A/N: Newsflash! I've been informed that Rosemary Wheeler is "the mother of all Mary Sues." (All of 'em. Not just a couple. The whole lot. Those of you who thought you had Mary Sues in the running can just go on home and cry. This race is over.) Hmm. Okay. Maybe my old and atrophied brain isn't quite clear on the definition of the term, but I thought that a "Mary Sue" was supposed to be, more or less, a character that you, as a writer, would want to be. A made-up person who embodies a fantasy ideal version of yourself. Look at me: I'm a little princess (or the gender- and/or politically correct equivalent), I saved the day, everybody loves me 'cause I'm perfect, all that. Well, alright, I'll admit: like me, Rosemary has dark hair. (Hell, that practically makes us twins, right?) A little less like me, she is toned and witty and moderately easy on the eyes (assorted nose-breaks and all), and she's got that cool English accent going on. But she's also a petty, vindictive, selfish and egotistical sociopath, and, frankly, "petty," "vindictive," "selfish (and egotistical)," and "sociopathic" aren't adjectives typically found written in glitter ink on my personal actualization wish list.

Look, I can understand that people hate Rosemary. People should hate Rosemary. She is, absolutely (and as certain of you, mm hm, yep, have been more than willing to let me know), a bitch. More than that, though, she's a blast to write, and she does— or will— serve a purpose in this whole mess. But is she a "Mary Sue"...? Nawww.

Heck, enough with the soapboxing. I'm blathering on out here. Thanks for stopping by, folks. On with the inanity...!

#####

#####

#####

Facing his future mother-in-law was fine as long as Rippner and Lisa were together, presenting a united front. Rippner distracted Joan with a suave but noncommital smile while Lisa kept her mother busy with talk about Dallas. And then the unexpected happened. Disaster struck. Cynthia came speed-teetering over, looking desperate through a cloud of tipsiness. As far as Rippner knew, she had the night off for the party. At the moment, she looked far more panicked than anyone with a night off— and the beginnings of a sky-busting buzz— ought to look. "Lisa," she stammered, "I'm so sorry. We have a situation—"

"It's okay, Cynthia. Mom, will you excuse me...?"

"Of course, honey." Joan fixed Cynthia with a death-stare that came only a few volts short of "fatal." "But, honestly, do they expect you to do everything around here?"

Lisa was looking at Rippner, not at her mother. "It's alright. I'll only be a minute."

Rippner thought his face was a stoic professional mask. Cool, calm, one hundred percent in control. Bullshit. Lisa could read him like a seismograph. A second's microscopic tremor in the muscle of his left cheek, and she saw it. He saw her see it. She squeezed his hand, leaned up to kiss him. "Be right back."

"You promise...?" he whispered.

#####

#####

He was bright and personable, but bright and personable only got you so far. After that, being a desk-jockey at the Lux required finesse. And that was where the new guy, David Huxley, still needed work.

"Jeff flagged me," Cynthia said, as she and Lisa headed for the doors leading out to the lobby. "David doesn't know what to do, and this guy at Reception is getting really, really irate—"

Outside the party room, Lisa stopped to the right of the run of stairs leading up to the Lux's ground-floor restaurant. A spot from which she and Cynthia could view Reception without looking like they were stampeding to the rescue.

She assessed the scene. Jeff, the junior concierge and Cynthia's sweetheart, big, broad, sandy-haired, as Iowan as a blue prairie sky, was back at his post to the right of the hotel's main doors. Behind the desk, David, tall, dark, and heroically square-jawed, was on the receiving end of an epic berating from a solid, middle-aged man in a gray suit. Beside that man, on the public side of the desk, stood a second man half a head shorter than his companion and nearly a full head shorter than David; he was slender and youngish, he wore his dark hair combed back, and he was dressed in an oak-brown suit so subtly tailored that it whistled "money" at a pitch only angels could hear. He seemed not quite anchored to the lobby tiles, as if he were rich enough to keep an eighth of an inch of air perpetually between his soles and the ground.

Lisa said: "That's him, isn't it?"

Cynthia nodded. "His name is Robert Fischer. He's super-VIP and ultra-paranoid. The man with him is—"

"That's okay, Cynthia. What's the story?"

