Murder, suspense, sex--and some handy household tips.
"Secrets, sex, money and scandal! Josie Brown is truly entertaining reading." -- Jackie Collins
In Book 1 of the Housewife Assassin series...
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..."
CHAPTER 1: Please Read and Follow Directions Carefully....
Any woman can be both the perfect housewife and an accomplished assassin, because both functions require the same qualities: creativity; a never-say-die attitude; and an attention to details, no matter how small…
All I really needed to know about being a freelance assassin I learned before my youngest daughter, Trisha, started kindergarten.
I’ve come to that realization as I lay naked and handcuffed to the bed of my target du jour, a sleazebag by the name of Yuri Petrovich.
Yuri has just downed a couple of Viagra with the last of his Starbucks venti-sized nonfat decaf caramel macchiato. This is to ensure us both that his attempt to mount me will have all the gusto of a broncobuster breaking in the wildest filly in the corral before heading on into the sunset. (In truth, we are in a hillside suite at the Chateau Marmont. But considering Yuri’s attitude toward women, the cowboyspeak sums things up quite nicely.)
Believe it or not, everything is going just as I planned, and right on schedule.
At least, that is what I tell myself as I watch him unzip his rock star-tight leather pants and squeeze out of them as quickly as he can because of his erection, which seems to be growing by the nanosecond and has him wincing in pain. (And in Yuri’s fantasy if anyone is going to say ouch, it’s going to be me.)
Like, say, eighty-eight percent of all my targets, this Russian mafia boss—who came here to unload a cache of AK-103s on some Idaho Neo-Nazis—has an obsessive-compulsive personality. In Yuri’s case, that means staying in the same suite at the Marmont every time he hits Los Angeles (although his Slavic accent and pockmarked greaser looks have hardly earned him an iota of the ass-kissing accorded aging rock stars, budding celebutantes, or out-of-town British actors); doing the down-and-dirty with some rent-a-whore, both before and after the arms sale; and drinking macchiatos nonstop, even during his favorite sex act, that Kama Sutra position euphemistically called “the ostrich’s tail.” (Don’t ask, because you really don’t want to know.)
I work for Acme Industries, one of the many CIA-sanctioned subcontractors which handle any and all dirty tricks that won’t pass a Congressional panel sniff test. My mission is simple:
Take Yuri down.
Here’s my to-do list:
First, I was to stall on the sex until the skinheads showed up. Done.
Next, I was to plant a GPS system on one of them, so that ATF can track and apprehend them during the pick-up. Check.
And finally, as a show of tit-for-tat diplomacy with Uncle Sam’s publicly acknowledged BFF, Russia, I’m to see to it that Yuri never leaves his hotel room alive.
All in good time, dearie. All in good time.
In fact, all of this is supposed to be accomplished before three o’clock, the time at which I have to pick up my ten-year-old, Jeff, and a carload of his teammates for an after-school baseball game. Otherwise I’d have to face the wrath of two other mothers for having blown the team’s shot at taking the county title without a playoff game—
This is why I pray that the 405 isn’t a nightmarish backup by the time I head home....
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