The lion male glanced at her, and she knew that he automatically assumed she was looking down on him. Not only because he was young and male but because he wasn’t from a Pride that had been around as long as hers. She was guessing his ancestors were from early 1700s England. Lions, just like her and her kin, but she doubted that one of them had ever set foot on the Serengeti except as part of some paid-for, shifter-only hunting party.
But Imani had no preconceived notions about any cat. She simply watched and learned. As she always had.
So when the male raised a brow at her, she stated, “You guys can do whatever you’re planning on doing. I’ll simply report back to the heads of all three organizations to keep them in the loop. I’ll be the point of contact for everyone. This is your show, guys.”
“Sounds good,” he lied, even managing to force a smile.
But Imani’s smile was real when she promised, “I’m just here to observe and report.”
* * *
Mairi waited while the men kicked the door open and entered the motel room. She followed a few seconds later, sniffing the air. Freddy MacKilligan had definitely been here, and he hadn’t been alone. But he was gone now.
“How does he stay ahead of us?” one of the men wanted to know.
“He’s got someone helping him,” Mairi guessed. “Someone who’s tracking us. Can tell when we’re close.”
“How do you know that?’
“Because I know how me uncle thinks.” She snapped her fingers. “Phones. Get rid of them. I’ll get us some burners. No contact with family or girlfriends. No computers or anything else.”
“Then how do we track him?”
“I’ll find someone to help us out. I just need a day or two to—”
“The twins aren’t going to like you going off on your own again,” he pointed out, making Mairi want to rip his throat out. She didn’t . . . but she really wanted to.
“Then keep yer mouth shut and there won’t be a problem, now will there?”
“But the twins said—”
Mairi reached up and grabbed him by the jaw, squeezing until she heard a small “crack” sound. She wasn’t trying to break it. Not unless she had to.
“I said,” she warned again, up on her toes so she didn’t have to shout to be heard by the much taller man, “keep yer mouth shut and there won’t be a problem. Understand?”
Eyes wide, gawking down at her, he managed a nod.
“Good.” She motioned to the room. “Clear this place and head to the hotel. I’ll get you new phones and check in with you later.”
Mairi walked out of the motel and returned to the rental car. She sat down in the driver’s seat and stared straight ahead. She didn’t want to deal with Freddy MacKilligan. The idiot. And when she finally tracked him down, she was going to make him suffer for distracting her from what she really wanted, which was Max MacKilligan.
And anything that got in the way of that goal just pissed Mairi off.
Mairi rested her hands on the wheel. Maybe she should just kill the twins. If she got them out of the way sooner rather than later, she could focus on Max.
She liked that idea. Of course, she’d originally wanted to keep the twins around so they could continue to distract all the uncles and aunts. But now they were just getting pushy and annoying. Mairi didn’t have patience for that sort of thing.
Thinking on it a bit longer, Mairi realized that she didn’t actually have to kill the twins herself. She had another option. One that would free up her time. She just needed to get a few things in order and . . .
“Excellent!” she cheered, pleased with her brilliant decision-making. “Get all that sorted and then I can put a bullet in the back of me cousin’s head.”
Mairi let out a happy sigh. She did love when things worked out in her favor.
chapter EIGHT
“I just don’t see why I’m responsible for him,” Max complained.
Nelle came out from her dressing room wearing designer jeans, a designer sleeveless shirt, and six-inch heels that probably cost several thousand dollars. She was putting on gold-set diamond earrings that brought out her dark brown eyes and matched the gold and diamond bracelets she wore on both wrists.
“You feel responsible for him because your sisters say that you’re responsible for him. Charlie is your moral compass and there’s nothing wrong with that.”
Max loved the Manhattan penthouse apartment that Nelle occasionally shared with her family, with its eight bedrooms and two terraces that boasted amazing views of Central Park. Of course, the family could have bought a private island for what they’d paid to get this place but it was in the heart of the city and the Zhaos didn’t like to be subtle about their wealth. Not surprising. They were honey badgers. Badgers weren’t subtle about anything.
“Really?” Max asked, sitting on Nelle’s giant double-king-sized bed. “Because I feel like everything is wrong with it. Because of them, I’m stuck with this guy for however long it takes him to shift on his own and not keep asking that same stupid question about whether he’s been drugged or not.”
Nelle turned away from the mirror she’d been looking in and gestured to the other end of her bed. “Should we really be having this conversation with the poor guy just sitting there?”
Max glanced over at a silent Vargas. He was busy watching the BBC World News channel and didn’t seem the least bit interested in what they were talking about. She waved away Nelle’s concern.
“You know,” Nelle went on, “his adjustment doesn’t have to be time consuming, especially with all the girls here at the same time because of the playoffs. We round everybody up and we help you help him. It’ll be just like old times.”
“I guess that’s an idea.”
“Come on, Max. Lighten up. Just be glad your sisters give a shit about this kind of stuff. I wish I had that kind of relationship with my sister. But instead . . .”
When she didn’t finish her sentence, Max asked, “But instead what?”
