Three hours later they'd rented a forty-foot 360 Sundancer sport yacht, signed out in Lucy's name but paid for in cash by Frank. They anchored it two miles past the breakers, where Mercader's home looked like a LEGO model. Frank wore Bermuda shorts and an unbuttoned guayabera shirt under a straw hat and sunglasses. Lucy wore next to nothing—a very expensive nothing. An old boyfriend had bought it for her, a man enthused with her breasts, as man always were. She had Double D breasts the shape and firmness of ripe melons; she didn't blame the guy for liking her tits more than her. She'd ended up liking her tits more than him.
Now, though, she took full advantage of his perverse lust for her cleavage, even if he weren't the one to enjoy the results. A small triangle of cloth cupped each full breast, with the thinnest of straps holding them in place over pointed nipples. Another triangle covered the mound between her legs, an infinitesimally small strap going between her buttocks—tan and supple on top of strong legs—to hold the panties together. All in gold satin, like the matching sandals. If she went naked, she couldn't have been more...
Lucy let the thought dangle. It was better—and more fun—to focus on Frank's reaction. When he looked at her, having changed out of the more conservative top and jeans that she'd worn into the yacht's salon, Lucy definitely registered... notice. He had a poker face, unreadable eyes set in a blank expression. But she felt hot. Was it just her own attraction feeding on itself or were her feminine instincts acting exactly as they were supposed to and noting a man's interest?
Lucy preened over to him, a brisk bounce in every foot she traveled. Men tended to notice how sweet and sizable her breasts were, with thick nipples that tended to be seen through her always-stretched tops. She had to put in an effort to wear enough layers that her thimble-sized nipples weren't obvious. And the pants hadn't been invented that didn't show off how her ass was thick enough to jiggle with each step, as though competing with her chest for attention. It was enough to make Lucy wish that someone would compliment her face or her eyes for once, no matter how disingenuous it would be.
"You think this'll do the trick?" she asked Frank, leaning against the yacht's guardrail to invite his attention. "Convince anyone watching that you're some rich guy and I'm your..." Lucy chuckled knowingly.
He looked at her briefly. Hardly the leer Lucy would've expected from most men, but she still felt a strong heat, like he'd ravished her in that one little look. Like he knew from it exactly what to do with her.
"Maybe too well," Frank grumbled. "We want to blend into the scenery, remember?"
"Then you'd like me to change?" Lucy prompted.
"A rich guy would hardly want that from his..." And Frank favored her with a certain smile that left her either knowing he wanted her... or desperately wishing that he did.
The silence stretched between them. Frank seemed comfortable with it. Lucy wasn't. She felt like she was within inches of breaking down and propositioning him.
"So what do we do now?" she asked. "Just wait around and sun ourselves?"
Frank looked at her again, this time questioning. And Lucy knew that now he wasn't checking her out. Now he was scrutinizing her to see whether she could be trusted or not.
"What the hell... not like you have much room to wear a wire in that outfit." Walking under the Sundancer's canopy, Frank dropped down into a couch built behind the cockpit. "Mercader's headed out tonight for a charity ball. The guards will slack off. They're there to defend him, not the house—as far as they're concerned, this'll be a night off." Frank patted a leather satchel in the seat next to him. "Seen one of these before?"
"I think it's a Gladstone, right?"
"Funny," Frank said, without making any expression of amusement. He unzipped the satchel. Inside was one of those machines that dwarfed Lucy's understanding of technology, which peaked at the Apple Store. It looked like something Reed Richards might bang out after a cup of espresso. "This is a signal blocker. It can block any electrical signal in a given radius."
"So they can't call for help?"
Frank shook his head. "So they can't watch TV."
***
"Siiisssss! Angeeeeel! Why is the TV out?" Emma cried from where she was ensconced in a guest room.
It set Christina's teeth on end. Her bratty little sister couldn't even bother to get out of bed and open the door to complain, instead shrilly klaxoning from Egyptian Cotton sheets and a Tempur-Pedic pillow she'd brought with her.
Next, her phone began to ring. That was Emma calling her, no doubt to complain. Christina stomped up to the guestroom door, threw it open, and glared at Emma as bitchily as she could.
"I don't know why the TV's out. It's out! We don't have any internet, any TV, the phones are..." Christina shook her head, now trying to manage her own temper. "The boys will fix it; I don't have time for this. But considering the line of work my husband is in and what his men do for their livings, maybe you shouldn't complain as loudly as possible."
