Hit Man: A Sexy Action-Packed Alpha Adventure Romance Page 5

  I planned it perfectly, right down to ensuring a fire was lit in the living room so I could burn my suit. A shame and waste of TORC money yet it’d be too bulky for my pack and added weight once wet. Everything was planned to perfection. Except what I didn’t count on was the company—I was too preoccupied in positioning my black box over the power grid to realize visitors had arrived.

  And the brunette caught me, red-handed. Stripped down to my briefs, bare-chested, and with my thousand-dollar suit clutched in my hands.

  I did what I had to. Seduced her. Fucked her for information. Made my presence known. Except the joke’s on me because she dodged my questions like a professional. And once I was insider her . . . dios mío.

  “I’m here for financial reasons”—how freaking convenient. If she’s an investor in Mendoza’s daddy’s business, I’m Donald fucking Trump. She lied about not understanding Spanish. . . .

  I shake my head.

  Did her lie stop me? Hell no. “I want fast,” she’d snapped. Three words a man like me, someone who loves fucking, frequently and vigorously, takes on like a goddamn battle cry. Yet her aggressive words didn’t match the tight feel of her sweet pussy, her wicked body unable to hide the truth—she’s not as experienced as her behavior suggests. Still, she played me like an amateur who let his dick do his thinking.

  She’s another unnecessary complication. And, for all I know, she could be working for Mendoza or even another private contractor like TORC.

  I shake my head. Whoever she is, she needs to go. I can’t risk someone sticking their nose into my business.

  Or—as I glance down at my semierect dick and scowl—distracting me.

  Do I share news about this added complication with Hayden? Fuck no. What he doesn’t know won’t kill him. And, let me tell you, for every secret I’ve kept from him, he’d be six feet under with weeds springing out from his grave by now.

  As if sensing the stiff middle finger I’m sending his way, Hayden speaks up. “Two men are better for this job. McDuff—”

  “Keep that fucking Irishman out of my business.”

  “You’re too much of a hothead to handle this assignment alone.” I hear the smugness in Hayden’s tone, and although it’s obvious he’s goading me, I rage on anyway.

  “What? Are there not enough assholes in the world to keep that Irish cabrón busy elsewhere? Fahder’s going to show. I don’t need any support—especially from that rotting box of Lucky Charms.”

  “You sound confident. Tell me what makes you so certain Fahder will show?”

  “He’s currently homeless.”

  “Homeless?”

  “Correct.”

  I hear him sigh. “I’m going to bite. You didn’t have patience enough to wait for him at Casa Bella so you set out to stalk him, tracking him to his home, which you planned on infiltrating in the snap of a finger. Clearly you were unsuccessful because you’re back at Casa Bella, patiently hoping he’ll show. Am I understanding the chain of events correctly?”

  “Very patiently,” I add.

  Hayden is quiet. Yet listening. Probably grinding his teeth, trying to anticipate what I’ll say next.

  “His house was run tighter than CIA headquarters. I was forced to flush him out.”

  “Low-key. I said low-fucking . . .”

  Yeah, Hayden knows me well. “The asshole has nowhere else to go—”

  “Goddamn it . . .”

  I grin. “—since I blew up his house.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Aubrey

  What did I do last night?

  Six simple words strewn together to form immense implications. Did I really order a stranger to fuck me faster? I started out last night curious about him. Dressed to flirt and figure out if my initial attraction to him might lead elsewhere. In a few days, after a brief getting-to-know-you period. Instead, we’ve gotten to know each other as intimately as two people can. I rub my temples, wondering if I truly went wild last night. But the damaged bed doesn’t lie.

  It must be the water.

  Lord, I wish it had been the water.

  I have a wicked hangover, worse than the occasional fogginess resulting from one too many glasses of wine. I drank like a fish, danced like a woman possessed by passion, and had dirty, mind-blowing sex like . . . someone I’m not.

  Big regrets. A B.I.G. one, judging by the ache between my thighs.

