  Jack flops down on the bed. “I’m happy to report it doesn’t sag.” He pats the mattress. “Of course, with your help, we could give it a truly thorough road test.”

  I feign shock. “Aren’t you afraid of Lincoln’s ghost? At least twenty dignitaries and staff members have commented on it, so it’s sure to show up while we make mad monkey love.”

  He shrugs. “I’m more afraid of our current live, dishonest president than I’d ever be of the spectral of Honest Abe.”

  “You’re not the only one.” I hop on the bed beside him. “Okay, I admit it, you were right.”

  He smirks. “As much as I love hearing that, which time are you referring to?”

  “When we started this mission, you claimed my woman’s intuition was wrong about Lee. With both you and Chuck the Muckraker—not to mention the opposition party—having looked up his sphincter with a microscope and come up empty, I thought I was home free. But with Carl back from the dead, now we both know you were right.”

  “Glad you’re willing to admit it.” He stretches out on the bed. “I’d like my prize now, if you please.”

  “Really? And what would that be?”

  He doesn’t tell me. He opts to show me instead.

  He pulls me down beside him. His kisses, on the back of my neck, start out light and sweet. But as they get deeper and more fervent, one hand outlines the curve of my ear, lingering on my lobe before inching down my neck. Finally it joins his other hand, which is slowly working the zipper of my dress down my spine.

  Their diligence is rewarded when a plump breast lands in each hand.

  He turns me around in order to take a long, sweet moment to admire them. From the look in his eye, I know he is tantalized by the decision before him: which peaked nipple should he tease first with his tongue?

  He chooses the left, but readies the right one by tweaking it, oh so gently, between his thumb and forefinger.

  I’m in heaven.

  My anticipation to feel him inside of me keeps my hands busy, too. While one unclasps his belt buckle, the other nudges the button over his pants zipper to one side. Already he’s grown rock solid.

  Jack’s groan is the cue I’ve been waiting for.

  His eyes close as he shivers under my touch.

  When they open again, the look he gives me speaks volumes. It warns me that he will now take control, and that what will follow will bring me joy, even as it brings me to tears.

  I will plead with him to stop, and beg for more.

  I will curse him for breaking me down, and bless him for loving me so completely.

  Then I will do the same to him.

  We’ve both learned that the best way to deal with the ghosts who haunt us is to face them, and put them to rest, once and for all.

  Carl doesn’t have a chance in hell.

  Next Up!

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I owe a lot to the following people, whose love and support gives me the courage to write, every day:

  Karin Tabke, who first fell in love with this book, and pushed me (quite adamantly; what are friends for?) to make it a priority; Andy Brown, who is a go-to guru for anything technical and metaphysical. Andy, thanks making the virtual a reality; Rita Abrams, Kendra Williams, Pam Welsh, Elisa Turner, Janell Parque, Susan DiMuzio, Dianne Wallace, Jeanette Conkling, Kimberly Turner and Tom Johnson, who have sharper eyes than mine; Austin Brown and Anna Brown, who are my emotional touchstones, in so many ways; Eddie Concha, Andree Belle, Darien and Don Coleman, Linda May and Ben Brown, and Mario Martinez and Patricia Steadman, who are always there to encourage, nurture and feed me.

  And always last but never least, Martin Brown: you complete me.

  Dear readers: If you liked the story and Donna, I’d be honored to get a review from you! We authors live by them, and they are always appreciated.

  Thank you,

  —Josie Brown

  HOW TO REACH JOSIE

  www.JosieBrown.com

  www.AuthorProvocateur.com

  www.HousewifeAssassinsHandbook.com

  www.twitter.com/JosieBrownCA

  www.facebook.com/JosieBrownAuthor

  NOVELS IN THE

  HOUSEWIFE ASSASSIN SERIES

  The Housewife Assassin’s Handbook

  (Book 1)

  Every desperate housewife wants an alias. Donna Stone has one … and it happens to be government-sanctioned. But Donna earned it the hard way. Her husband was killed the day she delivered their third child. To avenge her husband's murder, Donna leads a secret life: as an assassin. But espionage makes for strange bedfellows, and brings new meaning to that old adage, "Honey, I'm home..."

  The Housewife Assassin’s

  Guide to Gracious Killing

  (Book 2)

  A nuclear arms summit, hosted by a politically connected billionaire industrialist, provides the perfect opportunity for a rogue operative to assassinate the newly elected Russian president, on American soil. Donna Stone’s mission: seek and exterminate the shooter before all hell – and World War III – breaks out. Also on Donna’s to-do list: file for divorce. Throw in a couple of killer play dates and a few naughty neighbors, and you’ve got a whole lot of fun.

  The Housewife Assassin’s

  Killer Christmas Tips

  (Book 3)

  ’Tis the season for murder, mayhem and mistletoe! There will be no peace on Earth if Donna and Jack don’t find a shipping container filled with heat-seeking missiles. Forget Santa! Terror is coming to town…

  The Housewife Assassin’s

  Relationship Survival Guide

  (Book 4)

  In the fourth full-length novel #4 of Josie Brown's Housewife Assassin series, contract assassin Donna Stone's idea of a perfect relationship? A man she can trust in any situation. Yes, breaking up is hard to do. Then again, so is breaking out of a Mexican prison, and stopping a massacre by an international terrorist cell. So, how do you mend a broken heart? Donna finds out -- the hard way. And FYI: falling in love with a married man isn't heart smart. Then again, neither is dating a terrorist. But when an old love gets in the way of Donna's chance for true love, she doesn't cry. She gets even.

  The Housewife Assassin’s

  Vacation to Die For

  (Book 5)

  A nude sunbathing serial killer, a Lord of the Flies 'tween takeover, poison-dart throwing pygmies...

  Talk about a fantasy (nightmare?) island!

  An NSA scientist has disappeared with a deadly plague virus. Donna and Jack must find him before it is unleashed on Fantasy Island, home of three very different resorts:

  Like Kamp KidStuff, where families frolic among dolphins, cartoon characters--and warring gangs of' tweens who believe in the law of the jungle, including human sacrifices;

  And Eden Key, a nude singles sanctuary where tiki-hut treehouses provide the perfect setting for rum-fueled romances and casual hook-ups—not to mention the occasional swinger slashing…

  Finally, ther
e's the Hunt Club, which allows its members to track a very unique, soon-to-be extinct prey.

  And you call this a vacation?

  The Housewife Assassin's

  Recipes for Disaster

  (Book 6)

  Donna’s executive mission is crystal clear: stop the assassinations of both US political parties’ presidential candidates.

  When she discovers she has a long-term vendetta with one of the targets, can she put her animosity aside long enough to save the candidate’s life—and her relationship with Jack?

  The Housewife Assassin's

  Hollywood Scream Play

  (Book 7)

  With foes in high places, what's a girl to do to put food on the table—let alone stay alive? If you're housewife assassin Donna Stone, you accept a Hollywood producer's offer to turn your life into a film.

  Lights, cameras and non-stop action await Donna and Jack as they use the movie's exotic location shoots to track down crucial intel needed to take down the Quorum. There will be plenty of close-ups and too many close calls. But nothing—including a lascivious leading lady, deadly stunt doubles, or an encrypted script—will stand in their way.

  The Housewife Assassin's

  Deadly Dossier

  (The Series Prequel)

  Finally—Donna Stone, as you've never seen her before: through the eyes of those who affected her life the most.