Hit Man: A Sexy Action-Packed Alpha Adventure Romance Read online

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  This book is dedicated to all the readers excited about Diego’s story . . . here you go! And, dios mio, it’s a hot one!

  PROLOGUE

  Aubrey

  On my very first day of what’s to be a year abroad, Mexico City drew me into her bosom in a boisterous, merciless hug. Trapped in my taxi in the square of Centro Histórico, truncated by traffic, and headed nowhere fast. Though in no way, shape, or form did this resemble a Los Angeles commute, where the blame for its bumper-to-bumper traffic rested solely on the Southern California freeway developers’ blatant lack of foresight. This traffic was like being stuck in a Night of the Living Dead reenactment. My taxi was surrounded by fourteen thousand giddy ghosts, ghouls, and goblins dressed in white socks and red-leather, brass-buttoned jackets. The equivalent of New York City’s entire population dressed up as Michael Jackson and moonwalking through the streets.

  I might be able to explain the different uses of hot glue versus white glue versus rubber cement, but for the life of me, I couldn’t wrap my head around what exactly those people were doing.

  In fact, nothing in the past three months has gone according to plan. The way I like things to be. Orderly. Neat. Underwhelming rather than overdone. It’s the nature of any architect—to be imaginative yet decisive. Saint Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican would never have reached completion if Michelangelo had only had his head in the clouds. Still, I’m learning to be more adaptable—I have no other option.

  Two days after being beset by this city’s quest to break a Guinness World Record in a “Thriller” dance-off—thus the traffic—I was dealing with my own living nightmare. I had saved then invested my entire savings in securing a yearlong interim position on a pay-to-work program with the now-derailed Architects Beyond Borders. Until the government’s urban planners decided on reallocating funding in favor of putting a baby-size Band-Aid on Mexico City’s water crisis. Leaving me without a job and without the ten thousand dollars I paid to ABB. Now my money is tied up in the nonprofit’s finances. I should have seen that first taxi ride for what it was: a sign that my plans would not unfold smoothly. Not unless alternative funding could be found to jump-start our program.

  Which leads me to today, my last day teaching English as a second language at the Linguistic Academy, a private school located inside a posh, gated community that caters to the wealthy elite. In theory, it should have been an opportune position, a way to rub shoulders with parents, then subtly appeal to their philanthropic nature. Except my conversations have been limited to limousine drivers and nannies charged with picking up the little darlings.

  Now school’s closing for summer break; all the children, teachers, chauffeurs, and nannies are gone; and I’m ready to head home to my downtown apartment, empty-handed and heavyhearted. Oh, and without a job or savings to help pay the bills.

  I stare at Little Lord Pain in the Ass, who with one hand is bouncing his basketball—indoors and in careless disregard for school rules—and with the other hand is waving the passport I thought to distract him with around in the air. There has to be another way toward securing funding, one that doesn’t involve my horrendously incompetent talent in working with children.

  My last day, and I’m left in charge of that one kid who never stops moving and always seems to be coming at me from different directions.

  Except at this precise moment, Sylvester’s as still as a statue . . . clutching his basketball . . . staring at the wall . . . which is slowly beginning to crack. . . .

  Plaster from the ceiling crashes onto the floor by my feet. The floor shakes, the entire building seems to tilt to the left, and I’m reminded in the harshest of ways how Mexico City is nothing like I expected. Despite my coming here to build things, everything seems to be quite literally caving in around me.

  “Run!” I shout, pushing him forward toward the door. Figures the kid would freeze up now, fascinated by the walls collapsing around him in the recklessly naive way young children can be—oblivious to the dangers surrounding them.

  I grab my purse, then usher Sylvester outside and toward the small crowd assembled on the sidewalk.

  A woman screams.

  I stop and glance around in confusion, searching my limited Spanish vocabulary for the right word. Cursing my roommate Zoey for gifting me with the ever-so-helpful Spanish-to-English dictionary Filthy, Dirty Street Spanish. A lot of help it’s done me—both in the bedroom, and, need I say it, in dire moments like this.

  “Earthquake?” I ask the screamer.

  “Terremoto?” she replies.

  We’re really getting nowhere fast.

  “No, no. Mira,” a teenage boy says, then points.

  I follow the invisible line his finger makes to the billowing cloud of smoke rising up into the first smog-free sky in ages.

  “Una bomba.”

  “A bomb?” I gasp, uncertain if I interpreted his thick accent correctly.

  “Sí.” He cups his hands together then pulls them apart in an upward, circular cloud motion while enthusiastically making an explosion noise. Like bombs going off a block or two away is an everyday occurrence.

  An explosion? Seriously? I began my day arriving to work late, all thanks to another Guinness World Record traffic jam, this one unbelievably caused by a one-and-a-half-pound enchilada chow-down that blocked pedestrian traffic for miles. Which is why I’ve been designated as the last person to close up school, annoyingly upending my plans for the rest of my day. Plans to make plans, and figure out what my next step will be.

  But, a bomb?