"He's booked in the penthouse—"

— which, since the incident involving Jackson, Charles Keefe and his family, and a rocket launched from a fishing charter roughly three years ago, had been rebuilt with enough reinforcement to withstand— no kidding— a low-level nuclear strike, and which fact the publicity department of Lux Worldwide had, through sheer marketing brilliance, managed to spin into something other than "FOR GOD'S SAKE, STAY AT THE MARRIOTT: OUR HOTELS GET BLOWN UP."—

"— but he wants to know what kind of psychic security the hotel offers. Like telepathy or something." Cynthia came breathlessly to a halt. Her eyes were like saucers afloat in twin seas of margaritas. "Lisa, what do we tell him?"

Lisa's voice seemingly didn't rise above speaking volume: "Julie."

As if conjured out of the air, Julie Weber, the hotel's platinum-cool chief of security, appeared at her right elbow.

"I need you to speak to a guest at Reception," Lisa said to her. "Do we offer psychic security services?"

"We certainly do. Complimentary for our executive and VIP guests."

"Go. Thanks."

A nod. A tip of the smooth flaxen head. Weber headed for Reception.

"Lisa—" Cynthia stared after Julie. "—you're lying. Aren't you?"

"It's only a lie if the customer believes it is." Lisa watched as Julie slipped unobtrusively into the fray at the desk, made quiet inquiries of David and the middle-aged man, and turned to Robert Fischer with a description of the Lux's mental-defense services that Mr. Fischer, responding with sober attention and a slight, diffident smile, obviously found satisfactory, even if his companion, broadcasting a skeptical scowl over Julie's shoulder, didn't. But he wasn't the one in need of reassurance. As Jackson might put it, Mr. Fischer was the mark here, and the mark looked pleased. A minute later, Fischer and the other man, key-cards in hand, were heading for the executive express elevator, bellhop and baggage cart in their wake.

David Huxley scanned the lobby, spotted Lisa and Cynthia. Thank you, he mouthed.

Lisa responded with a modest smile and an It's nothing wave.

"Anything else?" she asked Cynthia.

"No-" Cynthia was still wrapping the remnants of a tequila-fuzzed frown around the concept of "psychic security services." "But I'll, umm—"

"Let me know if there is, okay?" Lisa patted her on the shoulder.

"Okay."

Lisa turned to head back to the party room. Time for rescue number two. Jackson was tough, physically and mentally, and he was more patient than he cared to admit, but even 440C stainless steel could only take so much.

At least sirens weren't screaming in the distance. EMTs and police weren't storming the lobby. She took that as a good sign.

#####

#####

He was in a bad place, and he knew it. He was alone, unsure of his options, facing an enemy he'd never faced before. Best to be frank. Get it out of the way, once and for all. Rippner said to the former Mrs. Reisert: "We're not planning on having children, Joan."

"Sometimes the best plans are the ones you don't make."

Rippner shook his head. Perhaps he'd misheard. "Pardon me?"

Joan bobble-headed sagely over her latest Cosmo. "Lisa, for instance."

Maybe Rosemary had bribed the bartender into slipping something into the Opulent. Rippner wished to God it would knock him cold. "I'm sorry: I don't follow—"

Joan looked at him as though he were an idiot. A delectable idiot, but an idiot nonetheless. "If you're not 'planning' on having children, Jackson, then why are you and my daughter getting married?"

"Ah." Rippner replied patiently and clearly, for the comprehension-impaired: "Love, companionship. Mutual interests. Legal benefits. And our careers are dovetailing. It's a good fit." He found himself smiling. "Honestly, I can't imagine life without her."

Joan regarded him with equal but entirely dissimilar patience. A touch of condescension. And, Christ help him, more than a trace of interest. That kind of interest. "You're a good-looking man, Jackson. A very good-looking man." She hadn't heard a word he said. "You and Lisa would give me beautiful grandchildren."

To his voda-tonic, Rippner muttered: "But, unfortunately, you'd want to give them back."

"What's that—?"

Once upon a time, the Carters had considered having old-fashioned tooth-cap cyanide capsules fitted in their field agents' mouths. Rippner's mouth included. John, Claire, why the hell didn't you follow up on that? Don't tell me I missed the fucking memo—

He offered Joan a death's-head smile. "Nothing, Joan. How long did you say you'd be staying in Miami...?"

#####

#####

From a safe distance, Rosemary watched the slaughter of her former field-partner and sometimes-flame in the company of Joe Reisert, who stood quietly beside her for a minute or better before finally saying, as though they'd been conversing all the while:

"And you said your name was...?"

"I didn't." She turned to him, met his black-brown eyes. "But it's Rosemary, actually. Rosemary Wheeler."

"I don't recall seeing you on the guest list."

Blunt without being outright accusing. Or rude. She could appreciate that.

