The Housewife Assassin's Relationship Survival Guide by Josie Brown

the restraints come off my wrists. Finally the blindfold comes off, too.
    And I’m staring at Britain’s answer to Jabba the Hutt. In a tux no less.
    Yeah, okay, what did I expect? Calories in and in, and in, equal pounds on. Do the math.
    I hold out a dainty hand. “We haven’t met formally. I’m Cookie Lonergan. And you are?”
    “Hungry,” he hisses. He bends down over my breasts, the better to lap up the pesto sauce. “Your name is….  delicious .”
    “I need him looking at you, not drooling on you,” Arnie mutters. “Otherwise, the system can’t recognize him. I hope his face isn’t covered in sauce, or that might make it harder, too.”
    “Thank God she’s not wearing a wire,” Abu snickers. “He would have eaten it by now.”
    I jerk Jabba’s head up by the roots of his hair. “My, you’ve got the most beautiful eyes.” I lick my lips. “They’re the color of chardonnay grapes. Speaking of which, how about a little wine? You know, something to whet our appetites for our meal?”
    “Jolly good idea! We can do it the Japanese way. I’ll drink mine out of your golden triangle. Delicious!”
    The next thing I know, Jabba is tossing a few of the dishes on the floor and I’m being lifted onto the table. All I can do is pray that Arnie’s facial recognition software kicks in, or I’m so greasy that I can slip out of his big paws before I’m his main course.
    “He’s Baron Maynard McChesney of Whitefriars,” Arnie declares triumphantly. “He owns the United Kingdom’s largest media conglomerate, including two tabloids, and the country’s largest financial newspaper. Rumor has it he’s got dirt on every UK celebrity as well as every member of Parliament, and even a few secrets stashed away on the royal family.”
     “If so, he can blackmail a few pawns who will be valuable for the Quorum,” Jack says. “Donna, he should be easy to turn, because he’s got so much to lose: wealth, his company, prestige, contacts—”
    “Not to mention prison chow is nothing like this,” Abu pipes in. “Go get’em, Cookie.”
    I’m just about to read Maynard the riot act when there’s a knock on the door. He sighs, annoyed that he’s been interrupted from the task at hand: slathering pesto sauce on my thighs. As he lumbers toward the door, he wipes his hand on a napkin. 
    “Ah! The  piece de resistance  has arrived!” When he returns to the table, he has a soup tureen with him. “It’s my favorite, turtle. Care for a bowl?”
    I tamp down the bile rising in my stomach before murmuring, “I’ll pass. In fact, this little party is over.”
    He has different thoughts on the subject. He shoves me onto the table, face down. The soup is hot. He drizzles some up my spine and around my bum and shoulders. When I shudder, he slaps me back down. “You mustn’t move, my dear. Not to worry! Daddy will lap it all up.”
    I struggle, but he’s too damn big for me to fight off. And quite frankly, his tongue on my spine is somewhat ticklish and it’s making me giggle. 
    Is he laughing, too? It sounds as if that may be the case.
    No, he’s gagging on something. 
    Spasming, really. I hear him gurgle, then sigh.
    Then…nothing. All three hundred or more pounds of him flop on top of me.
    Make that twenty-one stones. At least!
    “Baron, wake up and get off! Now!” I try to jerk myself up, but his dead weight is holding me against the table.
    “He’s dead?” I hear the dread in Jack’s voice. Then: “Aw, damn, a heart attack? Just our luck! Listen, Donna, shimmy out from under him, and get the hell out of there, now.”
    “Yeah, okay, thanks for that.” I squirm to the left, then to the right, but big boy is simply not budging. 
    “Smear yourself with the mint jelly,” Abu suggests. “It may be slippery enough to get you out from under him.”
    At this point, I’ll try anything. I take a handful out of the bowl, and wedge my hand between me and the dead man, then slather it up and down my