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Authors: Josie Brown
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written invitation?”
I shrug. “Been there, done that.”
“Good, then he’s up for grabs.” She waves him down, as if he’s a taxi on Madison Avenue during rush hour.
He pretends he is one and ignores her completely. I guess he feels I’ve got her covered. Or for the first time in his life, he’s scared of a woman. My guess is the latter.
She brushes off his snub with a smile. “His loss. The contortions I can get into would blow his mind. I used to be an aerial acrobat with Cirque du Soleil .”
I cock my head in disbelief. “Get outta here.”
She shrugs. “Okay, so I’m lying. But he wouldn’t know it.”
I’m tempted to say, until you ended up in traction , but I’m here to win friends and influence frenemies, so I keep my mouth shut.
“Let me guess, you’re going to Eden Key too, right?” Cougar asks.
I give her a thumbs-up.
“My motto is ‘If you can’t beat’em, join’em,’ so let’s be each others’ wing girls. My name is Merritt Andrews. This is Tuggle Carpenter, and that’s Angie Dill, over there.”
The two other women—a buxom brunette, and a willowy blonde—give me tepid waves. Obviously unlike Dominic their mottos aren’t, the more the merrier .
Merritt lowers her sunglasses in order to scrutinize Mr. Boarke. Her consensus is a disappointed frown. “Not at all like his picture in the brochure. He’s a bit long in the tooth.” Like tractor beams, her eyes move right to left as she scans those male passengers who are still departing the plane. “Now, that one’s a real cutie—and certainly young enough for some of the bedroom acrobatics I have in mind.”
She’s pointing to Jack.
Just at that moment he glances in our direction. I can’t see his eyes because of his sunglasses. He is grinning, though, so that’s a good sign.
But apparently he’s not smiling at me because just then a woman brushes past me, on her way to his side. She is a slim blonde in a tight white suit that hugs every curve. She has a drink in hand—something in a martini glass. His thank-you earns him a flirtatious toss of her long, lush mane.
She takes his arm in hers and walks him over to Mr. Boarke, who smiles broadly and pumps his hand like a long lost pal as he walks Jack to the Hunt Club tram.
Apparently Jack has been assigned a personal escort, because the blonde sidles next to him in the tram.
Well, la-dee-dah .
“Aw heck, he’s going to the gun club. I guess it was too good to be true.” Merritt sighs. “That’s okay. I’ve got it from an impeccable source that if you buy the midget a pint of scotch, he’ll personally introduce you to the men with the longest schlongs. I guess he should know. Being knee-high to a grasshopper has to have some benefits—especially in the men’s locker room, right?”
I’d rather find out if he knows Mandrake’s whereabouts. But hey, since he’s plugged in, it’s certainly worth picking his brain.
Or pickling it. First stop: the Duty Free shop, for a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue.
As I follow my new besties to the Eden Key tram, my iPhone chimes with its fairy dust tone. It’s a red letter day. Trisha has sent her very first text:
LOVE YOU, MOMMY. THE PLANE TOOK A LONG TIME, BUT NOW WE ARE ON A PRETTY BEACH. I STILL MISS YOU. KISS, TRISHA
I should be there with her, not here with the lonely and the anxious.
“Yummy! Look at the cute guy in the Atlanta Braves tee-shirt, out on the deck!” Tuggle is practically salivating over Tony Ebersol, a stockbroker who just made a killing on the latest Apple stock boom—something I learned after I lifted Tony’s fingerprint, which he left on my vinyl bikini top as he copped a feel during this afternoon’s co-ed beachside volleyball pick-up game.
I scanned Tony’s print with my iPhone, then sent it to Emma, who ran it through the NSA’s fingerprint database. Because Tony is a member of the Securities and Exchange Commission, Acme was able to confirm that (a) he
I shrug. “Been there, done that.”
“Good, then he’s up for grabs.” She waves him down, as if he’s a taxi on Madison Avenue during rush hour.
He pretends he is one and ignores her completely. I guess he feels I’ve got her covered. Or for the first time in his life, he’s scared of a woman. My guess is the latter.
She brushes off his snub with a smile. “His loss. The contortions I can get into would blow his mind. I used to be an aerial acrobat with Cirque du Soleil .”
I cock my head in disbelief. “Get outta here.”
She shrugs. “Okay, so I’m lying. But he wouldn’t know it.”
I’m tempted to say, until you ended up in traction , but I’m here to win friends and influence frenemies, so I keep my mouth shut.
“Let me guess, you’re going to Eden Key too, right?” Cougar asks.
I give her a thumbs-up.
“My motto is ‘If you can’t beat’em, join’em,’ so let’s be each others’ wing girls. My name is Merritt Andrews. This is Tuggle Carpenter, and that’s Angie Dill, over there.”
The two other women—a buxom brunette, and a willowy blonde—give me tepid waves. Obviously unlike Dominic their mottos aren’t, the more the merrier .
Merritt lowers her sunglasses in order to scrutinize Mr. Boarke. Her consensus is a disappointed frown. “Not at all like his picture in the brochure. He’s a bit long in the tooth.” Like tractor beams, her eyes move right to left as she scans those male passengers who are still departing the plane. “Now, that one’s a real cutie—and certainly young enough for some of the bedroom acrobatics I have in mind.”
She’s pointing to Jack.
Just at that moment he glances in our direction. I can’t see his eyes because of his sunglasses. He is grinning, though, so that’s a good sign.
But apparently he’s not smiling at me because just then a woman brushes past me, on her way to his side. She is a slim blonde in a tight white suit that hugs every curve. She has a drink in hand—something in a martini glass. His thank-you earns him a flirtatious toss of her long, lush mane.
She takes his arm in hers and walks him over to Mr. Boarke, who smiles broadly and pumps his hand like a long lost pal as he walks Jack to the Hunt Club tram.
Apparently Jack has been assigned a personal escort, because the blonde sidles next to him in the tram.
Well, la-dee-dah .
“Aw heck, he’s going to the gun club. I guess it was too good to be true.” Merritt sighs. “That’s okay. I’ve got it from an impeccable source that if you buy the midget a pint of scotch, he’ll personally introduce you to the men with the longest schlongs. I guess he should know. Being knee-high to a grasshopper has to have some benefits—especially in the men’s locker room, right?”
I’d rather find out if he knows Mandrake’s whereabouts. But hey, since he’s plugged in, it’s certainly worth picking his brain.
Or pickling it. First stop: the Duty Free shop, for a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue.
As I follow my new besties to the Eden Key tram, my iPhone chimes with its fairy dust tone. It’s a red letter day. Trisha has sent her very first text:
LOVE YOU, MOMMY. THE PLANE TOOK A LONG TIME, BUT NOW WE ARE ON A PRETTY BEACH. I STILL MISS YOU. KISS, TRISHA
I should be there with her, not here with the lonely and the anxious.
“Yummy! Look at the cute guy in the Atlanta Braves tee-shirt, out on the deck!” Tuggle is practically salivating over Tony Ebersol, a stockbroker who just made a killing on the latest Apple stock boom—something I learned after I lifted Tony’s fingerprint, which he left on my vinyl bikini top as he copped a feel during this afternoon’s co-ed beachside volleyball pick-up game.
I scanned Tony’s print with my iPhone, then sent it to Emma, who ran it through the NSA’s fingerprint database. Because Tony is a member of the Securities and Exchange Commission, Acme was able to confirm that (a) he
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