"Probably because I'm not on it, Mr. Reisert."

"So you're a friend of Jackson's, then."

She couldn't help but smile at the man's logic. Couldn't help but think, too, that beneath that gruff, concerned, all-American-dad exterior lay a touch of true deadliness. After all, Joe Reisert had planted a .22-calibre slug within four inches of Rippner's heart. A fact that made Rosemary smile even more.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," she said. "That's how I met Lisa. Through Jackson."

"Did you try to kill her, too?"

A modest bow of her head. A touch of confession in her tone: "Umm, yes, I did."

Joe snorted, casually sipped his whiskey-sour. Thirty seconds later, they were discussing small arms. Close-combat tactics. Rosemary found herself seeing why Rippner would like him. She liked him herself.

"There's a fine, fine line between 'vivacious' and 'vivisection,' Jackson," Reisert muttered, watching as his ex dissected Rippner. He and Rippner might have reached some sort of accord; nonetheless, at this moment, Reisert's dark eyes were smoldering with morbid satisfaction. "Remember that."

Rosemary touched her glass to his. "I'll drink to that, Joe."

#####

#####

Rippner had withstood training designed to make him impervious to torture both mental and physical. He'd been beaten, shot, stabbed, and poisoned. And here he was, seconds from cracking, in the midst of a cocktail party in his honor.

The woman— Joan, his future mother-in-law— wouldn't stop. She had Lisa knocked up half a dozen times over. She had Rippner buying Bugaboos and car seats, trading his BMWs for minivans, picking the right brand of disposable diapers, pitching in with the spit-ups and the burpings, the gastrointestinal explosions top and bottom, the two a.m. feedings, the teethings, all the little things that made it oh-so-worthwhile. She had him at first steps, first days of school. She had him at dance recitals. Christmas pageants. Seven a.m. soccer games. T-ball. Fucking Little League—

Rippner was starting to feel trapped. A little nauseous. Where the hell was Lisa? Likely unintentionally, Rosemary caught his eye. For the moment, she was alone. Joe had wandered off. Despite himself, Rippner looked back at her desperately.

Before Rosemary could read his intentions and bolt, he said, "Joan, there's someone I'd love for you to meet." He walked over to Rosemary and took her glass. "Here, Rose. Let me freshen that for you."

"Wait. No. Jackson, I'm not done with—"

Joan was tottering right at his heels. Rippner whispered in Rosemary's ear: "She's an in-law. I can't kill her."

"And I can—?"

"Joan," said Rippner, at full speaking volume, "allow me to introduce one of the most interesting people you're ever likely to encounter: Rosemary Wheeler. Say hello, Rosemary."

Hypnosis. That's how he did it. He hypnotized her with those ridiculous eyes. Before she could stop herself, before she could gut either Rippner or the woman he was foisting off on her, Rosemary found herself saying: "How do you do—?"

Beyond the vodka, the Texas tan, and the finest cosmetics Mary Kay had to offer, Joan's smiling face managed an extra degree of flush. "You're British...!"

"Why, so she is," Rippner declared. He smiled. "Pardon me, ladies."

He practically sprinted off. With her drink. Rosemary looked after him in helpless fury. Bastard.

#####

#####

And so, for the first time that evening: trapped.

Once she realized the woman's agenda, Rosemary couldn't blame Rippner for running away. Not that she didn't hate him for it. She put on a smile and her best "This is the BBC" accent and said: "Jackson can't have babies, Joan."

"Why's that?"

"He's a boy, for one thing. Believe it or not. Wrong equipment."

A burst of tipsy laughter.

"And Jackson isn't exactly pro-natalist," Rosemary continued. "Goes with our line of work, you see."

"And what's that?"

"We implement elaborate schemes for a secret government-sanctioned organization. We run right up to the front door of terrorism, ring the bell, and scamper off."

"That's why choosing the right daycare is so important. And getting those preschool applications in as soon as possible. Work schedules can be so demanding—"

Rosemary felt as though her feet had sunken into the floor and fused with the Spancrete. She couldn't escape if she wanted to. Nothing left, short of homicide in the middle of a crowded room, than to put on a brave face. A tied-to-the-post brave face. A "Yes, please, I'll take the blindfold" face.

Jackson, come back. All is forgiven.

Heaven help her, but she almost meant it.

#####

#####

Lisa found Jackson at the bar. Alone. He grinned when he saw her. Genuine, unguarded, relaxed. She felt a moment of deja vu, especially when he asked: "Get all your calls made?"

