Hit Man: A Sexy Action-Packed Alpha Adventure Romance Page 6

  About time, cabrón.

  I wouldn’t take a woman—or anyone, for that matter—to Acapulco even on its best day. Which was sometime back in the 1950s, before the drug cartels overran the place. Now, the beachside resort is littered with bodies, its warm waters red with blood.

  I study Aubrey’s expression, her friend’s departure clearly pissing her off. What are you up to, chava? You and your friend working for Fahder? Spying on his bastard son, who, according to our intelligence, Daddy believes never gets anything right? There’s a major pissing contest going on within this family’s dynamics. A power play already in motion prior to my assignment. Mendoza is nothing but a whiny pompous businessman with deep pockets, an uncontrollable temper, and a devious heart, who is also an absolute whore for the limelight. He gets off on being famous, which I’m betting drives Daddy nuts. Fame, fortune, and discreet black-market sales of weapons don’t make for good bed partners. I’ve done my best to manipulate the situation and force the two men together. What better way to find out why they’re trading weapons than to set Mendoza off after his homeless father arrives at his estate? And I’ll be in the right place at the right time to overhear exactly what they’re up to.

  As for clever, clever Aubrey . . .

  I nearly broke my goddamn neck after tripping over that suitcase she intentionally set just inside the door. A sly move and a silent fuck-you to uninvited visitors. And that red dress she’d left hanging on the painting . . . as if she knows a camera is hidden inside that goddamn cow painting . . .

  Though hiding her wallet beneath the mattress is an amateur mistake that leaves me extremely curious about why she’s here. Hiding a wallet thick with pesos in such an obvious place beneath the mattress . . . not so smart.

  It doesn’t matter who she’s working for. I can’t have people interrupting meetings, ones in which Mendoza decides to trust me. When I’m just on the brink of connecting with the asshole.

  I’ve worked too damn hard to get to this point to have it all go up into smoke by one smoking hot woman.

  She’s an unanticipated nuisance. A distraction, drawing Mendoza in like a wasp to her flame. Giving the playboy dumb ideas . . . like tonight’s goddamn party. This one smaller and more intimate in nature.

  Less men. More putas . . . whores . . . Mendoza’s words, not mine. Thanks to Aubrey and her “I want a private word with you.”

  Privacy only exists at Casa Bella if you know the angles. Camera angles, that is. How to manage each one, where the shadows fall or out-of-range spots are located, how many feet you have before another one picks you up.

  Or you just cover one over. Kick dirt onto the lens “by accident.” Snap the tree branch it’s hanging from. The red-dress toss, a classic move, if I say so myself. Matter of fact, the reason I broke into the surveillance room is to view what was recorded, though I spent a few selfish seconds appreciating the sweet curve of Aubrey’s ass before fast-forwarding through the footage, with a press of a button deleting anything that might even remotely incriminate me.

  The camera-happy Mendoza has one camera aimed at the beds inside each bungalow.

  Perfect for parties like tonight’s where Big Brother is watching everyone and everything, and probably jerking off as he does so. Nothing like a distrustful pervert to spice up an assignment.

  “Que la chingada.” I shake my head, returning my thoughts back to the note.

  Judging by the condition of your bed, you took to heart my “broaden your horizons” speech. I want all the juicy details when I return, it’d read. The big question is why, in the next line, had her friend lied to her? To keep Aubrey here? Or is she setting her up?

  I believe that man having survived that fall is a positive sign things will finally go your way. You’re detail oriented and clearly, so is Juan Carlos—so maybe you’ll have other things in common and you’ll hit it off! Go get ’em, tiger. See you in a day or two.

  Try three or four.

  And, as for the fool who danced his way onto the jagged, cliffside rocks below, let’s just say he won’t be giving any encores.

  At least the situation worked out to my advantage. This morning’s meeting had been about dealing with the police. How much money would it take to grease their palms and to turn a blind eye.

