The Maya 1.24

Previously On The Maya...

The Maya, after scanning a portion of the Isle of Use, goes to the closest fertilizer plant to a populated area to gauge its overall impact were it sabotaged. She uses a chemical to age and weaken hoses, but a worker and his supervisor discover the hoses and act to prevent a breakdown or worse.

The Maya walks away from the plant complex undetected, even though she's not really hiding, thanks to a specially created acrylic that reflects light, rendering her invisible. After her reconnoiter at the fertilizer plant, she returns via boat down the main river to where she is staying.

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The Maya—a living legend covert operative-for-hire that no one she encounters can remember.

George Kirkegaard—a former newspaper owner forced out of business by state government.

Eugenio Stavros—a shipping magnate on a trip to the mysterious Isle of Use to renegotiate a steel contract.

Amara Barclay—a savvy, independent multi-millionaire entrepreneur and socialite with unparalleled beauty.

Mr. Tic and Mr. Snake—two U.S. government officials running off-the-books dark ops involving The Maya.

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And now...the next installment of The Maya.

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It was shortly after dawn. George Kirkegaard sat under a palm tree watching the waves on a stretch of secluded beach. In spite of the early hour, the air was warm and so was the water. He'd just returned from a rejuvenating swim and was contemplating what to do next. He felt his stomach rumble, signaling breakfast might be in order, but the breeze rushing over him, drying skin and trunks was far too relaxing to move yet. He was closing his eyes to focus on the breeze when he heard a woman's voice call his name.

No one had been within his line of sight a moment ago, but now, less than five feet away, Amara Barclay stood with her hands on her hips and a brilliant smile. How she got there, he didn't know, other than she must have just emerged from the ocean. His mind was immediately diverted to what his eyes saw, rather than trying to solve an impossibility. She wore a zebra print bandeau top and matching bottoms which only accentuated her flares and curves. She was glistening from head to toe, the dripping water contrasting with her tanned flesh.

"Fancy meeting you here," she said, teasingly.

"The water's been calling my name since yesterday," he replied, oddly at ease. He noticed his voice was somewhat deeper than normal and exuded self-confidence. Like her sudden appearance before him, Kirkegaard didn't try to figure out why his tenor and cadence were different. Nor did he analyze his words, since he wasn't much of a swimmer or beach bum. None of that mattered. What he did care about was another opportunity to be with Amara.

"What do you think of the island so far?"

"It's gorgeous," Kirkegaard said. His gaze did not move from her. "How about you?"

Somehow, his focus zoomed onto her full lips and he watched with fascination as she formed the words, slowly, breathy. "It's exceeded all of my wildest expectations."

"I find that hard to believe. You've been all around the world. Surely, there's somewhere as nice as this."

Amara shook her head, sending water spraying in slow motion. "I have been many places, but none compare."

This was the first tropical paradise Kirkegaard had ever been to. He didn't want to admit that to Amara, but in effect, he did. "I'll take your word for it."

She closed the gap, and squatted down beside him. With a finger, she reached out, and began tracing his cheek and nose.

"Does Stavros know you're here?"

Amara nodded. "Uh-huh," Her hand moved to his head where she ruffled and slightly tugged on his hair. If she wondered how he knew her companion's name, she did not show it.

"And he doesn't care?" The caress felt good and Kirkegaard couldn't help but lean into it, closing his eyes.

"Uh-uh," Amara answered. Her lips were now close, and he could feel her breath on his cheek. He started to turn his head, seeking her mouth with his, when another woman's voice cut through.

"Good morning, George. Sleep well?"

It was Marie Layton, standing right where Amara had stood. For some reason, she wore a light blue apron emblazoned with a large red heart over lacy black lingerie. She wasn't as tall or as well-endowed as Amara, but not by much, in any category. As strange as her being there and her outfit were, even stranger was the fact she didn't seem to notice, or care, that Amara was now nibbling on his ear.

"I did, thank you," Kirkegaard replied, not knowing what else to say.

"Good. Are you hungry?"

In her outstretched hands she held a tray filled with food. She bent over, lowering the tray so he could see its contents better. Pancakes with choice of maple or blueberry syrup, fluffy scrambled eggs, long strips of hickory smoked bacon, thick sausage links, pineapple juice and assorted chunks of tropical fruits topped with whipping cream rounded out the selection.

"Thank you," George said. He reached out to take the tray, but instead of handing it to him, Marie walked up and placed it over his lap, the legs just high enough to clear. She then knelt down in front of him, picked up a fork and speared one of the links.

She held out an end, which he bit off and slowly chewed. Her dark blue eyes watched the movement of his mouth and jaws. When he swallowed, she asked, "Did you like it?"

"It's delicious."

She gave him the other end and then picked up a piece of bacon with her fingers. He ate it slowly, too, and was about to lick the grease off of her finger tips, but she withdrew them and licked them herself.

"Good?" she asked.

He nodded. "The best I've ever had."

She smiled and brought up the glass of pineapple juice. He was sipping it when he noticed someone else out of the corner of his eye. He waited until Marie removed the glass to turn his head and felt a chill go through him.

As impossible as it was for Amara to be softly kissing his shoulder and neck while Marie sensuously fed him, what he saw now put him into sensory overload. Somehow, he was able to, or better put, willing to, suspend reality for the first two women, but the presence of a third, one he also knew but had not seen in nearly three years, made him question completely the reality of his situation.

"Paloma?"

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'The Maya' publishes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

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_{Copyright © Glen Anthony Albrethsen, 2014-2018. All rights reserved.}