Nelle walked over to a small closet and opened it, revealing Nelle’s sister trapped on the floor, hogtied and gagged with duct tape. Most likely by Nelle herself.
“Dude! What the fuck?”
“She deserves it.” She glared down at her sister and yelled, “Because she’s a bitch!” She slammed the door shut, ignoring her sister’s muffled threats, and pulled her phone out of her back pocket.
“I’ll text the girls,” she said with abrupt great cheer.
“You’re not just going to leave your sister in there, are you?”
She snorted. “She’ll be fine. Gnaw her way out of those restraints in no time.”
“Is the only reason you have duct tape in your beautiful apartment so that you can hogtie your sister whenever you want?”
Nelle glanced up from her phone and grinned. “Yes!”
* * *
Zé stared across the round table in the coffee shop at the five women gazing back at him. There was Max, her purple hair in two pigtails high on her head, purple bangs hanging into her eyes. Gorgeous Nelle, who had the attention of every man in the establishment. Tock, whose blank expression made him uncomfortable. Streep, who’d been complaining since they’d all stood in line to get their coffee and treats. And Mads, who seemed to do nothing but glare at everyone who came within ten feet of her personal space.
“Maybe we should just get rid of him,” Tock finally suggested when no one else had any other ideas.
“We can’t,” Max said with a sigh. “Charlie really likes him.”
“I thought she already had a man.”
“She doesn’t like him like that. She just likes him. And you know what Stevie will do if she finds out—”
Nelle waved her manicured hands in the air. “No, no. Forget getting rid of him.”
“For moral reasons?” Zé had to ask.
“Sure . . . if that makes you feel better.”
“Is anyone else concerned,” Mads asked, speaking for the first time since
she’d entered the coffee shop, “that he’s taking it so well that we’re discussing getting rid of him?”
“No,” the others said in unison.
“Okay.”
“Besides,” Max continued, “I didn’t go through all this trouble just to get rid of him.”
“Most important,” Nelle reasoned, “the hard part’s over. He knows what he is, and he accepts it. Now we just have to teach him the basics.”
“Good point,” Streep agreed.
Then the women went back to staring at him.
Finally, Tock asked, “Sooooo . . . what are the basics we should be teaching him?”
After that question, more confused silence followed. A silence that went on for so long, Zé began to laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
He shrugged at Tock’s question. “I’m just . . . entertained, which is not something I say very often. Because most people do not entertain me. But you guys . . . ?” He nodded. “Entertainment.”
“Awwwwww,” Streep said. “You guys, we have to keep him nowwww. He’s adorable!”
Nelle closed her eyes, shook her head. “He’s not a rescued kitten, Streep.”
“But still!”
Zé glanced over at Max, one brow raised. Her response? Mouthing, Oh, my God. Sorry.
And that only made Zé laugh harder.
* * *
Amelia Kamatsu waited outside the office of her boss after he’d given her and her team their next assignment. She was surprised to be called in. She never had been before. What they did was beyond top secret. They weren’t spies or anything. That took a subtlety most of her team lacked in many ways. But when the government couldn’t take action for political reasons, it called the company that hired her team.
It wasn’t an easy job but she did enjoy the freedom it gave her. When she wasn’t risking her life in foreign countries for an exorbitant fee, she was relaxing in her secure cabin deep in the Maine woods.
But this was the first time she’d lost one of her men. And she didn’t mean “lost” in some euphemistic way. She meant lost. She’d lost him. Her team had been attempting to track down Vargas for days and nothing. It was as if he’d disappeared. She hoped, however, that her boss had some news of him. That he was in a hospital somewhere, recovering. Hopefully the damage wasn’t too great and he’d be back on his feet soon. Maybe not able to join the fight again, but at least able to live as normal a life as any of them could. That was the least Vargas deserved.
“He’s ready to see you now,” the receptionist said.
Amelia picked up her briefcase, pulled down the light sleeveless blouse that covered the weapon holstered to the back of her black slacks, and entered the office. She smiled at her boss—until she caught sight of the man sitting at the far side of the room. A man she didn’t know.
“David,” she greeted her boss.
“Amelia. Hello.”
He stood and Amelia reached across his large desk to shake his hand. “Good to see you.”
“Please. Sit.”
She did, moving her hair off her shoulder so she could get another look at the man watching her. He made her nervous but she didn’t know why. Maybe it was those eyes. The way they watched her was . . . off-putting.
“Any word on Vargas?” she asked, eager to get to the heart of things.
“As a matter of fact . . . yes. He’s alive.”
She let out a relieved breath and relaxed into the leather chair. “Thank God. Where is he? Can I go see him?”
David glanced at the man across the room. “Not right now.”
“Why?”
“He’s recovering.”
“Then I definitely should see him. He’s one of my team. I should be making sure he has everything he needs.”
“He has everything he needs,” the man across the room said.
Amelia smiled. It wasn’t a real smile. It was one she’d taught herself a long time ago when she’d joined the U.S. Navy and was surrounded by very sensitive men who couldn’t stand a woman who got “mouthy.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “And you are?”