  I run my fingers through my hair, trying to process the unimaginable. The neighborhood is overrun with kitsch mansions uniform in their Corbusian, boxlike structures yet distinguishable by their gated entryways, immense sizes, and elaborate facades. I inhale deeply, coughing when the thick air burns my lungs. The potent smell of gunpowder along with the truth is heavy in the air.

  Anything goes here in Mexico City.

  Sylvester drops his basketball and it bounces into the street.

  And then my heart drops and a cold hand of fear grips me by the throat. Because . . . there . . . Sylvester . . . goes.

  Off and running, a future all-star sprinter in the making, chasing after it.

  Damn it. I should have hung on tighter to him.

  “Volver aquí de inmediato! Sylvester,” I shout. Get back here, a familiar phrase, one I’ve repeated since being assigned to the little rascal. But usually he’s out back in the playground, penned in by a six-foot-high cement wall.

  I catch sight of his dark-haired head as he barrels into the four-lane boulevard. The road’s size is unnecessary given the under abundance of homes in this neighborhood. Normally, a few vehicles pass now and then. But with the commotion a few blocks away . . . “Stop!” I yell, taking off after him. “Sylvester, volver aquí.”

  He halts midway, standing immob
ile on the grassy median lined with trees. Then he shoots me that look. The very one with the devilish catch-me-if-you-can twinkle in his eye.

  “No!”

  Sylvester takes off after the still-mobile ball, and I grit my teeth and race after him.

  Limousine brakes squeal yet I sprint on by, holding my palm out a second too late in a thank-you-for-stopping gesture. I hurdle the median and keep running, gaining ground on the little rascal, while praying the rush of vehicles headed away from the bombing have enough sense to stop for a little boy.

  And you . . . don’t forget you.

  I catch Sylvester by the hood of his sweatshirt, then pull him up into the air and off his moving feet.

  Another screech.

  I feel the cool rubber bumper of a second vehicle against the back of my knees. So close. Oh my God—way too close.

  “Put me up,” Sylvester demands.

  “Down. Put me down,” I correct him as I carry his wiggly body back to the spot where I dropped my purse on the sidewalk in front of the school. “Stop squirming.”

  The woman from before hands me my purse, and I somehow manage to slide the strap handle over my shoulder.

  Yet I never seem to learn my lesson. The slightest distraction and I’m done for. Sylvester kicks back and nails me between my legs. As I gasp in pain, and the lingering smell of gunpowder reminds me of the danger still present. It takes more strength than Iron Man combined with the sticking power of Spider-Man to hang on to him.

  Which is why, in my struggle, I fail to notice the haphazardly dressed woman exiting the old Cadillac still stopped in the middle of the street. But once I do, I can’t look away.

  She’s wearing a rumpled, three-sizes-too-small black button-down dress that’s open from the throat to her belly button. Like she rushed to grab the first item of clothing from the dirty laundry pile and hastily tugged it on. The dress hem rides up, baring the top of her thick calf.

  A thick, hairy calf.

  “Let’s get you back inside, buddy,” I hastily say, wincing as I usher Little Lord Pain in the Ass toward the Linguistic Academy entrance.

  “Okay, buddy,” he repeats, mimicking my less-than-amiable tone. Yeah, his parents are going to thank me for his refined English vocabulary.

  I glance at the bearded woman, who is clearly not a woman at all but a man haphazardly dressed as one, charging toward us. Too late, I realize the time to run has passed. His little black cap, the kind I’ve seen the maids working in the homes around these parts wear, is askew, hanging low over his forehead like a midday sombrero. But this man—and I’m willing to gamble this one heck of a failed attempt at dressing as a female—is anything but laid-back.

  He grabs my arm.

  I push Sylvester’s head into my shoulder, while I struggle to free myself. First explosions, then his beat-up Cadillac comes barreling down the road, nearly running me over . . .

  He’s about a foot taller than me, which isn’t saying much about my five-foot-six stature. Yet the fact that he’s still holding on to my arm combined with his furious scowl speaks volumes. This isn’t a man you mess with. Period.

  Run.

  An impossible thought.

  I lower Sylvester to his feet and push him behind me.

  Mexico City, like all urban centers, has its dangers. Kidnapping for profit is common here, with the kidnappers’ preferred targets being the affluent and the vulnerable.

  I tighten my hold on Sylvester’s arm, much like the stranger has on mine, and brace myself for a fight. This child has been left in my care. My problem.

  The man shifts his hand from my arm to my shoulder. Then he shoves me, causing me to stumble sideways.

  “Échate a un lado,” he orders.

  I’m not prone to losing my temper. Getting emotional over things isn’t my style. When my ex-fiancé, Howie, cheated on me with that French major whose vocabulary was limited to the word oui, did I freak out and dump his belongings onto the front lawn? Okay, maybe that isn’t the right scenario; the liar deserved it. But I’ve dealt with chauvinistic men before. Heck, there’d been a handful of barbarians in my physics classes with certain opinions about “women’s work.” Architectural design not being something a female could handle. Ridiculous, archaic talk.

  But I’ve never been manhandled before.

  I straighten my spine and force myself between the man and little Sylvester.

