Vacation to Die For (15 page)

I fumble with the electronic lock on the Aston Martin. Finally the door opens. I shove Dominic into the driver’s seat, then reach across to open the glove compartment. Yes, the MediPack is there. I grab it and rip it open—

Spilling its contents all over the floor—mostly colored vials, crowned with tiny surgical needles. I scoop up what I can and put it on the passenger seat beside Dominic.

“We’ve got…less than two minutes.” His words come out in fits and starts. “Rev the engine, so that you can…charge the portable defibrillator…which has to be attached to my chest, by the leads.”

My hands shake as I rip open his tux shirt and attach the wires to a waxed and tanned chest that has elicited its fair share of ooohs and aaaahs. 

“The combipen—the needle connected to the blue vial—holds Lidocaine. You’ve got to jab it into my jugular vein, in my neck. But right before you do, you’ll have to hit the red button on my defibrillator.”

“Got it. Red vial, blue button.” 

He nods. 

I get ready to stab him—

But then I see that he’s shaking his head, agitated. “No, no! 
Other way around
! Blue vial, red button!”

The needle stops a hair’s breadth away from his vein. I drop it, and scramble frantically to find the blue combipen. 
Where the hell is it
? 

On the passenger seat floor.

As I crawl over him again to get it, Dominic pats my backside and whispers, “A few pounds less, and you’d have a perfect ass.”

I take great pleasure in stabbing him in the jugular.

As he passes out for a second, I debate if I should hit the red button on the defibrillator that will bring him back to life.

Okay yeah, I hit it. But only because we’ve still got a seat in the tournament, and we can still win it. 

Suddenly Dominic’s eyes pop open. He sits up, spewing me with bile.

This dress needed something, but I had a bauble in mind, not my flop sweat and Dominic’s fixings for a designer martini.

 At least he’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed again, as frisky as a pup on Christmas morning. He rewards me with a broad smile. “Tell me, was it as good for you as it was for me?”

 “Heart-stopping, to say the least.” I take his arm and lead him back into the Hunt Club. “Shall we?”

Something tells me his luck won’t run out this time.

Wrong. I am 
so
 wrong.

Dominic is losing again—and badly, to the only player still left in the game: Lee Chiffray.

Finally Dominic takes my high sign: 

This hand is his last. 

If it’s a loser, he’ll have to throw in the towel—preferably over me, now that this dress is ruined.

He turns over his cards—

Four kings. 
Yes! Yes!
 

I’m about to break out in my happy dance when Chiffray flips over his hand, revealing—

Four aces.

What are the odds of that?

I need a drink.

I’ve just taken the last empty barstool when my cell phone rings. The Caller ID reads WICKED WITCH. 

It’s Penelope. Oh no, what did Jeff do now? 

Quickly I hit the TALK button. “Penelope, is everything okay?”

She’s sobbing. “No…they’re….horrible!”

Oh my God, has something happened to Jeff? “Who? My son—is he okay?”

“My God, Donna, don’t be so dramatic!” She practically snickers. “The Yosemite park rangers, that’s who! Listen, there’s been a slight change of plans, which I’m sure you won’t mind at all, since it works to your benefit.”

“Oh?” My spidey senses are tingling. Whenever Penelope claims that something will work to my benefit, invariably it means I’m about to get screwed. 

 “Turns out the Yosemite Park service ‘conveniently’ lost our reservation.”

For once, it’s nice to hear the sarcasm in Penelope’s voice aimed at someone else.

“They claim it was some kind of technical glitch in the reservation software,” she sniffs. “Frankly, I think they did it on purpose, what with all the brouhaha last year. You remember, don’t you? Something about Cheever coercing the other boys to carve a peephole into the woman’s shower room—as if they were little pervs, or something! Can you imagine?”

I can, actually, although I wouldn’t dream of saying that to Penelope. In her mind, Cheever is still four years old, and mommy is the sun to his moon.

 “In the meantime, we’ve been sleeping in some odious recreational vehicle for the past few days in the hope that a cabin opens up, but the park is booked solid,” she continues. 

“So, you’ll take the boys home, I presume?” 

"That was the original game plan—until we heard that 
you
 went off to some tropical paradise—Fantasy Island, right? In fact your hubby—how you ended up with such a sweet, generous man is a miracle, I swear!—came up with the brilliant idea that we join you there! He even suggested that the two of you would take the boys for a few days, in Kamp KidStuff, so that Peter and I could spend a few romantic nights in Eden Key.”

“How thoughtful of him.” I crane my neck until I find Jack. When I catch his eye, I crook my finger at him.

He smiles and walks through the casino toward me. 
Unwitting fool
. If he were smart, he’d run in the opposite direction—and fast. I’d have a helluva time catching him in these heels, but I’ll do my damnedest.

“We’ll be there, bright and early tomorrow—and not a moment too soon. The boys are getting antsy—not to mention gassy. Such active little bodies! But the boys’ seats are in coach, while Peter and I will be up in First Class—away from the firing range, as it were. See you in the morning!”  Penelope hangs up without further ado.

I guess the Stones are checking into Kamp KidStuff for a few days after all.

Or maybe Jack is, by himself. Something tells me the Hunt Club is where all the action is.