  I feel my lips curl. Naughty, filthy girl. Who knew wild is what really turns me on?

  I stare at the destruction and at the rumpled sheets I’d kicked aside when I first woke up. As if pushing them away would erase the fact that I had monkey sex with a total stranger.

  Diego. An arrogant, cocky beast of a man. He’d been waiting for me, in my bed, naked.

  Naked.

  Who does this to a woman he doesn’t know?

  Jesus. Seems like something else tumbled toward the rocks below the infinity floor other than that dancer . . . my common sense.

  Water. I need water.

  I amble over to the table on the wall near the bathroom, pour a Dixie cup full of bottled Evian and, with shaky hands, raise it to my mouth and sip.

  “Go home,” the handsome, egotistical ass had said. He might be a killer in bed but the man has no manners along with no shame.

  What’s done is done. Forget him, I tell myself, checking the clock before I quickly shower, dress, and brush my teeth.

  I put on a simple black button-up dress, with squared shoulders and a no-second-glance appeal about it. It’s one of several similar outfits that require little decision-making energy on my part yet convey the message I hope to give off. Something my former male classmates, dressed in their flip-flops, golf shorts, and I DRINK BEER T-shirts—and who’ll likely earn in twelve months a salary for the same job what would take me sixteen—learned about me.

  I’m all business.

  As I slip on my conservative black loafers, I stare at the red dress still hooked over the painting. Perfect, not a silly cow in sight. I leave the dress hanging there, for after I return with a full stomach and with more energy for cleaning up.

  Yeah, I’m going to need it if I’m going to fix that bed.

  I scowl and assess the damage. Nothing a hammer, some nails, and a strong desire to avoid acute embarrassment can’t manage. First, I need to deal with my physical state, and do something to stop the room from spinning.

  It bothers me that the bungalows don’t have locks on the doors. An odd oversight, especially considering the city we’re living in has one of the highest crime rates in the world. With so many poor, who can blame them?

  I hide my purse beneath Zoey’s mattress. There’s money inside, the equivalent of my last two paychecks from The Linguistic Academy. There’s also one credit card for emergencies only. I had a scholarship to Stanford and came out of college debt-free. I’m struggling to keep it that way. Not that our stay here costs us anything, which says a lot about Juan Carlos’s generosity.

  Before I leave, I drag the ridiculously expensive brown leather Pullman rolling bag, a graduation present from my parents, over to rest in front of the door. An uninvited guest will likely break his neck tripping over it. There’s no hiding it so this is the best I can do.

  I pop two Advil, wash them down with water, and head out of the bungalow.

  In daylight, the immaculately groomed lawn we’d crossed last night seems even larger, like a long, rectangular football field without the white yard lines. The mansion looms in the distance on one side and our bungalow is several yards away on the other. Bushes and trees flank the lawn and run parallel to the pathway. I remove my loafers, deciding to cross the lawn barefoot. A brazen, scandalous act for someone like me, who typically does what’s expected. Or . . . used to. And when was the last time I felt grass beneath my feet?

  Live a little more, Aubrey.

  The morning is bright and the sun warm, and as I draw closer to the mansion, I’m feeling better. I bear left toward the path—bearing right will take
me toward the front of the house, toward the gated driveway entryway.

  Once at the edge of the lawn, I stop to slide on my loafers. When I look up, that’s when I see them. Three men in black suits, positioned like silent statues along the path. I keep walking but the closer I move toward the mansion, the more men seem to spread out around the environs.

  Goose bumps pebble up on my skin. It’s not just the sight of them but also their manner that sets me on edge.

  Unfriendly.

  Foreboding.

  I pass one of the biggest men standing guard over the double-door entryway that leads into the living room. He gives me the once-over, up and down. I feel my back pull straight. Do I explain I’m a guest? I mean, do I really need to?

  Instead, I skirt by him. I make a mental note to ask Renaldo about them. Hopefully, I missed Zoey’s knock earlier and they’re both already enjoying the international breakfast that’s likely to be served in the dining room.