“Zezé Vargas is being taken care of and will completely recover.”
“Recover from what?”
The man tilted his head, blinked. It was weird.
“From his injuries,” the man finally replied.
“His injuries? What kind of injuries?”
“The kind that require healing.”
What kind of fucked-up answer was that?
Amelia turned to David, and the man who dined with U.S. senators and vice presidents gave a short headshake. His way of telling her to “stop asking fucking questions, woman!”
“Anyway”—the man stood—“ just wanted to give you guys that update. And I’d like that report of yours. Please.”
Amelia gripped the handle of her briefcase tighter. She’d been so busy asking about Vargas, she hadn’t put it down. It still sat in her lap.
“My report?”
“Yes.” The man walked across the room, his hair brushing his shoulders. God, she would kill for his highlights. It was like a world of browns, grays, whites, and golds in there. How much did that cost? “Your report. Now, please.”
Amelia again looked at her boss and he frowned, urging her along with a jerk of his head.
“Fine.”
She opened her briefcase and pulled out the report, handing it over to the man.
“Excellent. Thank you both so much.”
Then he walked out. Without another word. No explanation. No idea when she’d hear from Vargas again. She couldn’t even send him flowers because she didn’t know which hospital they’d put him in. Was he still in the Netherlands? Was he back in the States?
What the fuck was happening?
Once the door closed behind the man, David slumped in his chair.
“Wow, does that man make me uncomfortable.”
“Who the fuck was that?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“What do you mean, don’t worry about it? Vargas is one of my men.”
David folded his hands on his desk and calmly gazed at Amelia.
“What?” she finally asked when he just stared at her in that weird, placid way of his.
“Do you enjoy your life?”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you enjoy living and being happy? Then, if I were you, I’d forget about Vargas. If he contacts you, he contacts you. And if he doesn’t, keep your mouth shut and move on with your day.”
“David—”
“I’m not joking, Amelia. These are people you do not want to fuck with. Be happy you only had to give up your report.”
David turned away from her, focusing on his computer. “The remainder of your money will hit your account in the next hour, including a bonus. Divvy it up among your team as you see fit. And have a good day. I’ll let you know when we have a new job for you.”
She wanted to argue. She wanted to rip his nuts off. But how would that help her or Vargas?
So she stood and headed back to her hotel room. If nothing else, she had a copy of her report on her laptop and in her cloud account.
At least she thought she did.
By the time she got back to the hotel and went online, it was as if that report—and what had happened—had never existed.
* * *
“We need to go back to the beginning!” Streep announced, arms thrown wide, smile gorgeous. “To where this all started!”
“You mean Africa?” Mads asked flatly, and Max was barely able to stop her laugh. Streep hated being laughed at.
“No,” she snapped back at Mads. “Not Africa. To where Zé began.” She rested her hands on the table, leaned in a bit. “You’re from Mexico, right?”
Vargas’s eyes narrowed and Max wondered how often that was people’s first choice when discussing his heritage.
“Yeah,” Streep cluelessly persisted. “Like Tijuana . . . oh, and . . . uh . . . Tijuana?”
&
nbsp; Max covered her mouth with her hand, and Nelle pressed her face against Max’s bare shoulder to stop her own laughter, which did not help the situation.
After a pause, Vargas said, “No. I’m not from Mexico. Are you?”
Streep frowned, confused. “No. My family is from the Philippines. But what does that have to do with anything?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Mads growled.
“What is with the tone?”
“Should we do a roundtable of everyone’s racial background? Maybe get some DNA tests done? Wouldn’t that be fun?”
The Streep-tears started immediately. Right after the trembling bottom lip.
“Why are you so mean to me?” Streep sobbed.
Tock pointed at the watch she had saved for since she was six years old, when she’d decided that her father didn’t understand the “concept of time” and what it meant to “manage my life.” A ten-thousand-dollar Swiss timepiece that was beyond precise. A watch that was in no way designed for the average person just looking to keep time.
Of course, Tock had informed them at their first team meeting as a junior high basketball team—when she only had a Timex watch with Minnie Mouse’s arms telling her the hours and minutes—that she managed her life in thirty-minute increments. If she got something done in ten minutes that meant she had another twenty to do whatever she wanted to do, but whatever she had booked had to be dealt with first. Whether it was homework, team practice, or wild boar hunting. When she booked practice, she expected all of them to honor the time commitment. And that expectation hadn’t changed in the last sixteen years.
“We have practice tonight in Manhattan. So what are we doing about Zé?” Tock demanded.
Streep stopped sobbing and glared at Tock. “Does my pain mean nothing to you?”
“I didn’t book time for your pain.”
“What do you suggest we do?” Nelle asked Tock.
“I’ll go to the Katzenhaus Library. The cats keep track of their people, and their library on Fifth digitally links to the library in Germany, which has even more extensive genealogical records.” She pulled out a small notebook with a leather cover and a very nice pen. She shoved both toward Zé. “Give me your full name, the names of your mother and father, and your address when you were a kid.”
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