Hit Man: A Sexy Action-Packed Alpha Adventure Romance Page 8

  I’m sigh. It’s time I’m on my way. The bungalows aren’t equipped with phones and cell service here is impossible. Which means I’ll have to venture out into the rain and to the mansion to call a cab.

  Rolling out of bed, I pull on a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers. My hair is a disaster when it rains so I pull it back into a ponytail and secure it into a neat, frizz-proof bun. Fortunately, I’ve brought a light raincoat, which, despite the recent pause in rain, I fold and slide inside my handbag before heading out.

  The dining room is empty. Guests seem to be sleeping in on this dreary, overcast morning. I sip my coffee while a cook prepares my veggie omelet and pull my book out of my backpack: Sustainable Housing for the Poor.

  Disappointment settles in.

  When I was a kid living a middle-class existence in Sacramento, there was one house at the end of the block that everyone knew. Heck, how could you miss it? Its size could be measured by the three neighboring houses combined. Ronald Rolland lived there, a ridiculously wealthy real-estate mogul and investor rumored to own several Las Vegas casinos. I know all this because my best friend in elementary school, Margarita, a bubbly, friendly girl with a contagious grin, lived in the servant’s quarters. Her parents worked for Mr. Rolland’s household. That is until Mr. Rolland became interested in running as an independent-party political candidate and bogus talk about building walls between countries began. And the deportation of my friend’s family became a political example.

  My friend, who never lived anywhere else but in Sacramento, moved to Mexico. Her, worried about her parents finding employment in their home country. Me, afraid of what life there had to offer my sweet, amiable, well-loved, and highly intelligent best friend. Relocating to Mexico was moving to a foreign country for her.

  A few weeks later, the news of her death rocked me to my core. She’d been shot on her way to school. A random victim of violence. A type of violence prevalent in the impoverished neighborhood her family had no choice but to return to.

  Howie never understood why I’m so passionate about my housing plans. Unaware of what true loss feels like. The injustice of it all. How innocent people are affected every day by finger-pointing, name-calling, scapegoating. Wealth versus poverty. Political propaganda undermining regular folk trying to earn a decent living.

  Tucking my book back inside my backpack, I finish my meal before setting off for the living room. A phone sits on a table nestled next to a cluster of chairs. I swallow hard, fighting off an abject sense of failure.

  The lights flicker as I pick up the phone. Seconds later, the power goes out.

  I put my ear against the receiver. It’s dead. The rain pounding down on the rooftop seems to amplify the silence.

  With a sigh, I return the receiver to its base. After making a quick visit to the bathroom, where I take a few seconds to retrieve my raincoat and arrange the hood over my head, tightening the cords to the point where my peripheral vision is severely impaired, I head back out into the pouring rain.

  Looks like I’m stuck here at Casa Bella. I’ll spend the day reading quietly inside my bungalow until the rain lets up and I venture back to the mansion to make my call.

  The sky has darkened and the wind’s kicked up, forcing me to tuck my chin into my neck to escape the onslaught of rain. I follow the same familiar path from last night, once more passing Zeus and Hercules and Athena, the statues seeming less inviting and more sinister now that they’re darkened by rain. The lights that’d so fully illuminated the path last night are as dead as stone. Not solar lighting, after all.

  What kind of fool set up the electrical wiring surrounding Casa Bella? I’m not an electrical engineer. Yet connecting all your wiring to one main circuit breaker without a generator to back it up and without the simplest thing like solar-generated lighting is something you learn to avoid in Engineering 101. Especially this high up on a mountaintop, where the environs are at greater risk to the elements. All this money spent on Parisian statues and waterfalls and they skimp out on the electrical grid? That’s what you get for favoring flash over practicality.

  My foot slips out from beneath me and I scramble to regain balance. When I do, I immediately realize I’ve veered left on the pathway. With the rain and my being so caught up in poor practical planning, I failed to notice the pathway is steadily growing steeper. I’m headed toward the waterfall.

