The Housewife Assassin's Relationship Survival Guide (9 page)

“Does champagne make you tipsy?” Sugar CEO Number Two sounds hopeful as he holds a bottle of Tattinger’s over my glass.

I reward him with a shy smile. “It’s fun to lose control every now and then, don’t you agree…Richard?” 

As if
. I’m beginning to believe that “control” is this guy’s middle name. It’s anyone’s guess as to his last name, or any other clue as to his identity.

On the hour ride from San Francisco to Woodside I had very little success getting him to talk about what he did for a living. And no matter how many ways I tried to get him to reveal his last name or his job, he played it coy. “All that corporate bullshit will bore you to tears, sweetheart. Let’s just keep things friendly.”

 By “friendly,” he means allowing his hands to cup my breasts while he probes my molars with his tongue.

I’ve no doubt he presumes I’m the dessert after the gourmet meal of filet mignon, broccoli stir-fry and mashed potatoes, which we ate in a private tent overlooking Woodside California’s polo fields. But now our little picnic is almost over. I’ve only got another half hour before Richard leaves me for a white Arabian mare named Pure as Driven Snow. 

 To keep him here, I’ll have to be anything but. 

Even now Arnie whines, “He’s much too close for our facial recognition software to get a good fix on his features. Can’t you get him to back off?”

“Sure she can,” Jack mutters, “by putting her heel in his groin.”

Wishful thinking on both our parts. Alas, that would defeat the purpose.

Since I got into the car, Emma and Arnie have been working furiously to place him. But who knew San Francisco had so many steely-eyed mid-fortysomething corporate bigwigs named “Richard,” who are six feet tall, just gray enough around the edges, and own a polo team?

As if reading my mind, Emma murmurs into my diamond-studded audio feed, “We’ve narrowed down the list of potential suspects to five.”

Really? That many?

Time’s a’wasting. I toss back the flute of bubbly. Then slowly I run my tongue over my lips and murmur, “Aren’t you going to join me?”

Richard sighs. “Believe me, I wish I could. But if I’m going to ride without falling off my horse, I should hold off until after the match.”

I give him a playful pout. “It’s no fun getting tipsy all by myself.” I brush against him when I reach into the picnic hamper. Pulling up another champagne flute, I whisper, “One tiny little sip won’t knock you off your horse, will it?”

He eyes both the glass and me longingly. Finally he nods. “I guess you’re right.”  

I take the bottle from his hand. “Let me do the honors. As much as I love being treated like a queen, today I’d prefer to play handmaiden. ” 

That raises a smile on his face, not to mention a tent in his polo breeches.  

I’m sure it also helps that, when I pour the champagne into his glass, I arch my back in such a way that my vee-neck blouse drops between my breasts.

While his eyes are otherwise occupied, I watch his face for Arnie’s sake, praying now that I’m just close enough for him to get a lead on the guy. At the same time, I slide the jade stone on my ring and tilt it so that a dose of SP-117 pours into his glass. 

He gulps down the champagne. Good, because the sooner his opens up, the better. I keep up the small talk, complimenting him on topics he’s already deemed safe: the filet mignon; his Bentley; his polo skills; the size of his biceps beneath his polo shirt; the size of the tent in his breeches—

Until, finally, his eyes glaze over. That’s when I know it’s safe to ask, “So, tell me Richard, what’s your last name?”

“Higginbotham.” The word comes out in a drowsy whisper.

“Nailed him,” Arnie and Emma yell into my ear at the same time. She adds, “That name was on one of my possible five—” at the same time in which Arnie declares, “The face recognition analysis came through, finally—”

I close my eyes and shake my head. “One at a time, children, please!”

“He’s CEO of Catalyst Industries!” Emma’s answer comes out in a rush. “It’s a conglomerate that owns—”

“—A variety of biotech companies,” Arnie interjects, “including, Human-A-Sphere, a chain of bio-genetic profiling labs; Inject-A-Life, a firm that invents non-invasive surgical procedures; and PharmFarm, the largest agribusiness of genetically enhanced crops.”

“Any one of those could provide a terrorist organization with the means to cripple a nation.” Jack’s voice is emotionless as he states this simple fact.

It’s time for some answers from the man in question. “Richard Higginbotham, are you a member of the Quorum?”

He nods. Whereas that gives visual affirmation, I want to hear it from his lips. “Answer the question out loud,” I prod him.

 “Yes, I am one of the Quorum Thirteen…well, now we are eleven…Um, ten.” By his frown, I can tell he’s surprised to hear himself say this out loud, and to a perfect stranger.

“And what do your companies do for the Quorum?”

“Each of them is developing a component for an ethnic bioweapon.”

“What the hell is that?” Emma asks.

“The theory is that ethno-bombs can be used to target specific genetic or cultural anomalies recognized in certain ethnic groups,” Arnie explains. “An organic example is how white settlers in the US almost wiped out a tribe of indigenous natives with small pox.” 

Emma lets loose with a piercing whistle. “I can only imagine how the Quorum plans on using this. Sell it to the highest bidder? Blackmail a government?”

“Try all of the above,” Jack says.

“How soon before this project reaches completion?” I ask.

Richard smiles up at me. “We’re beta-testing now. I’ll be presenting my findings   to my Quorum brethren at our next meeting. If it is chosen for implementation, I’ll be poised to be the Quorum’s next leader.”

“Where and when is the meeting?”

“We’ve yet to receive that information.”

 “Who are your fellow Quorum members?”