Emma just stared at her, seeming absolutely infuriatingly smug about
something.
"What're you all dressed up for, sis?"
Christina flattened her hands down the body-hugging evening gown she wore. Low-cut to best show off her generous figure, with a ruffle on one shoulder strap to obscure exactly one half of her well-sized cleavage. The Vivienne Westwood couture dress was sequined ruby red, matching the hair she wore in a luscious fishtail braid over one shoulder. She could see that even Emma was impressed.
"I told you, Angel and I are on the board of directors at the Natural History museum. They're holding a fundraiser, we're putting in an appearance, archaeologists somewhere are getting a check."
"Sounds riveting," Emma said snidely. She picked herself up from out of the bed and went out on socked feet to where her tennis shoes laid haphazardly in the middle of the floor. "Mind if I come?" she continued, sounding only a little less judgmental. "There's nothing to do around here except raid the fridge and if I put on weight, how am I ever going to land a rich guy like you did?"
"How indeed?" Angel asked, coming up behind Christina with a sneakiness that made her jump. His eyes stuck to her jiggling cleavage as it settled. "Christina, are you ready?"
"I've been ready—" Christina began to complain, but Angel was already focused on Emma.
"You are, of course, welcome to join us."
"In
that?"
Christina demanded.
Emma was wearing something that straddled the line between dress and negligee: A thin, semi-translucent frock that came down to mid-thigh and showed the curves of her bare breasts, as well as the color of the panties she wore.
Emma accessorized it by pulling on her sneakers and tying them up. "What? I'll add a little jacket over it. It'll look great."
"This is a formal event, Emma."
"I think she'll look magnificent," Angel interceded. "And besides, we don't have time for her to change."
"Then she shouldn't come at all," Christina said, as clipped as she could manage.
"Christina, she is your sister," Angel chided. "Wouldn't you rather be accompanied by her than by some fashionista?"
"Would you rather be accompanied by her than by me?" Christina snapped back.
Angel gave her an amused smile. "I am a lucky man. I do not have to choose."
He only stopped short of telling her she was cute when she was angry.
I swear to God,
Christina told to herself, stamping her way out to the limo with Angel and Emma laughing and quipping to each other behind her.
Those idiots Angel employs had better have all of the electronics in the house working by the time we get back or else!
***
The tapped phone call was as hard on Frank as on the head guard of Angel's estate. They both had to wait through cheesy holding music and shameless advertising until an operator was available. Frank heard the guard's annoyed breathing as the wait stretched on and on.
He himself tried to keep busy. Applying a wig over his close-cropped hair. Contact lenses to change the color of his eyes. A fake beard and a nose appliance, all changing the shape of his face until he could be a distant relative of Frank Castle's. Lucy watched the transformation.
"I liked your old nose better," she said.
"I'll be going back to it."
"What about how shredded you are?"
He looked at her curiously.
"You look like a Navy SEAL in a recruitment commercial," Lucy continued. "They're supposed to think you're a schlub, right?"
"I have a fatsuit to put on."
"Jesus," Lucy muttered. "You really do think of everything."
"If I haven't, I'll find out fast."
"You're not going to put it on yet, are you?" Lucy asked, her eyes on Frank's open shirt, heating his cobblestone abs with her admiration.
The operator finally picked up. She and the guard dickered over getting a technician sent out to restore service.
It amused Frank to think that the Mafia was much like any bureaucracy. The leadership might come and go, but there was an underclass, a servitor class, that remained constant. No matter who was let into the organization and managed to ascend, they would always find themselves relying on the core of
La Cosa Nostra.
Sicilians. He listened in on the Italian accent of the guard, a man who'd no doubt been dispatched from the head of the snake in Europe to ensure Angel's operation ran smoothly. He might be following orders, but he was also insurance that Angel would always give the right ones.
Finally, the guard hung up, able to do no more than extract an assurance that the next available technician would show up between 9 and 6, weekdays, and to be sure any large dogs were brought inside or placed on a leash at the time of his arrival.
"Now what?" Lucy asked over the dial tone.
Frank shut off the tap. "Now we give it a minute."
The silence didn't last long. It was like Lucy had been itching to have him to herself, his attention all hers...
"Did I ever get to thank you?" Lucy asked.
"I heard how grateful you were on the news."
"I wanted to thank you personally." Lucy chuckled, almost to herself. "I wasn't in much of a state to be grateful when you saved me."