  I pause, listening to the rain amplified by the sound of the waterfall, and look around me. A bed of bright flowers is off to my right. Red hibiscus, like the kind native to Hawaii. I’m farther along the path than I was last night.

  That’s when I hear them.

  Men. Unhappy men.

  It’s hard to understand the exchange of rapid-fire Spanish but easy to work out they’re irritated. Who wouldn’t be, out in this downpour?

  Doors slam. Two truck doors, one after the other.

  Curious about what they’re up to, I slowly work my way along the steep, winding path, the sound of the waterfall now barely audible as the skies open up, drowning out everyone and everything. Is there a driveway of sorts nearby, too? Somewhere the men might have parked?

  I pause, questioning myself. It doesn’t help that for some inexplicable reason, the hairs on my arms are standing at attention.

  I step backward when I see them. About a dozen men slowly moving toward me. Pushing a rectangular-shaped metal cart with a large crate on it.

  Uphill.

  In the rain.

  Cursing with each slip and slide of their unsure footing.

  Strange, right? Couldn’t the delivery be cancelled? And why here? Why not store it within one of the multiple garages on the east side of the house? Or maybe it’s another statue . . . that Juan Carlos is being ridiculous and insisting it be brought deep into the garden?

  I step backward, then farther backward. Willing myself to sink deeper inside my raincoat. With all these unanswered questions, wanting very much to go unnoticed.

  A loud bang echoes across the grounds and I nearly fall to the ground with fright. Lightning? Another car door slamming?

  Or a . . . gunshot?

  I don’t wait to find out. Whatever it is has me running, suddenly and desperately not wanting these men to catch me on the path.

  A light flashes, its glare dancing across the puddle by my feet. Lightning, without the subsequent thunder? Or did a bulb go off in one of the overhead path lights . . . which now seem to be suddenly back on . . . ?

  Someone shouts.

  There’s a commotion behind me. Footsteps far too close for comfort pounding across the pavement.

  Then a pained grunt followed by silence.

  Did they see me?

  Am . . . I in danger?

  I tug my hood, making sure my face is covered. It’s likely no one will know its me unless I’m caught.

  With great effort and determination not to slip and fall, I race up the pathway.

  Don’t get caught.

  Don’t. Get. Caught.

  By the time I reach the red-hibiscus garden, I’m waterlogged and winded and frightened beyond belief. I pause to catch my breath, raising my head. Noticing how the lights are now on in the upstairs suite. Can Juan Carlos see the men from up above? Is he . . . watching?

  A chill runs up my spine.

  I push ahead, rushing up the inclined path toward the Cupid statue.

  Run. RUN! an irrational side of me urges me on.

  I’m about thirty feet away from Cupid when my foot hooks on something hanging low along the ground, catching my ankle and causing me to stumble.

  Pain shoots across my ankle as I flail my arms in an attempt to brace my fall.

  But instead, I’m lifted. High, grabbed by the waist and hoisted into the air.

  Before I can scream, a hand covers my mouth and I’m dragged off the path and into the bushes.

  “Mierda,” a familiar voice hisses, the devil’s hand dropping from my mouth. My body slides against his own until my feet touch the ground
. “Stay still and quiet.”

  I’m too frightened to do anything else.

  Seconds pass, and my breath regulates. I try not to panic about what is happening. About the way he’s hooked his arm around my back, anchoring my chest against his side, holding me steadfast and in place.

  His shirt is soaking wet. He’s wet, soaked to the bone like he’s come from a swim.

  Footsteps sound.

  I swallow hard. Are they following me? Or him?

  Three men abruptly shoot past us, coming from the direction of the mansion. They disappear down the steep pathway.

  “Let’s go.” He grabs my hand and leads me deeper into the vegetation.

  “What’s going on?” I demand, my question coming out in huffed breaths.

  “Chava, drop the innocent act. You’re going to tell me why you were spying on them. But first things first. How fast can you run?”

  “But we’re . . . good, right? They ran passed us.”

