Vacation to Die For (21 page)

By the time I get to the Hunt Club, my team is already in their office attire. Abu is in his Hunt Club khakis, and Jack and Dominic are dressed in their tuxes.

I dial Ryan and put him on speaker. First and foremost I encourage Jack and Emma to give their competing theories regarding Mandrake. 

Ryan listens without saying a word. Finally he murmurs, “I lean toward Mandrake being croc food. It’s the most rational explanation for the misleading GPS signals.” 

“If Mandrake is dead, is the mission over?” I ask.

“Unfortunately, bringing him in was just part of the job. Frankly, the plague bacteria samples are even more important.” Ryan coughs—which is his tell that he’s got something on his mind that I may not want to hear. “Donna, if Mandrake took the stuff with him into the wild, we’ll need to retrieve it.”

“Just how will we do that?” Jack asks.

“We’ve been tracking the GPS since the first day he disappeared. You’ll have to retrace his footsteps, in case he released it accidently or intentionally before his death.”

“But how do we know if the GPS coordinates are his?” Abu wonders out loud. “If the crocodile ate Mandrake, whose steps will we really be following?”

Ryan thinks for a moment then sighs. “Unfortunately, we don’t know when he had his run-in with that croc. Since we don’t know the answer to that, I’d suggest you start with the first day’s coordinates.”

“Ryan, if Mandrake is dead, isn’t it possible the bacteria plague died with him?” I ask.

“I wish that were the case, Donna. But human contact with it is inevitable—particularly as development on the island goes forward. Some animal might become infected, and in turn pass it along to the tourists who are coming in from all over the world. If one—or several—also become infected, it could cause a pandemic. And if it is ever discovered that the plague was created at NSA headquarters, the international community will hold the United States responsible. Some countries may even consider it an act of war.”

 “Then I guess we’ll draw straws as to who’s going to go back to the croc’s nest.” I laugh so that I don’t cry at the thought of our mission’s failure, and the inevitable consequences. “Ryan, do you think the bone yard we discovered has anything to do with Mandrake’s disappearance?”

 “In that regard, the bone samples have a lot to tell us. In any case, time is of the essence. Jack, do you see Boarke as friend or foe?”

“He’s so anxious to get new funding that he’d be my bitch, if I wanted.”

“Dog’s bollocks!” Dominic exclaims. “Now, there’s a vision for you!”

If looks could kill, Jack’s stare would have stopped Dominic’s heart faster than a speeding bullet.

 “Good,” Ryan continues. “Because something tells me he knows more than he lets on. At dinner tonight, why don’t you and Donna play ‘Good Cop, Bad Cop’? Donna, be the nice guy, if you catch my drift.”

Sadly, I do. So does Jack, by the way he’s wincing.

“I’m here for anything you need, so don’t hesitate to ask,” Ryan reminds us. “Donna, I hope you realize I have all the confidence in your success.” 

I wished I believed him. He’s just making the best of a bad situation.

The others know it, too. I can tell by the looks on their faces. 

Time for a pep talk. Nothing inspires your team like a solid plan. Here’s hoping I sound as if I actually have one. “We all heard the man. New rules: Arnie and Emma, pull up all male guests who arrived on the day Mandrake’s signal showed up here. By now, most of them may already be cleared via Acme’s facial recognition software. Cross-reference those yet to be ID’d with any intel you the can dig up on them. As to anyone who hasn’t already been eliminated, track their every move from that day forward, via Fantasy Island’s security feed archives. Anyone who has been on a VIP hunt when Mandrake’s trail goes into the VIP reserve should be our first priority.”

Even before the command is out of my mouth, Arnie and Emma are on it. Their hands tap away furiously on their iPad screens. 

“Abu, is there a VIP hunt scheduled for tonight?”

He thinks for a moment. “No. The next one is in three nights. Why do you ask?”

“If we are to retrace Mandrake’s path through the VIP reserve, we don’t want to be running into any hunters.”

“Or pygmies, for that matter,” Jack mutters. 

