Free Heirs of Cain by Tom Wallace

Figures.”
    “He was only half Oriental. His mother was an American, the daughter of a Marine colonel.”
    “You get a black belt?”
    Collins laughed. “Yeah, Pete, I got a black belt.”
    “Well, after what you did to the poor bum, I can believe it.”
    Pete struggled out of the booth and hitched up his pants. “Well, better get back to the wars. Plenty of drachmas to be taken in tonight.” He put a hand on Collins’s shoulder. “God, how I love to make a buck.”
    Kate watched Pete shuffle back to the bar. “What’s he talking about? Were you involved in a fight?”
    “Not really. Some drunk cut Pete with a knife. I helped break it up. No big deal.”
    “Knife? That sounds serious.”
    “It wasn’t.”
    She took another drink. “Mind if I ask you a question?”
    “Go for it.”
    “It’s kinda personal.”
    “Is there any other kind?”
    “You’ve never been married, right?” she finally said.
    “Right.”
    “How come?”
    “That’s two questions.”
    “Sorry.”
    Collins ran his hand through his hair. “It simply wasn’t in the cards, I guess. Anyway, it wouldn’t have worked out.” He looked away. “My work wasn’t conducive to married life.”
    Kate started to ask another question, caught herself in mid-sentence, let it go unfinished. Something in his eyes said she had intruded into territory best left uncharted.
    Those eyes—
    “Well, if you ever change your mind, I know an excellent prospect.”
    She smiled.
    He didn’t.

    An hour later, after dropping Kate off at her apartment and making a quick stop at a 24-hour grocery store, Collins walked into his house. He stood motionless in the darkness, letting several minutes pass before turning on a light.
    This time there were no tricky shadows, no plans and contingencies. No Lucas White.
    But he wasn’t alone. Ever. The ghosts were forever with him.
    Waiting. Always.
    He sat on the couch and reached for the brown folder marked “Eyes Only.” In it was a history of his prize pupil, his oldest adversary.
    Seneca.

The breeze was soft, the sun blazing like the fires of hell.
Perfect
, Hannah Buckman thought, as she loosened the bikini strap and removed the top. Her breasts, free from their confines, seemed to defy gravity. She liked her breasts. Always had. The best thing about her body. Large but not too large, firm, round, and, most important, created by Mother Nature herself, with brown nipples forever erect. Men continually raved about her Hollywood looks or her long, toned legs or her firm butt or her thick, pouty lips. But to Hannah, her breasts were the only part of her anatomy that rated a ten.
    After five minutes of carefully applying sunscreen, she lay down on the lounge chair, lowered her sunglasses, and began reading the latest Danielle Steele novel. She had concluded by the end of the second chapter that this wasn’t one of Danielle’s better efforts. About a B minus up to now. But with five chapters remaining, who knew? Maybe it would improve. It was getting more interesting, no doubt about that.
    Hannah made a mental note to keep an eye on the time and not forget to turn over. Her breasts were easy prey to a quick sunburn. Ten minutes at a time were about all they could handle, sunscreen or not. Any longer and they would be cooked. That had happened a couple of times before, and it was damn painful.
    Hannah finished a chapter, the best one thus far, when she felt her breasts begin to sizzle. Time for more lotion. As she sat up and reached for the bottle, she saw the two men who were about to board the yacht. They were an odd-looking couple, the medium-built dark-skinned man wearing shades and the mammoth, round-faced black man walking on unsteady legs. She lowered her glasses and peered over the top. The man with the shades was so strikingly handsome she had to get a better look at him. As they approached, she realized he was an American Indian. She also realized her uncovered nipples were fully erect and it wasn’t