Dominic must think so, too, now that Julie is proving to be such an amenable consolation prize. Good enough. As far as I’m concerned, his next heart attack is her problem.

I snap my fingers at the waiter. “Vodka martini, please.”

The bartender nods. “One of our guests has started a new trend. We call it ‘the Dominic.’ It has three measures of Gordon’s, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet, over ice and with a twist of lemon.”

Aw hell, why not. I quit slamming my head on the bar just long enough to give him a nod. 

“Would you like that shaken, or stirred?”

I yank him closer by his bowtie. “Do I look like I give a damn?”

He takes the hint, and hands me a bottle of Skyy 90 instead.

Good boy. Let the guzzling begin. But I’ve got no cash for a tip. I’d leave him the Omega, but it is property of the National Bank of Acme.

Jack leans against the bar beside me. “Who was that on the phone?”

I lick the vodka trickling from the corner of my mouth. Too late. It’s already made a wet spot on the front of my dress. Will the sales clerk notice? It’s not like it reeks with some fruity infusion, or something. Okay, maybe some throw-up, thanks to my success in resuscitating Dominic. In fact, another couple of spills, and I can pass off this gown as a Jackson Pollock original. “It was our very dear neighbor, Penelope. She’s excited about taking you up on your invitation to dump the boys on our doorstep in the middle of our mission.” 

He grimaces. “Oh yeah, about that—”

“What are you trying to do, Jack? Blow this mission?”

“No, not at all. She just sounded so stressed out. And when she mentioned that she and Peter were having trouble, I thought, hey, why not be a good neighbor?”

 “You should have asked me first. I’m the lead operative here, remember?” I take another swig of vodka. “That’s what this is all about isn’t it? The fact that Ryan put me in charge as opposed to you—or for that matter, Dominic the Douche.”

“So, you think he’s a douche?” He’s trying to sound nonchalant, but he can’t stop his lips from lifting into a smile.

“Oh, I see now. You’re so jealous that you arranged for me to babysit the boys!” 

“You’re wrong, Donna…Okay, yes, to be perfectly honest with you, I was a wee bit jealous. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that another man finds you as beautiful and interesting and fun to have around as I do.”

That earns him a lip lock—

And an apology from me. When I resurface from the bliss of his kiss, I sigh.  “I hope you can forgive me for buying into Dominic’s shenanigans. I was a fool, I admit it. I’m also a woman in her mid-thirties, with three kids. So sue me for being flattered that the world’s most charismatic spy asked to partner with me on a mission.”

“You’ll just have to settle for the world’s second most charismatic spy wanting you by his side for the rest of his life.” He squeezes my hand gently. “Donna, seriously, when I said yes to Penelope, it was under the assumption that being around at least one of the kids would put you in a better frame of mind.”

“Not if Mandrake plans on poisoning us all—or have you forgotten why we’re here in the first place? If the bacteria plague gets loose and Jeff gets ill because of it…or worse—” I can’t speak though because I’m choking on my tears. “Jack, I’m not as callous as Carl. He had no conscience about endangering anyone, let alone our children. But I can’t stand the thought of putting them in danger again.”

 He frowns. “I’ll call Penelope and tell her it was a rotten idea.”

“No, never mind. Your heart was in the right place. And besides, Abu and Arnie have been diligent in monitoring the safety gauges.” I grab the vodka bottle in one hand, and his hand in the other. “Look, since it’s the last night we have to make wild unabashed whoopee, I’m taking you some place special.” I hold up the keys to the Aston Martin.

His eyes light up. “I’m in!”

We practically run out to the garage.

There it is—the car.

And there he is: Dominic—fogging up the windows in the throes of passion.

He’s beaten us to the punch.

We rock the car. Then we run off.

Time’s a’wastin’. It won’t be long before the boys are back in town. 

Chapter 11 Are We There Yet?

Seeing your vacation through the wide and innocent eyes of your children can be enlightening and memorable. Needless to say, don’t be surprised if you get the following questions. Here are some answers that will satisfy their curiosity:

Question: “How do we know where we’re going?”

Answer by being candid: “Because despite your father’s propensity to ignore her, the GPS lady is telling us how to get there.”

Question: “I have to pee. Can we stop?”

Answer with a hygiene warning that may save your little one’s life: “Yes, but don’t touch the toilet seat. Do what everyone else did before you and make the best of it—which means peeing on the floor.”

Question: “Can I sleep in the bed with you and daddy?”

Answer in a manner that won’t traumatize your child, and result in years of therapy: “Trust me, you don’t want to. Daddy hogs the covers and farts in bed and if I let him—and I won’t!—he’d be on top of me…Oh, never mind! Sure, hop in.”

Question: “Are we there yet?”

Answer by being precise—but firm: “No. And at the speed in which your father is going, we may never get there. In fact, we will probably still be in this car when it’s time to celebrate your sixteenth birthday, which is great because then you’ll be old enough to drive us. It will be a hell ride, but anything is better than this.” 

Granted, your child will spend the rest of the trip sobbing at the thought of all those wasted years in the back seat of your car, but it’s better than hearing him ask the same question over and over, now isn’t it?