  My stomach growls, spurring me on. I knew I was running a risk taking Advil on an empty stomach. I hasten my pace, brushing by another less-than-subtle suited man and hurrying inside a set of French doors. I cross the living room to a long hallway. The dining room is through one of the doors toward the end.

  A waiter with a tray passes by and he’s closely followed by a second man.

  “El Señor Mendoza no estará feliz. Él pidió específicamente para crème fraîche,” I hear one of them say. Señor Mendoza . . . and something about crème fraîche. I stop in my tracks, watching as they disappear into a room I just passed and reclose the door behind them.

  Do I dare?

  I fiddle with the top button on my dress.

  Yes. You’ve dared to do a lot of things outside of your comfort zone. Without giving myself time to overanalyze my actions, I backtrack to the door, knock, and pause, and when an answer to enter doesn’t immediately come, I step inside anyway.

  And as I do so, I’m brought up short.

  Conversation abruptly stops, and every man assembled around a long boardroom-style table turns to look at me.

  Twenty or so men suited are seated.

  No warm welcome or familiar faces from the night before.

  Plenty of frowns.

  A few grins.

  One hell of a mean glare, and coming from the one man I unfortunately know far too well. His ink-black eyebrows are drawn together. His lips tight.

  His body, that’s all you know. Not the man himself.

  I tear my eyes away from the arrogant man, who, after rocking my world, probably thinks I’m stalking him.

  Standing a bit straighter, I address the group. “Sorry for the interruption. I was hoping for a private word with Juan Carlos and never anticipated I’d be interrupting a meeting. . . .” I scan the room for a sympathetic face, yet once more, my eyes connect with Diego’s.

  His glare seems harsher.

  So I do what I must and scowl right back at him. I’m hungover, hungry, and I’ve four years of experience dealing with obnoxious men trying to put me in my place. Though they were never even close to being this intimidating.

  He doesn’t like this. Not the slightest bit. Without breaking eye contact, he folds his forearms across the exquisitely carved tabletop and leans forward, his chin held high. An aggressive, cocky movement. One I don’t appreciate.

  “Gentlemen,” I address the group, yet shake my head at him, a subtle sign to show that I’m not referring to him, “forgive my interruption.” I force my attention off of Diego to search for the real reason I’m here. A man with curly brown hair and a charming smile, seated at the head of the table, gestures to an open chair. So happens Diego is seated immediately to his left and the vacant chair immediately to his left.

  This. Is. Business.

  I step a few feet forward, anxious to draw within earshot of the man with the charming smile. Juan Carlos Mendoza.

  A few men scramble to their feet to pull out my chair. But Diego has now hooked his arm across the back of it. Either he withdraws it so they can follow through on their impeccable manners or . . .

  Our eyes connect.

  His head shakes ever so slightly. No.

  I pause, assessing the meaning behind his subtle gesture. This private meeting.

  The guards surrounding the mansion.

  The two waiters anxiously standing just behind Juan Carlos to the left, one holding a bowl of strawberries and the other a bowl of freshly whipped cream.

  The other men assembled, who seem unsettled by my interruption.

  Now is not the right time for an impromptu introduction. . . .

  “Sit or leave. Make up your goddamn mind,” Juan Carlos barks, all pretense of being a charming host gone in the flash of a smile. “Women are good for two things,” he continues, addressing the men assembled.

  But before he can share what will likely be an unhealthily annoying dose of sexist, macho rhetoric, Diego is on his feet and strutting toward me, his movements lazy, his eyes hard. “Can’t get your fill of me, isn’t that right, chava? How about you head back to bed and wait for me to come to you?” he tells me in a low, seductively arrogant voice as he pulls me toward the door.

  “Bed?” I hiss back, “You egotistical, brazen-beyond-belief—”

  His lips cover mine, cutting me off. He pulls me into him and up onto my toes. Exhibitionist is right. I struggle against him, pressing my lips tightly together.