I second that thought. “Any remaining suspects may know why and how he disappeared. They may even be implicit in his death. If any of them fit the bill, we’ll search their rooms for the plague bacteria.” I turn to Dominic. “Ask the croupiers if they remember a player with Mandrake’s extraordinary gaming skills. Or perhaps one of the bartenders, or the bar maids. Certainly some of the eye candy that seems to be on permanent vacation here might have caught his eye. Someone has got to remember a man fitting Mandrake’s description.”

Dominic honors me with his already patented and no-doubt-soon-to-be sponsored wink. “Right, boss lady.” 

I’m beginning to like the sound of that. “By the way, are you making any headway with your ‘interrogation’ of Julie?” 

“Oddly, no. In fact, I'm beginning to think she was the one who put the Digitalis in my drink during the baccarat tournament." He frowns. "In any event she’s made it clear that I’m not exactly her type.” His gaze moves from me, to Jack, and then back to me.

Ah. Gotcha. All in a day’s work.

The look on my face has everyone scurrying out.

Except for Jack. While my heart crashes and burns in a barren field of doubt, Jack steps nimbly through the debris of my pain. “We should hurry. In twenty minutes we’re to meet Boarke in his private dining room. You’ve barely got time to get dressed.” 

I open my garment bag and lay my gown on the bed. As I step out of my sundress, I keep my eyes on the mirror over the vanity. “We’ll make it with plenty of time to spare if you stick around and zip me up—unless you have better places to be. You know, it’s all in a day’s work.”

As he catches the reference, he also catches my eye in the mirror. “You asked for something. I got it for you. Mission accomplished, right?”

Wrong. 

He unzips the dress from the bag and walks over with it. When we’re face to face, he drops down on one knee. “Step into this,” he commands.

On this particular mission, I’m calling the shots. We both know that. But in our relationship, we’re equals, which means I have a choice. He looks up at me, waiting for my decision.

I raise one foot and place it into the dress, then the other.

Very slowly he raises my gown over my calves. The silk feels smooth against my thighs, and caresses the curves of my ass. The boning in the bodice hugs my abdomen as he raises it upward. Because the dress is sleeveless, he lifts my breasts gently, so that the décolleté makes the most of what I have to offer, which is perhaps too generous.

Obviously he thinks otherwise or he wouldn’t be admiring them.

He moves behind me. One hand stays firmly on the small of my back while the other takes hold of the zipper. With a gentle tug, it begins its slow journey up my spine.  Through the mirror I watch as his eyes move along with it. 

Then he steps back to admire his handiwork. Unconsciously he gives a slight nod.

Mission accomplished.

No, sorry. As far as I’m concerned, I will never be business as usual. 

I brush past him without a smile or a glance, let alone a thank-you kiss. “We’re hurrying, remember? We don’t want to be late.”

He turns toward the mirror to straighten his bowtie.

Or to hide the frustration I’ve already seen in his eyes.

When this mission is over, I’ll request a commendation for him. In this line of work, being a perfectionist has to count for something.

I’m not at all surprised that Julie makes our dinner with Boarke a foursome. And I’m certainly not surprised that Jack is just as attentive to her as to me. 

Make that more so. If and when he takes time to glance my way, he calls me “my little wife,” as in, “my little wife has seemed quite content in my absence,” and “my little wife is keeping so busy that she barely misses me.”

Each time he calls me that, Julie snickers, as if the joke is on me.

Oh yeah? Well, his little wife happens to carry a very big gun. When we go powder our noses, she better hope it doesn’t go off by mistake in one of her nostrils. 

Even if we hadn’t spatted, Jack would have found it hard not to stare at her cleavage, which is barely contained in her leopard skin halter dress. A brass key dangles in the deep chasm between her breasts.

On the other hand, the way Jack ignores Boarke has our host practically jumping out of his skin.

Do my ecstatic compliments about his resorts make up for it? Just barely.  During the sublimely roasted tomato soup, I rhapsodized about the roominess of the bungalows. And during the artichoke appetizer, I complimented him on the size of his beachhead. 

From his sly wink, I realize he took it the wrong way. 

Story of my life.

