Hit Man: A Sexy Action-Packed Alpha Adventure Romance

by Michele Mannon

  The insurance agent leans into me and nuzzles my ear. “Am I your type?”

  Crap. That devil. This is his fault.

  I shift away from him and do my best to pretend I didn’t hear him. Everyone knows rejection hurts. Everyone also knows it’s bad luck to piss off an accountant. At this point in the evening, I need all the luck I can get so as not to leave here empty-handed.

  “Have you seen the waterfall from the outside?” I ask, waving frantically at the arch in the wall from where the river pool exits. There’s been no talk about netting beneath the surface; some foolish swimmer might get more of a dip in the pool than expected. Another safety hazard. Casa Bella is full of them.

  “There’s a path leading down to the family garden but it’s steep to navigate.”

  The accountant adds, “And it’s off-limits to guests.”

  I frown. Strange, right? Not even minor details like tropical indigenous vegetation and a perfectly manicured lawn the size of a city block is overlooked at Casa Bella. Yet the main feature, the waterfall, is barely accessible?

  “I don’t believe anyone actually swims in that,” the insurance agent comments, air-drawing the river pool’s meandering curves.

  They certainly do. Naked.

  “Amigos.”

  I jump at the interruption, and inhale sharply, breathing in the faint orange-infused scent of him. Like fresh-squeezed orange juice laced with spicy, peppery notes, the kind that tickles your nose. A sharp, sexy, masculine fragrance. A cologne that screams alpha male at breakfast. Alpha male for dessert.

  “Rumor has it Mendoza is breaking out the hundred-year-old brandy,” he tells my companions.

  All three men snap to attention.

  “He’s entertaining friends inside the conference room.”

  “You coming?” the insurance man asks.

  “Yes.” This is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for.

  “No.”

  My eyebrows arch. “Yes,” I hiss.

  “Good luck,” the insurance man says, leaning into me. In a whisper, he adds, “Watch out for this one.” And with a quick pat on my arm, he grabs hold of his two companions and ushers them toward the hallway leading to the conference room.

  I turn to follow them but Diego snatches hold of my arm.

  Awkward. I really don’t want to create a scene. “Release my arm. Only a fool would pass on an opportunity to try one-hundred-year-old brandy.”

  “You believe I’d let you go after I’ve found my way to you.”

  I snort. “Hello. Now you can find your way away from me.”

  “You’ve been watching me all night.”

  “Um . . . no, I haven’t. So happens, I just noticed you.”

  “Chavita, you have. How many times have I left this room?” He cocks his head and folds his arms across his body, clearly loving the challenge I’m presenting.

  “Not nearly enough.”

  “Not once.”

  I roll my eyes. “So what’s your point?” I gaze up at him, then wish I hadn’t.

  He grins at me. A devilishly charming smile that transforms his handsome face into something that causes my throat to hitch. I stare at him . . . and at his dimples. Two perfectly gorgeous dimples framing his sensual, highly kissable mouth.

  Stop. Stop it right now.

  “They’ll have to wait another hundred years for that brandy.”

  “What?” I croak out, distrusting myself and my reaction to him. It’s like every nerve cell has jumped to life, wires crossing and causing every inch of my body into a heightened state of awareness.

  If I close my eyes, I bet I can still feel his tongue gliding across my clit.

  I stare at him, horrified by my thoughts.

  “I lied.” His smile deepens.

  “Lied?” I manage, before the truth of what he’s saying clicks into place in my head. “There’s no brandy in the conference room?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’ve been here with you all night.”

  Seriously? Why would he lie? Unless he wanted to get me alone?

  “Where did your date go?”

  He stares down at me. God, he’s got gorgeous eyes. They’re like swimming in chocolate, rich and creamy and something you can’t get enough of. “She’s in the bathroom. Bumped into my arm and spilled my drink on her dress.”

  I hastily survey the room. No Diana. “How convenient.”

  “It is.”

  God, he’s not even denying it. “What do you want with me?”

  He whistles. Yes, whistles. Low and deep and melodic in tone. The promise of him, the promise of us, has me swallowing hard. “In those sexy heels? Any number of things.”