  Someone whistles.

  I blush.

  A few men laugh.

  Before the sound of glass smashing overshadows them all.

  “I said crème fraîche. This is whipped fucking cream.”

  “Sorry, Señor Mendoza,” a waiter mumbles. “We won’t make this mistake again, señor. My deepest apologies.”

  “And if you forget to lock the goddamn door behind you, there won’t be a next time,” their boss continues, angry and unfiltered and as obnoxious as can be.

  Diego propels me toward the door again, and this time I’m definitely more willing to follow along. Hitting up an elusive billionaire for funding is one thing—hitting up a sexist billionaire with some anger-management problems while hungover is another.

  “How do you find yourself at Casa Bella?” I hear Juan Carlos ask. For a second, I’m too stunned by what just happened to understand his question is directed at me.

  I inhale deeply and find my voice, aware of an odd undercurrent of danger here. “I’m a friend of Renaldo’s.”

  “Ah, Renaldo. He likes the pretty ones.”

  Don’t scowl. Don’t react. Get out of the room. Reassess.

  “Are you here for the entertainment? Maybe to be part of the entertainment, perhaps?”

  A few men chuckle. I stiffen.

  “I came because I have a business proposal for you,” I manage in a calm voice. Desperately trying to salvage what I can from this horrible, unsettling battle. That’s what this feels like, a battle of wills. Juan Carlos’s being the driving force.

  Juan Carlos and . . . him, who is suddenly moving, a whirlwind of motion as he stalks past me.

  “When you’re finished with her and are ready to continue, I’ll be waiting in the media room.” Without another word, Diego leaves.

  “Come back here!” Juan Carlos shouts. Pointing to the place Diego just exited, he orders me from the room. “Go.” Then he shakes a finger at two of his men. “Get him.”

  I’m mortified. Ordered from the room like a child. I spin and make a beeline for the door. My chances with Juan Carlos crushed, beneath my own heel as much as by this unfortunate chain of events. Do I really want to do business with such an asshole?

  Business. That’s all it is. Gain his financial support. Deal with him. Don’t allow your emotions or his brutish behavior to affect the outcome of what you’re aspiring to achieve.

  “Juan Carlos. I apologize for the interruption,” I pause to say, emotionless and with great dignity. I’ll escape, lick my wounded pride, reassess, and decide. Somewhere far away from all the
prying eyes that seem to be fixed on me.

  I pivot on my heels, anxious to leave.

  “Wait,” Juan Carlos’s voice booms.

  I take a fortifying breath and turn.

  “Make an appointment with my business manager if you want a private audience with me.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Diego

  I watch the monitor of one of the surveillance cameras set up by the bungalows at the southeast end of the estate, studying Aubrey as she kicks a stone across the garden path. In her hand, she’s clutching a waded-up note.

  Bad news.

  And lies.

  I should know; I read that note when I turned over her bungalow earlier while she was eating breakfast in the dining room after “mistakenly” barging in on the private meeting in progress between Mendoza’s inner circle of men. It amuses the sadistic bastard to round up his bleary-eyed yes-men at the crack of dawn knowing most of them partied late into the evening. As for me, the newest member to be invited to such a meeting and with today’s being my hard-earned first, I’ve been trained to deal with sleep deprivation.

  Let’s just say my best work is often done at night.

  Clearly surprised by the note, Aubrey kicks another pebble and her lips move. Chances are good she’s cursing her friend who’s left her behind and has taken off for a few days with that shit-for-brains yes-man, Renaldo.

  A romantic trip to the beach, her friend had scribbled.

  A lie. Or code?

  Just as this morning’s meeting was being rudely interrupted, Renaldo and her friend were leaving the estate, headed to Acapulco to assist Fahder’s guards in securing the warehouse of stored weapons. It’s unclear if they’ll be moving them to Casa Bella’s secret cave or shipping them off to another location. But I’m waiting things out. My Latino intuition telling me Fahder is going to show, then all our questions will be answered.