The Housewife Assassin's Ghost Protocol Read Online Free

“Do you believe he had anything to do with her death?”
    “It is an obvious coincidence,” Jack concedes. “Tell us, Jean-Pierre: what did Monsieur Smith look like?”
    Jean-Pierre thinks a moment. “He is a short man, and almost bald. His manner is a bit nervous. Surprisingly, despite the temperature, he chose to wear a wool suit. He also wears glasses—the ones that are circular in shape and tortoise shell in style.”
    At that moment, there is a knock on the door.
    I open it. A bellhop hands me a suitcase. “ Pour Monsieur Craig. Compliments d'un vieil ami .”
    “This was sent from an old friend?” I turn to Jack. “But no one knows we’re here. Were you expecting anything?”
    He shakes his head.
    The bellhop shrugs and walks away, leaving me holding the bag.
    And it’s ticking.
    What the…
    Jack hears it too. He grabs it out of my hand and runs toward the door leading out onto the terrace.  
    Shocked, I watch as he slings the case with all his might toward the sea.
    It drops into the water—
    Just in the nick of time. Still, the explosion deafens us.  
    A tidal wave hits us. Jean-Pierre and I are thrown backward, like rag dolls.
    My head slams into the wall. Before I pass out, the last thing I remember is Jack flying through the air toward me.
    My angel.

Chapter 2
    Ghost Story

    Everyone has at least one ghost story.  
    Perhaps yours includes a relative, not long deceased, who rose from the dead in order to give you some cryptic message that still stymies you to this day. (You can’t wait to run into her again in the netherworld, if only to discover what the hell she was talking about.)
    Or maybe you spent the night in some haunted hostelry, only to discover that your suite came equipped with a king bed, free HBO, a mini-bar, and its very own apparition!
    Yada, yada, yada—we’ve heard it all before. If you really want to impress us, you’re going to have to embellish your own tale from the crypt with some hair-raising anecdotes. Here’s how.
    First, come up with a bigger, badder spook. A run-in with Casper the Friendly Ghost is a snore.
    Next, ratchet up the suspense. Set the mood and build to the actual sighting. In other words, do whatever it takes to get them to lean in, listen up, and freak out.
    And finally, make it a happily ever after—for you, not the ghost.  

    “Donna…Donna, please, wake up !” Jack’s anxious pleas rouse me from my black oblivion.  
    My eyelids flutter open to find his face hovering over mine. Concern for me is etched deeply in his brow.
    There is a bruise on his forehead. When I touch it, he flinches.
    I shake my head, angered that I’ve hurt him. Droplets fall onto my shoulders. I shiver at the memory of the wave that washed over me. Then I realize I’m shaking because I’m wet. Oh, my God—it wasn’t a bad dream after all.  
    “When the wave hit me, I slammed into you,” Jack explains. “We knocked heads.”  
    “Ouch! I’m sorry, Jack.” Instinctively, I reach up again, but I stop myself just in time. Jean-Pierre! Is he…”
    “I am here, Madame.” I turn to find Jean-Pierre sitting on a chair behind us. He holds a damp compress over his eye. “There is much damage to the room. All of your things are ruined.”
    I frown. “It’s the least of my worries. Someone wanted to kill us. I’d like to find out why.” I rummage through the ruins of our room for something to put on that isn’t sopping wet. As luck would have it, a pair of my shorts are hanging off a torchiere lamp. I salvage that, along with one of Jack’s button-down shirts hanging in the closet, and then snap my fingers at Jean-Pierre, indicating that he is to turn around while I dress.
    He obliges with a blush.
    Not Jack. He flops down on the bed, which was pushed by the wave against the back wall, and takes in the view—me, as opposed to the shoreline. “If we’re going to catch Mr. Smith, first we have to know what he looks like. Jean-Pierre, what are the chances of us