  I, of course, offered up a corrupt contact within Mexico City law enforcement, who for the right price, would quickly and quietly help Mendoza out of this situation. My contact would deal with the body and keep everything on the low. Can’t have Daddy or, worse, the press upset with the fame whore, now can we? It was the perfect opportunity to solidify my street credibility with Mendoza.

  Up until that point, I was under the impression the man falling to his death had been an accident, until I saw Mendoza’s face as I pitched my solution.

  It was no accident. He had the man killed. Dios, Mendoza has a huge pair of cojones, committing murder while hosting a party for his financial contacts, men I suspect are naive to his true nature. They’re here to enjoy his hospitality, fame, and infamous parties in exchange for being fleeced of their money “for a good cause.” He was in the process of confirming my suspicions and rather animatedly describing the consequences of what happens to those with loose lips when Aubrey interrupted us.

  My eyebrows rise as she hurls the crumpled paper into the bushes.

  How are you going to play this change in circumstances, Aubrey?

  Enough.

  I’m the guy who creates distractions, not one who gets caught up in them. Eating up my time, my energy. Stealing my target’s attention.

  Chava’s gotta go.

  Aubrey

  Zoey bailed on me.

  Juan Carlos is a creep.

  And if these dual dilemmas aren’t worrisome enough, the one person whom I’m the most familiar with at Casa Bella I now want to avoid at all costs.

  Yet, even in the light of day, Diego won’t leave me alone. Because I can’t seem to get those dirty, filthy words he murmured in that deep, sexy voice of his out of my head.

  Te voy a meter toda la pinga.

  Quiero que te vengas.

  A hot chill of awareness rolls up my spine. I can’t possibly be that easily aroused by the hot-bodied man, can I?

  Yes. I undoubtedly am. And you know what I’ve just realized about myself?

  I’m a bit of a perv.

  My lips twitch. Lord help me because despite my dislike for the bold, arrogant man, I loved every second of his dirty mouth, his body, and our fast and furious sex.

  With that said, I’m also not an idiot. I won’t be making the same mistake twice. Diego will be a wild memory, nothing less and nothing more.

  Tonight’s party is all about business. It’s the perfect opportunity to approach Juan Carlos. Surrounded by people, safety in numbers. Alone time with the obnoxious man is out of the question yet it’d be a missed opportunity if I didn’t make one last-ditch effort to secure his financial support. Five minutes is all I need with him and then I can return to my bungalow knowing that tomorrow, I won’t be leaving here empty-handed.

  Zoey’s favorite three-inch red patent-leather Manolo Blahnik pumps dangle from my fingertips as I tread barefoot along the garden path leading to the mansion.

  Revenge wear. My way of paying her back for deserting me.

  Though the truth is I’m hoping the heels will spice up my otherwise conservative black dress. This social event will be awkward enough without Zoey’s company.

  Power pumps for a power play.

  I slip them on when I reach the living-room doors. Entering, I’m greeted by the calming, ambient sound of the river pool accompanied by the murmur of people talking.

  The group assembled is much smaller than last night. No slinging back shots or grinding hips. As I glance around me, I notice how eloquently dressed the men are, in their formal suits, stiff-collared dress shirts, and shiny polished shoes. And ties . . . plenty of power ties. I might not be completely at ease rubbing shoulders in this kind of business-first
party but at least I’m familiar with this type of setting.

  Except for . . . my gaze skims over the women assembled. It’s like every big-busted, long-legged model from Tijuana to Mexico City is in attendance and dressed to kill.

  I glance down at my conservative black dress, fashioned with a boatneck collar, a streamlined cut, and a less-than-risky mid-thigh length. My go-to dress for important meetings.

  Like tonight’s.

  A redheaded woman brushes by me, nailing me in the side with her hip in an aggressively subtle action. “Excuse me,” I mutter, shaking my head as she pretends she just didn’t try to knock me off my heels, ignoring me as she saunters across the room. Her dress is white, made of a peekaboo-lace material that leaves little to the imagination. And it’s short; the slightest lift of a hip and her bottom will be fully exposed.

