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 from the sun.

“Hello, I’m Hannah Buckman,” she said, offering a well-manicured hand. “I assume you’re here to see Simon.”

“That’s correct,” the Indian said.

“He’s below, in the cabin.”

The Indian squeezed her hand, gently. She couldn’t see his eyes through the dark lenses, but she knew he was staring at her breasts. The black man, clearly embarrassed, looked away.

“Simon’s expecting you,” she said. “And he’s not a man who likes to be kept waiting.”

The Indian released her hand and grinned. She followed him with her eyes until he and the black man disappeared down the steps. When they were out of sight, she sighed and went back to reading Danielle.

Below, Simon Buckman lay sprawled on an oversized couch, his face covered by a sailor’s cap. He was sixtyish, bald, and not nearly tall enough to accommodate his weight, which long ago had surpassed three hundred pounds. Simon was a man suffocating in the quicksand of his own flesh, a man whose every breath was labored, whose every movement was a struggle. Even the task of lifting himself to a sitting position to meet his two guests was accomplished only by using a cane to hoist himself up.

“Come in, come in,” he said. His accent was clearly old South. Alabama, maybe Mississippi. The words escaped through a reptilian slit barely visible within the mounds of fat. “Did you meet Hannah?”

“Yes,” the black man said. “Your daughter is very beautiful, very … uninhibited.”

Simon convulsed in laughter, his flesh shaking like a vat of Jell-O.

“What’s so funny?” the black man asked.

Pounding the cane on the floor, Simon bellowed, “She’s not my daughter; she’s my wife.”

“Your wife?”

“Pretty amazing, isn’t it?” Simon said. “It just goes to show you: if you’ve got money, you can marry anything you want. Women are drawn to money like my old grandpappy to a Klan rally.” He looked at the two men, his eyes gleaming. “I know what you’re thinking: how does a fat SOB like him service a young kitten like that? Hell, I don’t. It’d kill me if I tried. But it’s goddamned impressive to walk into someplace with her hanging on my arm. Makes me the envy of every young hard dick in the room.”

With great effort, Simon struggled to his feet and moved closer to the two men. He paused, then walked behind the black man. “That’s some scar you have there,” he remarked. “How’d you get it? One of them police dogs in Selma get a little too close?”

The black man, his right hand touching the scar on his cheek, glared hard at Simon. “Car crash, when I was a kid.”

“You know, you’re the first black person—I mean, Afro-American—who’s ever been on this vessel,” Simon said. “Except, of course, for the servants.”

“I’m honored,” the big black man said.

Simon circled the two men again, slowly, finally stopping in front of the Indian. “You must be Seneca. I’ve heard a lot about you. Why, there are those of my acquaintance who speak of you in almost reverential tones. They say you’re the best, that no one comes close. That true, or is it only a lot of talk from your fork-tongued redskin brothers?”

“He’s the best, make no mistake about that,” the black man said, turning toward Simon.

“I don’t recollect asking for your opinion, spade. I asked the man himself. Well, how about it, Cochise? You as good as they say?”

The Indian flashed a quick grin. “Better,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. Just as quickly, the smile vanished and his right hand shot out and grabbed Simon’s testicles. “And the name isn’t Cochise, fatman. It’s Seneca. Got it?”

He increased the pressure. “Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it, I got it,” Simon belched. “Take your fuckin’ mitts off my balls.”

More pressure.

“What’s the name, fatman?”

“Seneca, goddammit … fuckin’ Seneca.”

“That’s better.”

The Indian released his grip and pushed Simon back against the bar. Simon’s face was bathed in fear. He grabbed a napkin and wiped sweat from his forehead.

“I didn’t come here to listen to your redneck bullshit,” the Indian added. “I’m here to find out where Karl wants to meet. Tell me that, and I’m gone.”

Before Simon could answer, Hannah walked into the cabin, looked around at the three men, and smiled. “Sounds like you boys are getting a little rowdy down here.”

Simon coughed. “Get enough sun, Kitten?”

“Don’t I look tan and lovely?” she answered, turning toward the Indian. “Simon, why don’t you introduce me to your friends?”

“The one in front …”

“Seneca,” the Indian said, cocking his head in the direction of the black man. “That’s Deke.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Deke said, relieved to see her fully clothed.

Simon coughed again, louder this time. “Honey, I have important business to discuss with these gentlemen. Why don’t you take a shower? Freshen up a bit before dinner.”

“She can stay if she wants,” Seneca said.

“It goes against my beliefs to talk business in front of a woman.”

“Maybe you need some new beliefs.” The Indian looked at Hannah. “Have a seat.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Simon grunted.

“Simon is right,” Hannah said. “I do need a shower, but thank you for offering to let me stay. A lady always likes to feel wanted.”

The three men were quiet until she left. Simon followed, locked the cabin door behind her, then turned back toward his visitors. “Dumbest broad on God’s green earth. But you can’t argue with a body like that. Makes up for a lot of those missing IQ points.”

“You ought to treat her better,” the Indian said. “If you don’t, she might not be around much longer.”

“She’ll be with me when they’re kickin’ dirt on my coffin,” Simon growled. “She’s not that dumb. She’s read my will.”

Simon opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of Tennessee whiskey. “I understand everything went well in Arlington.” He took a drink straight from the bottle. “That true?”

The Indian slid past Deke and sat on the couch. “Karl. When do we meet him?”

“You don’t. Not yet, anyway.”

“Why?”

“He has another assignment for you. Another run-through to make sure everything is hunky-dory.”

The Indian stood. “Doesn’t work that way, fatman. I don’t audition for anyone, including Karl. Tell him that. And while you’re at it, tell him I said he can fuck off.”

“You’re making a big mistake, my Indian friend. Karl won’t take kindly to attitude.”

The Indian walked to the door and unlocked it. “Tough shit. Tell Karl the next time he wants me, he’ll have to come looking.”

Simon laughed. “What makes you think there’ll be a next time?”

Seneca reached up and grabbed Simon by the throat. “Because what he wants done is big. Big enough that he knows I’m the only one who can do it.”

He released his grip and pinched Simon’s sweating cheek. “See, when you’re the best at something, fatman, there’s always a next time. But being the best isn’t something you’d know much about, is it?”