He shrugs. “We never meet without masks. Anonymity allows us to contribute freely, without threat of exposure. ”

 “Richard, why are you doing this, even when you know it’s illegal, unethical, and inhumane?” I have to ask, and not just because I’m incredulous at his despicable behavior, but to get it on record.

He stares at me, as if I’m crazy or something. “For the money, of course! Not just for the fees to our companies, but because of the dividends to thirteen stockholders of Quorum Ltd.” He chuckles. “Well, for the ten who are left.” 

“Donna, unfortunately you don’t have time to read him the riot act,” Jack says. “So give Sleeping Beauty his wake-up potion and promise you’ll rendezvous with him after his match.”

“Will do.” I pocket Richard’s phone. Then I mix the SP-117 anecdote into Richard’s champagne flute with a pinky finger and hand it to him. “Here, drink this.”

He gulps it down.

When Richard comes to, he’s pleasantly surprised to find me straddling him. As I rise, smoothing the skirt of my dress back into place. “Was it as good for you as it was for me?” 

To bring him to the right conclusion that we’re both satisfied with our little picnic hank-panky, I guide his hand to the clasps on the front of my bra. 

He gets the hint, and hooks them into place. “Um….yeah…great!” He smiles, but he shakes his head, confused.  

After a long kiss, I help him buckle his breeches. He groans ecstatically as I pat Bobby Junior back into position and shove him toward the tent door. “Why don’t we have another go-round, after the match? But only if you’re the victor! I’ll be cheering from the sidelines, so make Mama proud!”

Richard stumbles out of the tent like a man with the world at his feet. Still, I have no doubt that, presented with his own confession, he’ll turn on his Quorum brethren. If not, those feet will be in shackles for the rest of his life.

And I know for a fact that they don’t have a polo team in Gitmo.

By the second chukker, Richard’s team is up by a goal, thanks to a sixty-five-yard penalty shot by the man himself. He’s riding that poor horse like a man who’s used to having his way with the fillies. 

A guy can dream, can’t he?

And a gal can have her nightmares. For me, it comes when suddenly Pure as Driven Snow bolts upright, then slams back down to earth, twisting her front right fetlock and landing on her cannon bone. 

Richard summersaults off the mare and breaks his neck.

Pure as Driven Snow lies on her side, wailing her pain in snorts and whinnies.

A few feet away, Richard lies on his stomach, his head wrenched to one side. He eyes the hushed spectators with an unblinking death stare. A crimson halo of blood darkens the verdant turf under his head. 

I’m officially two for two. If this keeps up, I’m going to have a very bad reputation as a first date.

Sobs from the crowd rouse the medics into action, Abu among them. Jack takes my hand and pushes me through the crowd. 

Our route away from the polo field takes us by Richard’s love tent. Jack grabs the picnic basket. We are now just like any other couple, out for a stroll.

If only that were the case.

Neither of us says anything until we get to Jack’s car. He’s about to put the key in the ignition when we hear a shot: Pure as Driven Snow has been put out of her misery.

Lucky girl.

“Jack, let me ask you a question.”

“Shoot…I mean—” 

Despite his poor choice of words, we both know what he really meant. “Tell me the truth. Was I a really bad first date?”

He thinks for a moment. “Bad? Nah. Truly lousy, maybe.”

“We went to the Sand Dollar, remember?”

He nods. “Great view from that outside deck.”

“And the food was awesome. Can’t go wrong with a great piece of salmon.”

“Agreed. The fish there is always out of this world.” 

I look down at my hands in my lap. “That night, we had our first dance, as I recall.”

“To that slow song, the sultry one. You move really well, you know?”

“You lead, I follow. That’s how it works.”

He nods at the compliment, but keeps his gaze straight ahead. He still doesn’t know where I’m going with this.

“Be honest, Jack. Am I a lousy first date?”

He winces, as if the memory is giving him a splitting headache. “Let me see. You walked out on me while we were dancing—”

“But only because you accused me of being angry at Carl for dying on me!”

“And you stormed out of the car when I tried to kiss you.”

“We were interrupted by one of your many girlfriends. She was tossing pebbles at your bedroom window, remember?”

“Can I help it if I’m popular?”

“Can I help it that I refuse to put up with a player?”

His kiss is as it should be, full of passion and promise.

Just like our very first kiss: in front of my children, when we found him coming out of my bathroom. He was a stranger to all of us. And yet, my children welcomed him with open arms. They felt protected immediately.

It has taken me much too long to admit to myself that I do, too.

I pull away slightly, but only to take note that he’s hasn’t keeled over.

Yep, he’s still alive. And he’s all mine.

Chapter 7

Five Telltale Signs He Wants a Commitment

(Or that Perhaps He Wants YOU Committed)

Congratulations! It’s now obvious that he wants to be your one-and-only, for the rest of his life! Here’s how you know:

First, when you secure all exits so that he can’t escape, he doesn’t freak out. Instead, he says, “Honey, let’s talk through your feelings.” 

Next, when you waterboard him, it only takes two dunks before he gives the safety phrase, “I can’t live without you!”

And finally, he jumps at the chance at getting a big old heart with your name on it tattooed on his bicep. (Granted, it beats the alternative: having it branded on his ass.)

Now Arnie is practically living at the house, too. He claims it’s needed so that Emma can do sweeps of the text messages found on Benjamin Rooney and Richard Higginbotham’s smart phones, but my guess is that he’s afraid Jeff is moving in on his turf. 

A ten-year-old? Really? Gimme a break. Spies are a paranoid group. For that matter, so are immature techies.