  Juan Carlos’s words filter across my thoughts.

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

  I frown and casually take in the group assembled, growing uneasy and more and more disgusted as I realize that the business the women are conducting is much different from that of the men.

  I’m a fish out of unfamiliar, foreign waters now. And, to add to my discomfort, Juan Carlos isn’t here. Which means I better make myself comfortable while I wait him out.

  I grab a champagne flute off a passing waiter’s tray and take a long, fortifying sip. As I do so, I spy three men who seem more interested in their deep discussion than the goings-on around them.

  I casually make my way over to the trio, sipping my champagne and lingering just outside the group, biding my time for an appropriate lead into their conversation. Their discussion seems as fun as stripping wallpaper off walls. Prime material for an SNL joke—“an accountant, insurance man, and modern-day butler talk absent host at party.”

  “He asked me to reallocate line thirty-two and distribute the monies to multiple lines elsewhere. Needs to be done quickly, in a few days.” I sip my drink and fight off a mental eye roll as the accountant gripes. Typical employees, with typical disgruntlements. But a safe, predictable group to keep company with.

  The accountant speaks in English. As a matter of fact, none of the men surrounding me are Mexican. Juan Carlos’s business associates are as diverse as they are well-dressed.

  “Same here. I’ve been directed to cash in the homeowner insurance policy. Temporarily. We’ll play with the dates when the money is back in place.”

  “His cashing in on multiple investments can only mean one thing,” says the accountant.

  “He needs fast money.”

  “Exactly.”

  Pause.

  “Do you think Mendoza will be addressing tonight’s crowd?” the insurance man asks.

  “You mean demanding they contribute to the collection baskets that will be passed around like they’re offering a charitable contribution to the church? I’d say so.” Another brief pause, before the accountant adds in a hushed voice, “You know, the money never hits the books.”

  “Be careful, friend, with what you say,” the third man warns in a nasally tone. A modern-day butler? He is holding a tray. He sounds French, or French Canadian. “Or you’ll be the next one to break your neck by falling off a dance floor.”

  Perfect segue. Cue in Aubrey.

  I clear my throat and the three men jump. Alarmed, they turn toward me.

  “If you ask me, a guardrail done in the same bamboo material as the flooring would be a more feasible solution to what has to be an ongoing concern.”

  The butler stares at me. “How much did you hear?”

  Maybe catching them red-handed in gossiping about Juan Carlos wasn’t the best approach in. “Just the last part,” I lie. “Everyone must be thankful tonight’s event is down here in the living room. The only danger here is that someone could possibly slip and slide right into the river pool. Instead of a white porcelain tile floor, they should have installed antislip ceramic. You can easily achieve a uniform, nanostructured surface with an expensive feel using ceramic yet install a safer, more practical flooring option.”

  “Are you an interior designer?” the insurance man asks.

  I shake my head. “I’m an architect. My job is to pay attention to the minute details, to mix esthetics with practicality.”

  “Where did you go to school?” the butler says with a slight hint of condescension in his French-accented tone.

  “Don’t be a difficult ass, Pierre,” the insurance man warns his companion.

  I lift my eyebrows. “Where did you go to school? Somewhere in Canada, correct?”

  “The University of Quebec. And you?”

  I sigh. There always seems to be one-upsmanship going on at affairs like these. This party at Casa Bella is no exception. “Stanford,” I admit. As much as I’d like to take the condescending fool down a peg or two, I’m not one to boast about the full scholarship I received. I’d rather be judged on the quality of my work than by the competitive banter men seem to enjoy. Still, I can tell my answer impresses them. And now that I have their attention and they’re ready to take me seriously . . . “Any advice on how to pitch a financial-investment proposal to Juan Carlos?”

  “Right now might not be the best time—”

  “What kind of proposal?” the insurance man interrupts the accountant.

  I inhale deeply. “Ever hear of an organization called Architects Beyond Borders?”

  They shake their heads, and I frown.

  “I’m familiar with Doctors Without Borders,” the insurance man adds, encouraging me to continue.