  “Mierda,” he murmurs instead of answering me. Tightening his grip on my hand, he drags me along as we race across a large expanse of lawn. We hug the bushes and the line of trees instead of walking mid field. Whatever was inside that crate has placed me in danger.

  We dip in and out of the shrubbery. “Cameras,” he says over his shoulder after the first time.

  Cameras.

  That flash in the puddle . . . was that a camera flash?

  I’m not sure why I never considered this. A billionaire like Juan Carlos probably has to have high-tech security. But why wouldn’t I have noticed the flashing before?

  “Are they connected to the main power grid?” I ask when we dip into the shrubbery and he draws in nearer.

  “Yes.”

  “Whoever installed it is an idiot. No power, no cameras,” I can’t help but say.

  “It’s what you’d expect from a bunch of pendejos. Now shut up and keep close.” He slows our pace on the next dip into the shrubbery before we stop altogether.

  “Shhh.”

  Sticking his head out, he searches left and then right before stepping out onto the main pathway, dragging me along behind him.

  “Keep a fast pace but don’t run.”

  My eyes widen when I spot my bungalow less than a hundred feet away.

  “Head down. Let’s go.” He leads me toward my bungalow. “Is the red dress still on the picture?”

  “What?”

  He turns his head and glares at me. “The red dress. Is it hanging where I tossed it and still over the picture?”

  “It was when I left the bungalow earlier. Chances are high housekeeping never came.”

  “They didn’t.” He stops before the door, just beneath the overhang. “Take off your jacket.”

  “Why did they chase us? What don’t they want us to see?”

  “Not the time for questions,” he snaps, throwing open the door. “You’re a goddamn nuisance. I should have let them catch you,” he continues, shoving me inside. “Move it. We’ll discuss why you were spying on them later.”

  “What in hell’s name is going on?”

  “If you don’t do exactly as I tell you, I’ll do it for you.” True to his word, the devil kicks the door shut, grabs my by the hand, and drags me over beside the one functional bed.

  “Your jacket. Hurry the fuck up, Aubrey.”

  He kicks off his sneakers. Holy shit, is he seriously? . . . Yep . . . He tugs his wet shirt over his head. If I’ve kept count correctly, I’ve seen him naked more times than not.

  A single bead of moisture slowly trails down his muscled chest. Across his hard nipple, down along the cut of his abdomen, making a tempting journey along the fine whisper of hair that dips down inside the material before the bead is soaked up by the elastic waistline of his sweatpants.

  It’s like my thoughts are temporarily stuck in slow motion. That none of this is real. Except for that bead of moisture, except for his familiar presence. I don’t know why this calms me down. Whenever this devil is around, trouble follows.

  With one hand, he holds his pants in place and with the other, he practically rips the raincoat off of me.

  “Are you trying to get us killed?”

  So much for calm. I open my mouth, unsure what to say, but his entire body is practically humming with anger, and something else . . .

  His lips slam into mine, stealing away my surprised gasp. His tongue plunders my mouth. His kiss demands, then demands even more. Urgent. Unbelievably unexpected.

  I resist, for exactly five heartbeats. Until I kiss him in return, the adrenaline and fear, worry and panic, my desperate desire for him even though he’s bad news, all escalates in this kiss.

  I moan.

  He stiffens and pulls away.

  “Why did you do that?” I gasp.

  “You want me, right?”

  I blink as my jacket falls to my feet and he kicks it under the bed.

  His sweatpants follow.

  “Now? What if I say no? To go screw a fish. Or better yet . . .”

  He lunges forward and I wiggle and worm against him as he strips off my shirt and tugs down my shorts.

  “Stop struggling. This has to look realistic or they won’t believe us.”

  I pause, my heart in my throat. “They’re going to come charging in here after us,” I whisper. I’m not sure why I thought we’d be safe once inside. Aren’t most guests inside and out of the rain?

  “They’ll search all the bungalows until they find the person spying on them. Step.”