A second while she made the connection. Tex-Mex. Dallas. Three years ago. She smiled back at him, nodded. "No more calls." Jackson gave her space for expostulation. "At the front desk: David. You know: David Huxley—"

"The new guy, right? Cary Grant, circa 1936?"

"He hasn't quite learned the art of harmless exaggeration."

"Ah." The bartender placed a vodka tonic near his right elbow; Jackson ignored it, drank Lisa in with his eyes instead. He leaned close, kissed the dimple in her left cheek. She kissed him tenderly, maybe a little apologetically, certainly indulgently, in turn.

Observantly, too. Jackson smirked as held up his unbloodied cuffs for her to see. "I didn't harm a hair on her head, I swear."

"Then how did you manage to—" The bartender was hovering nearby, looking at Lisa with polite inquiry. "A mojito, please," she said.

Jackson waited for the man to head off in search of fresh mint. Then he nodded out across the room. "Observe the evil that we men do."

Lisa followed the trajectory of his eyes, spotted her mother talking at— the preposition in question certainly wasn't "with"— Rosemary Wheeler. "Jackson, that's practically inhumane."

Jackson took a casual sip of his vodka tonic. "We could zap her with a tufted tranquilizer dart, fit her with an ear tag and a radio collar, and move her to a quieter corner of the preserve."

"Which one?"

"Dunno." He shrugged. "Both of them?"

Rosemary had her work face on. As in, she was seeking options, an out, an escape plan. As they watched, she spotted one: Rippner's mother, passing by. Rosemary practically tackled her. Negotiated the handoff— "You two have so much in common—" — Lisa could see Rosemary mouthing the words— and fled as quickly as that ACE-bandage dress and those fuck-me heels would permit.

#####

#####

He had the temerity to speak to her again. Less than five minutes after Rosemary had abandoned Ellen Rippner to the horrors of Lisa's mother, Rippner approached her. He bore a peace offering: a tumbler deeply filled with an exotic syrup-brown liquid. "Well, are you?"

"Am I what?" Rosemary asked.

"Coming in."

"It must be contagious." She took the drink out of Rippner's hand. "Make an effort, Jackson, and don't be an idiot."

"I think it's a fair offer."

"'Don't threaten. Utilize, whenever possible.' Right?" She sipped, winced. "Christ, Jackson, what is this—?"

"It's called a Mexican Firing Squad. Compliments of Lisa. She's bet me you won't finish it."

A sweet smile and a nod, across the room, to Lisa. "Fuck you both."

Rippner watched her drain the glass. "Or not."

"Or not." She handed him the tumbler. "How much did she lose?"

"Twenty dollars. Care to make it forty?"

"It tastes like the undercarriage of a ninety-seven XJ-6. Please don't ask me how I know that."

"I'm being serious, Rose. So is Lisa."

"How unfair, having to be serious at your own party."

"Who are they, and what are they threatening you with?"

"I beg your pardon—?"

"You're afraid."

"I'm standing here, three tits to the wind, bald as brass, a crack amongst the pigeons—"

"— mutilating metaphors and getting hammered. I can see that. Be honest, Rosemary. Someone sent you. You're on assignment."

"You're amazing. You really think I came here to—"

"I know you well enough to know when you're working."

She looked at him, silently, a moment too long.

Rippner continued: "Did he threaten to have you gassed again?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Must we really do the fake-lie thing?" He moved just a bit closer. His eyes were cool and intent, but his tone was concerned: "What did you see, Rose—? Crane gave us just a whiff of that toxin, whatever it was, and Lisa and I were nearly—"

He silently invited her to replace the ellipses with an explanation. Months back, during a brief sojourn for Rosemary, a briefer investigatory trip for Jackson and Lisa, to an asylum called Arkham in upstate New York, a doctor, a psychiatrist, one Jonathan Crane, who might have passed as Jackson's double and who, doubtless and somehow, shared an employer with Miss Wheeler, had poisoned all three of them with some sort of hallucinatory nerve toxin.

Rosemary merely said: "You're standing between me and the bar, Jackson."

A moment. Rippner straightened away, stepped aside. "Of course. Enjoy the rest of the party, Miss Wheeler."

"Thank you, Mr. Rippner. And thank your lovely fiancee for me as well. Tell me, though—"

"What?"

"Why are you so willing to let me stay?"

"Like I'm sure Lisa told you, Rose: keep your enemies closer." He leaned in, murmured in her left ear: "Not to mention, you're slightly less likely to blow up the building when you're in it, aren't you?"

#####

#####

#####