  “Are you always this subtle?” I ask, trying to keep the nervous excitement out of my voice. No. He’s way out of my league. Far too unpredictable. Far too desirable. Not in the cards. Not part of my plan.

  “I can be anything you want, Aubrey.”

  Oh. Hot damn. My name coming off his lips, the way he rolls the r on the back of his tongue, makes me think of sex. Wild, kinky sex. With that wicked, devilish tongue very much involved.

  “Anything I want, huh. How about gone? Vamonos.”

  “Why are you here at Casa Bella?”

  I glare at him. “I’m not getting into this conversation with you again.”

  “You asking me to skip the idle chat and get back to business?”

  My cheeks flush pink. I know this because suddenly, the room temperature seems to spike and my skin feels warm. Back to business. Kinky, lustful, dirty-between-the-sheets business.

  Stop it. You don’t even like the man.

  “I promise you, we’ll talk again soon.”

  He unfolds his arms and straightens. And as my attention falls behind him, I spy the woman charging across the floor. Diana. With a wet wine spot the size of her big, overly exposed breast marring her dress.

  “Later, alligator,” he tells me, his ridiculous farewell sounding sexy as hell, something in the way he accents the l’s and r’s in alligator.

  With a shake of my head, I leave him to deal with Diana and, with my chin raised high, head off in the opposite direction.

  An uncanny sixth sense for trouble—how did he guess his ex-lover was bearing down on us if his back was turned?

  Nonexistent brandy?

  Alligator?

  That devil is full of surprises.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Aubrey

  Later that evening, my hopes of approaching Juan Carlos end much like the river pool, in a huge drop of inaccessible disappointment.

  “Looks like Mendoza won’t be making an appearance,” a man to my left comments.

  “Entertaining in his suite upstairs,” the man next to him replies.

  The insurance salesman passes me a basket overflowing with money. I stare down at the mixed currency tossed inside, feeling very much like I’m in church and being nudged to place my tithing inside the obligatorily envelope. Seems that I’m not the only one at Casa Bella looking to raise funds. Which is puzzling. Why would a renowned billionaire like Juan Carlos ask his business associates for money?

  “We’ll talk to Señor Mendoza on your behalf, Aubrey.”

  “Thank you,” I reply. However, a nagging idea has taken root inside my mind and I’m beginning to wonder if I really want to do business with Juan Carlos.

  The secretive meeting I interrupted. His keeping money off the books, as the accountant had said. Tonight’s donations. Is Juan Carlos’s dealing in dirty money? And if so, how many people in attendance tonight are willing contributors? In exchange for what? Drugs—though there’s no sign of it anywhere?

  Where is Zoey when I need her?

  I spy Diana across the room, rubbing her hand beneath her companion’s suit jacket like she’s personally analyzing the quality of his cotton-blend shirt. She giggles and flashes her eyelashes at a second man, charming them both in spite of the giant crimson stain across her chest.

  Against my will, I casually
search the room for Diego. He’s gone, though, and no longer part of the party.

  I frown. Disappointed? No way. Relieved, that’s what I’m feeling. He’s not a nine-to-five, by-the-book kind of guy. There’s no containing a man like him. It’d be like trying to tame a big puma. Power and grace. Ready to strike, always calling the shots. Dominating everyone and everything. Dangerous.

  A bit wild.

  A beast in bed.

  I shake my head, fighting off the restlessness I’ve been experiencing since walking away from him earlier. A bit like a leaf in a breeze, floating from one place to another without touching the ground. A foreign, unsettling feeling. I’d pick being a rooted tree to a dancing leaf any day. But truth is, my bungalow—my bed—is the last place I want to be right now.

  The sound of the rushing water catches my attention.

  In school, we’d studied Frank Lloyd Wright’s houses, my favorite being Fallingwater. Beautifully designed, the house is constructed over a natural spring that’s fed into a waterfall. The entire home is meant to showcase the architect’s love of nature. Very Zen and ambient in tone and feel.