  “Keep away from him,” I warn the man, too uncharacteristically furious to be afraid.

  “Step aside,” he hisses between clenched teeth, his English perfect. Explosions. The subsequent chaos erupting around us. No way will I allow this opportunist to take advantage of the chaotic situation. His eyes narrow, enough that the groove in his forehead deepens as he angrily stares me down.

  Nope. Not going to budge.

  “Papí,” Sylvester screeches, breaking free of my firm hold, then dodging around my body barricade and lunging for the stranger, wrapping his arms around the man’s leg.

  Papí . . . father.

  “You are not leaving with him without showing me ID,” I insist. Do I think he’s Sylvester’s father? Yeah. There’s a resemblance between them: the cut of their chin, that horrible glimmer in their eyes when trouble is coming. But I can be stubborn and, besides, I’ve reason to be cautious. A Mercedes always picks Sylvester up. Either his chauffeur or his nanny comes to collect him. Today, they’re over an hour late.

  Then, the bomb . . .

  Ignoring me, he takes Sylvester firmly by the arms and thrusts him away. “Deténte, hijo,” he orders. I blink, then double-blink when Sylvester stops squirming and immediately stands as stiff as a little obedient statue.

  I draw in a stubborn breath. “I still need to see ID.”

  “Proof? Bueno.”

  He shifts his dress aside. I swallow back my surprise as I catch the flash of silver tucked into the waistline of his boxers. A gun. Is he threatening me?

  “What kind of person do you think I’d be if I let a stranger steal him away?”

  He reaches inside his dress pocket, retrieving an expensive black leather wallet, which he flips open, flashing his license at me.

  Sylvester Fahder Nortega.

  Papí to Sylvester Fahder del Leon.

  The address on his license is a block or two away. Within walking distance . . . toward the direction of the bomb blast. Yet I’m certain Sylvester travels an extremely long distance, from an entirely different town, to the Academy. . . .

  He tucks his wallet away, then rubs his fingers across his jaw, staring off into the distance for a few tense seconds before cursing beneath his breath. “My beautiful home, gone.”

  “It was your place that exploded?”

  “Yes. Why else would I be dressed like this?” He scowls at me. “I was forced out of my home and had to disguise myself like some weak, helpless pajero. We escaped in that.” He waves a hand toward his car and the second person in his we, the waiting woman in the driver’s seat.

  I can’t help but drag my gaze across the car’s rusty exterior, then back for second disbelieving look at his clothing. Maid’s clothing. Like he left home in a hurry and pulled on the first thing within reach . . .

  “If I wasn’t in the servant quarters and in the outer structures behind the main house, I’d be dead. Whoever did this will pay.”

  “You believe it was intentional? Not some irresponsible person storing guns or other hazardous substances?”

  He doesn’t answer me, instead beckons to Sylvester. “We must hurry.”

  “If there is anything I can do . . .” I bite my tongue. I have a tendency to be extraneously polite whenever I find myself in uncomfortable situations. Though this exchange is far from the socially awkward ones I’ve had, it still qualifies for the most blatantly awkward experience ever.

  “You’ve done enough. His mamá will be pleased by—eh, how do you say—your tenaciousness?”

  “He’s a little boy. With a lot of energy.”

  �
�He would have been hit by the other car if you hadn’t caught him.”

  I nod in agreement then, realizing my faux pas, simply shrug my shoulders.

  “I will make sure his mamá knows what you have done,” he tells me, ushering Sylvester away and toward the waiting limousine.

  It’s unclear how he’ll communicate the events that have unfolded this afternoon without even asking my name. Still, I keep quiet, ready to put this entire day behind me.

  I wait and watch as Sylvester climbs into the backseat. His father is about to do the same when I remember something.

  “Hold on,” I exclaim. “I forgot his frazada. He refuses to sleep without it.” I learned this the hard way when the headmistress forgot to pick up the laundry, including Sylvester’s blankie. There was no quieting his temper tantrum. No blankie, no sleepy.

  The limo driver knows it. His nanny knows it. Hell, half the block is well aware of the fact.

  “He’s too old for this nonsense,” his stubborn father snaps. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, right.

  I bristle at his tone. Have it your way.

  Yet as Señor Nortega climbs into his car, he pauses, turns, and gives me such a stern, unyielding look, I feel myself stepping backward on the sidewalk. “You’re a smart woman but with far too much pride and a lot of goddamn luck. Do you know what would have happened to you if Lester was taken away or if he was hurt in any way?” His eyes feel like daggers matched by the cut of his threat.

  Sirens sound off in the distance. Warning sirens coming a bit too late.

  I shake my head. “I’d never let that happen.”

  “See these beautiful gardens?” He gestures around but I don’t look away. These mansions have little curb appeal to speak of yet I’m too frightened to point this out to him.

  “If Lester was harmed even in the slightest way, you’d disappear off this planet without a trace. You’d be shredded into tiny bits and pieces and become fertilizer for the plants. His mamá would demand it.” He slides into the backseat and slams the door shut and the Cadillac takes off with a screech.