to the little table and the helicopter that would fly her to the private airstrip and the private plane that would whisk her back to the States.
But before she followed the armed guard, she took a moment to look over the super yacht. She could still feel where Rina had hit her. Could still hear the ringing in her ears from her condescending tone. But that was okay. She didn’t mind. Not now. Not when she had much bigger, long-term plans.
Mairi grinned as she took in the beauty of this yacht that would, one day . . . one day soon . . . be all hers.
* * *
Zé sat down on the couch in the living room, but the back of his foot struck something under it and he reached down and grabbed the object.
When he’d fished it out, he immediately realized it was a sneaker. A sneaker that required him to hold it up with two hands. A sneaker that was the biggest he’d ever seen. Did the NBA stay here on weekends or something? Because who else had feet this big? This thing was Shaq sized.
“It’s a Viking boat,” he muttered. “It’s a shoe the size of a goddamn Viking boat.”
He tossed the sneaker down and leaned back, but he kept leaning until he was lying flat, staring up at the ceiling. Zé sat up and examined the couch. It was also enormous.
He was not a small man. He was six-two, nearly two-hundred-and-sixty. He used to play football in school. Could have gotten a scholarship to play ball in college but, just to irritate his grandfather, he joined the Marines instead, pissing the old man off. Because they both knew he could have easily gone pro. He used to be that good. But despite knowing other players who were way bigger than he was, he’d never gone to their houses and found couches this size—although he was sure many of them would have appreciated something so comfortable.
Zé shook his head. No, no. He was letting those crazy women get into his head. He was letting them convince him of something that was just not possible. There was no way what they were saying . . . no way he could be . . . no way there was even a chance that . . .
Resting his elbows on his knees, he dropped his chin on his raised fists and simply sat there. Staring across the room at a TV that wasn’t turned on.
He had no idea how long he sat there like that before the back of his head itched. Without really thinking, he reached around and scratched his scalp. That’s when he felt it. Just under the skin. Small pieces of bone . . . moving into place. He jerked his hand away and immediately noticed his headache was abruptly gone.
What was happening? What the hell was happening?
He heard a door open at the front of the house and five men walked into the living room. They didn’t look at him and Zé didn’t speak. One older man seemed to lead the others, strutting in front of them. They weren’t tall like the brown-haired men he’d spoken to earlier but they were stocky and powerfully built. He could see their muscles under their suit jackets. He also heard accents as they spoke to each other. Scottish. Or Irish. He’d always had trouble catching the difference.
They’d barely made it to the far side of the living room when Stevie rushed in. She held her hands up but the men simply walked around her. She blinked in surprise at being ignored as if she wasn’t even standing there and she ran around to block them again. This time stretching out her arms wide and yelping, “No!”
This time the men did stop and stare at her.
“Dear sweet niece,” said the older man, “a lovely sight as always.”
“Hello, Uncle Will. Uh . . . I thought you guys had left. For good.”
“Why would we do that? Charlie said we were welcome to stay.”
“She was lying. She’s a vicious little liar. She lies and lies—we can’t stop her.”
“Now, we all know that’s not true, dearest girl. I’m sure if I talk to her—”
“No!” Stevie barked again, her hands pressed against her uncle’s chest specifically to keep him from moving forward. She forced a smile. “My sister has a lot on her mind right now.”
“That’s too bad. You know what?” her uncle suddenly announced, smiling. “She should take a break. Maybe go