  I do as he asks and step out of my shorts. Those men are after me. Those men tried to shoot me. Diego may be an ass but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want to kill me. Better the devil you know.

  My hands shake as I try to help him remove my clothes, catching onto his plan—or what I think must be his plan—for the thugs to find us in bed together, but I can’t seem to release the clasp on my bra. Brushing my hands aside, he deftly undoes the hooks, rips my underwear off of me, and sweeps me up into his arms. With another swift kick to the wet garments on the floor, he sends them flying beneath the bed. We tumble down onto the mattress, him on top. His weight bares down on me, pinning me to the mattress.

  “Wrap your legs around my waist,” he orders. The feel of him is familiar but his tone is all wrong.

  I stiffen.

  “Do it. Unless you want me to slide inside of you and really fuck you,” he whispers harshly into my ear.

  I hook one leg around his hip and anchor my ankle on the dip of his ass, embarrassed by how turned on his words make me. Fuck. Now is not the time for sexy thoughts about him sliding inside of me again.

  “Good.”

  He lifts my other thigh and anchors it across his back, holding me in place with an ironlike fist. He’s strong. Capable of hurting me. And I can feel his rigid cock against my belly. . . .

  My eyes widen.

  His lock on my face. “Do you understand what is about to happen?”

  “No.”

  “They saw you on the camera. They’re going to keep searching until they find out who was spying on them.”

  I swallow hard. “What about you? Did they see you?”

  He snorts.

  I frown. “What’s inside that crate that’s so important?”

  “Whatever it is, they don’t want anyone knowing about it.” His eyes narrow on me, searching my face for answers. “Do you want me?”

  I stare into his eyes. So expressive. So direct.

  “Finding us in bed together might not be enough if you can’t push aside the fear and really fake it. So . . . change in plans. It’ll be more convincing if I’m inside you. No time for a condom. And I’m regularly tested. I’m clean.”

  “What?” Whoo. Suddenly this situation is beyond real . . . things moving far too fast to even consider . . .

  “I’ll keep you tucked beneath me so all they’ll see is me. You’ve got to trust me on this. Can I get inside you?” He lifts his hips and the thick tip of him slips in between my crea
se. “Yes or no, Aubrey?”

  “If I say no?”

  “No means no.” He lifts himself up like he’s ready to roll off of me, mumbling, “Fuck. I’ll think of something else.”

  I’ve never been a fan of the unexpected. Surprise parties or Guinness World Record breakers or ten grand invested in what I’m beginning to think is a lost cause. If I could find a way, I’d always know in advance when life’s about to send me a curveball so I can hold my mitt up and pray to God I catch whatever comes spiraling my way. From the first moment I saw Diego, I should have realized there’s no holding up mitts, there’s no predicting curveballs, there’s no advance warning about anything. The opposite, in fact. It’s like standing in a field facing home plate, and then wham, a ball slams into you from behind. Diego, showing up in my bed, kissing me in the garden, driving me mad and bringing out this naughty, daring side of me. He’s as unexpected as it gets. But this falls beyond the realm of the unexpected. This falls under the category of surreal. Is he seriously asking permission to fuck me . . . now . . . ?

  “Mierda. Fine. We’ll go for angry. Maybe a lovers’ spat will work. Slap my face.”

  His rich chocolate-colored eyes flash full of emotion. You’ve got to trust me on this, he said.

  “I’m on the pill. And disease-free.”

  I lose my breath when I catch his flash of dimples but as he slowly slides into me, breathing becomes the last thing on my mind. Every ridge, every male inch of him, stretches me, creating this beautiful, mind-blowing friction.

  “Dios mío,” he grinds out.

  Oh my God is right.

  “You feel me?” he murmurs against my ear. “You keep milking me like that and I’m going to come inside your sweet, tight pussy before I’m completely in. Relax, Aubrey. I need to keep my head on straight.”

  I squeeze tighter, and he grits his teeth. “You feel me? I was relaxed. Now I’m not.”