  It’s unlikely Casa Bella’s waterfall was designed to the same effect. But I’m curious what materials were used to build a waterfall that tumbles straight out of the side of the house without compromising the integrity of the structure. I already observed the use of wood in the mansion’s foundation. Did the architect use a vapor membrane to avoid rot? Or perhaps a more contemporary kind of waterproofing designed to protect the foundation over time against erosion?

  Why not investigate? Perhaps there’s another viewing point tucked away in the garden? That’s what I would have done if I’d designed such a spectacular feature.

  I slip out of the French doors and into one of the main gardens. This close to the mansion, the night sky is lit up with light.

  Casa Bella has exquisite gardens, I’ll credit Juan Carlos with good taste in that. Styled after Parisian gardens or so Filantrópica had reported.

  The night is warm, the garden quiet except for the sound of the rush of water nearby. I kick off my heels and parade barefoot as I walk along a picturesque path illuminated by multicolored solar lights. Similar pure white lights rest at the bases of the statues I pass. Zeus. Hercules. Athena. I approach Cupid, frozen in motion with his arrow and waiting for the right person to nail in the heart. I hustle by, unscathed, to the fork in the path. If I were headed to bed, I’d continue along the main pathway toward my bungalow. Instead I veer left and follow a small, windy pathway that is just beginning to slope downward, its steepening decent a sign it’ll likely lead me closer to the mansion foundation and to the waterfall.

  A bit of exercise never hurts even this late at night, I think, taking a few steps forward.

  Someone clears his throat.

  With a slight squeal, I jump and turn.

  A large figure is seated on a bench a few feet ahead of me. If he hadn’t cleared his throat I wouldn’t have noticed him because, for some odd reason, the lights surrounding the bench have gone black. All I see are his long legs stretched out in front of him. Crossed at the ankles with his big body reclining backward and arms stretched across the back of the bench. A comfortable, easygoing position, like sitting in a garden at this late hour is as normal as stealing into a stranger’s bedroom and . . .

  I shake my head. No. Not for you.

  If he’s casual and relaxed, I’ll be voting Republican in the next election. Poised is a better word to describe him. Poised like a big puma.

  “Don’t run off,” the devil says.

  “What makes you think I’m running?” Which, of course, was exactly what I was about to do.

  “Or maybe you’ve been down that way before?”

  I put one hand on my hip and clutch my red pumps tighter in the other. “I was about to take a closer look. Yet the insinuation in your tone is hard to miss. I’m not snooping around the place.”

  “Then what are you doing?”

  I stiffen my spine. He’s stopped me to argue? And over something so ridiculous as my strolling through the gardens? It’s not like he knows I’m trying to steal a peek at the waterfall.

  Such an infuriating man.

  “What I’m doing is ending this conversation.” I spin on my heels and stride away, purposely continuing on the path in question, unwilling to allow him to ruin my fun.

  I’m the worst judge of men. And I am beginning to detest the arrogant devil.

  I lengthen my stride. But I’m not quick enough to avoid being swooped off my feet and into his arms.

  “Put me down.”

  “Chava, I’m not a man you want to mess with. Or challenge.” He speaks in a sharp hushed tone. “So let me tell you straight how this is going to play out. You’ll keep quiet while I carry you back up this path. We’re going to hold each other in front of the little hijo de puta with the arrow. I’m going to kiss you. You’re going to kiss me back. We’ll make up after a little bout of cat and mouse. That should be explanation enough.”

  “Explanation. For who?”

  “Dame un beso.”

  “Kiss you?” I hiss. “I don’t even like you.”

  He bounces me in the air, which forces me to throw my arms around his shoulders or fall. “How about I kiss you like I like you and we’ll take things from there?”

  His tone is deep with whiskey and grit. His faint accent sexy as hell. His words full of promise. Innuendo. Confidence. His raw sexuality is overwhelming. Explosive. Irresistible.

  “Put me down,” I demand. Oh. My. God. Warning. Sinking ship. Stop him. Stop it.

  His hands shift to my hips then he lowers me to my feet. With a quick glance at the damn statue, he curses beneath his breath. “Pendejos.”

  I can’t breathe, let alone move. Falling into deer-in-headlight-mode except with the promise of a more pleasurable outcome.