  “This nonprofit group depends on architects to offer their time and expertise as part of their pay-to-work program.”

  “Like a paying internship?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So you’re in Mexico to work at a nonprofit?”

  “I relocated to Mexico City so I can implement a sustainable-housing project I spent two years developing. But because ABB is a nonprofit organization, it depends on three sources of income to move projects forward. The first is their pay-to-work fee. The second is government funding, which unfortunately has been reallocated to solving the city’s water crisis. The third is outside benefactors.” I frown, remembering the conversation I had with the head of ABB, and how Maxwell stressed the importance of finding private donors to supplement our project. I bite my lip before adding, “I was hoping Señor Mendoza might help fund this worthy cause. To pitch my request to him and appeal to his philanthropic heart.”

  The accountant nods, his eyes alight. “Sounds like the type of high-profile cause Mendoza likes to get behind.”

  “He has money on hand or will in a week. Your timing is good. You never know with Mendoza.” This is from the insurance man.

  “She doesn’t waste time,” the butler gruffly adds.

  My attention swings his way and I feel my spine stiffen. Am I that transparent? Maybe I need to smooth out my approach, work in a bit of finesse. Sell the idea of donating thousands of dollars toward building sustainable housing for the poor. My asking for money is as foreign a notion to me as asking Howie how long he’s been cheating on me with Frenchie. Totally uncharted territory.

  “I don’t have time to waste,” I sharply reply, which causes the butler to frown.

  “Not you. Her. Diana.” He points and my eyes follow. To the man standing by the sofa, now talking with the redhead in the white dress perched on the arm.

  That devil Diego.

  Damn him. And double damn him for looking . . . like that.

  He fills his suit like it’s cut specifically for him. Cut big. Cut broad. Cut for a man with a body like an NFL quarterback’s. The charcoal-black material pulls tightly across his biceps, same with his thighs. I bet if he were to button it up, it would do the same across his broad chest. The color matches his dark, wavy head of hair. With locks long enough to wind your fingers through . . . as you’re tugging his head down toward yours . . . which is wh
at that woman is doing . . .

  A public show of affection.

  And the party hasn’t officially started.

  Look away or be derailed. But do I take my own advice? Nope. I stare, as he heads in for a kiss. Almost touching her lips until he freezes, turns and looks straight at me.

  Derailed. Run over. Same difference.

  I glare at him. Get a bungalow, stud.

  “I see Diana is wasting little time reacquainting herself with Diego,” I hear the butler say.

  “He doesn’t seem as interested in her this time around,” the butler says.

  This time around? I grind my teeth together, reminding myself that no matter how phenomenal the man is in bed and no matter how much of a sexual magnet he is, there won’t be a next time for us.

  “Stay away from him,” the accountant warns me.

  “An ex-girlfriend?” I ask, and am immediately disgusted by my curiosity.

  Not one, but all three men laugh, causing me to frown. Okay . . . lover. Of course she is. For some reason, my heart sinks a fraction of a centimeter. Just enough for me to be aware of it so I can mentally scold myself for being a fool.

  “Hard to say what she sees in him,” I manage, careful not to let my sarcasm bleed into my tone. The problem is there’s too much of him to see as well as much, much more tucked into his suit pants.

  According to Cosmo, most men have average cocks. In size and in looks. But what’s hidden inside Diego’s pants is a cock you could admire all day. A cock you could have thrusting deep, deep inside you all night . . .

  Stop. Stop thinking about his cock and the naughty things that could happen if you . . . My eyes widen as I catch the twitch of his lips.

  Like he knows I’m perving on him.

  I force my attention away, only to find the curious, knowing eyes of my companions fixed on me.

  “He’s not my type,” I tell them. “He seems like he’s ready to erupt with emotion at any given second.” Passionate. Expressive, even beneath the sheets. Stop it. Stop it right now. “I prefer a more stable kind of guy. Logical. A deep thinker.” I frown, thinking how I just described Howie. I mean, do I really want another Howie?