It's now dessert time, and I’ve almost run out of platitudes. Okay, this one’s a blatant lie, but it can’t hurt. “Mr. Boarke, your Kamp KidStuff counselors are so sweet. They’ve been very attentive to our son, Jeff, and his friends.”

 “We do our best to give our guests everything their hearts desire.” Boarke pats my arm appreciatively. But when I try to slip out from under his grasp, he holds onto it as if it’s the last lifeboat on the Titanic.

The man is desperate.

As if on cue Julie turns to Jack and says, “You’ve barely touched your pie. Perhaps we have something else that might entice you. Follow me to the dessert alcove.”

He nods obligingly. Why? Is there a mattress in there, perhaps made of angel food cake?

“I’m happy to hear that you’re enjoying yourself, Mrs. Stone.” Boarke leans in closer. “The success of Fantasy Island depends on it.”

“How very gracious of you to say so, Mr. Boarke.” 

His smile disappears. “I mean it. As you know, Mr. Stone’s visit means a great deal to me.” Slowly, his fingers trace the palm of my hand. “Any encouragement you can give him to fund 
our
 little paradise will be aptly rewarded.”

The way he elongates the word 
our
 sends a chill up my spine.

“In fact,” he continues, “I’m not above sharing my good fortune with the right benefactress.”

“Are you trying to bribe me, Mr. Boarke?” 

“A more important question, Mrs. Stone, is ‘am I succeeding’?”

My chuckle seems to set his jaw on edge. “Anything you want, Mrs. Stone. I’m being serious.”

Wow. He’s handing Fantasy Island to me, on a silver platter. Why is he so anxious to get out from under Lee Chiffray’s thumb?

I’ve got to admit, though, his offer is tempting. Okay, what do I want, really? Indiscriminate liaisons with any and all delectable man candy? Won’t do it for me. The way I feel about men right now, Boarke’s pretty cabana boys would count their blessings if I didn’t castrate them. Should I ask that the gaming tables be tilted in Aunt Phyllis’s direction? Nah, I’m not sure she’d share her winnings with me, even if it could get me out of hock with Acme for Dominic’s tournament loss. 

At the very least, Boarke wouldn’t charge me for the dress that Dominic puked all over.

Sadly, none of these trifles will get me any closer to the bacteria plague. Ergo, none of us gets out of this hell hole.

Whoa, I’ve just had the most brilliant idea. 

“I know just the thing to win my husband’s enthusiasm, Mr. Boarke. But it will cost you a five percent commission on his loan.”

He frowns. “I…I can live with those terms.”

“Good.” I grace him with a smile. “Oh yes, and one other thing!  Tomorrow is Carl’s birthday. Please arrange for one of your renowned VIP hunts. It would delight him to no end.”

Getting into the private reserve without worrying about getting shot? Priceless.

He frowns. “I had no idea that Mr. Stone appreciates hunting, let alone the type of quarry stocked in our VIP reserve.”

“Trust me, he’s totally at ease with big guns—
and
 unusual prey.” I lean back into my chair. “To tell you the truth, he was a bit disappointed that it wasn’t offered to him before now. In fact, Miss Julie has done her best to discourage it, don’t ask me why.” I shrug. “How exciting! I already know it will be the highlight of our trip because of what Mr. Chiffray said about it.”

Boarke’s eyes narrow. “Oh? And what was that?”

As I suspect, he hates the thought that Jack may know his investor.

“How did Mr. Chiffray put it? Oh yes! He called it, ‘the thrill of a lifetime.’”

Not really. I read this hackneyed line in the Fantasy Island brochure. It’s time this resort got a new ad agency.

Boarke’s smile hardens. “Yes, as you can imagine, such a hunt is very exciting!” He traces my hand with his finger. “Perhaps you’d like to pick out your husband’s prey for him?”

His offer certainly gets my attention. I quit focusing on all the ways I could torture Boarke and reward him with an inquisitive smile. “Really? It's allowed?”

“We insist! It makes it all the more interesting, should you come face-to-face in the wild. Of course, the hunter always has the upper hand.”