  I’ve seen him strip. I’ve seen him naked. Up close and all over me. But standing before me now in his dark suit, the starched white shirt unbuttoned at his throat, and his red tie stuffed halfway inside his pants pocket, his dark hair falling across his face with him cursing and clearly displeased with me, it’s impossible to do anything except stare at him.

  Unpredictable. Unsettling. Nothing but trouble. Way out of my wheelhouse of men . . . lovers . . .

  Deer-in-headlights, meet disaster.

  His expression changes, less angry, more attentive, and I’m instantly aware of the shift in energy between us. He cocks his head, softening his lips.

  Then he shoots me this look so full of hunger, so sexually charged, I feel like the little hijo de puta did indeed nail me with an arrow to the heart. Once in the heart, another straight between my thighs . . .

  He reaches for me and, in a smooth and purposeful movement, yanks me up onto my tippy-toes and into his hard chest.

  “How about I remind you how much you like me?” he murmurs, his lips a fraction of an inch away from mine. Close enough to smell the brandy on his breath. Close enough to taste. “Showtime,” he adds.

  Okay . . . My eyebrows arch up toward the stars overhead but then his mouth is on mine and I forget everything except him.

  His tongue slips between my lips, warm like baked bread and slick like honey. I give into him, feeling his palms cup my bottom and lifting me into him. My nipples rub against his chest and harden like two stones, creating a delicious friction and deepening my need for more. My tongue answers his, entwining and twirling and mating with him. It’s heady. Intense. Aggressive and hot.

  And . . . over.

  I gasp as he breaks away and releases me. He leans in close and whispers to me. “Slap my face.”

  My head snaps up and I meet his eyes. “Seriously?”

  “Dead.”

  I feel a deep wrinkle form on my forehead.

  “You don’t like me, remember?” he murmurs in a hushed tone. Once more, I get a nagging sensation that there’s a reason why he’s lowered his voice, that despite being in this
garden, our conversation isn’t as private as I’d have hoped it might be.

  “Is there a camera—”

  “Make up your mind, chavita. You’re wasting my time. I’ve got a date with a blond in twenty.”

  I can’t help myself. I stiffen. “You’re joking.”

  “Diana’s waiting.”

  Slap him? I’m six seconds away from grabbing that Cupid statue and whacking him over his man-whore head. Guaranteeing Diana a much longer wait.

  His palm hits my ass. Smack. It’s all the encouragement I need.

  But instead of slapping him, I ball my fist and punch him in the jaw. We’ve had sex. We kissed like animals in heat. We broke a goddamn bed together. And he’s going from my lips to hers?

  My knuckles hurt but it doesn’t stop me from throwing a second punch. Which he brushes away with his hand before I can land it. Quicker than a blink, he grabs hold of me, spins me around, then shoves me forward, forcing me to move back toward the main path.

  I resist, digging my heels into the hard earth. Furious as all hell. Never in my life have I lost my temper like this. Not even when I discovered Frenchie’s G-string beneath Howie’s pillow. And I’ll be damned if he’s going to walk away with the last word. I spin on my heels. He’s halfway in the other direction, almost out of sight. “Hey!” I holler.

  He pauses and turns.

  I treat him to a phrase I picked up from a Spanish book of insults I’d briefly thumbed through. “Que te folle un pez,” I grind out fiercely, still spitting mad.

  His laugh seems to follow me as I hurry away.

  “If there’s any way it’s feasibly possible,” I mutter beneath my breath, “I do hope you get fucked by a fish.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Aubrey

  Rain rattling off the adobe roof tiles jars me awake. I immediately stiffen then relax. I’m wrapped in a sheet, mercifully alone with my twisted dreams and conflicted emotions. Diego in my bed. Him inside me. Him kissing me like he means it, before pulling away with blatant indifference and showing me just how little what transpired between us means.

  I sit up and roll out of bed.

  My experience with him has given me something to take away with me. I’ve been barking up the wrong tree when it comes to men. My boyfriends have been a lot like me minus the pervy tendencies I seem to get off on so much. What I need in a man is this: someone who can be an intellectual by day, a cook in the early evening, and a dirty, filthy-tongued godsend in the bedroom all night long.