Hit Man: A Sexy Action-Packed Alpha Adventure Romance

by Michele Mannon

He flashes me his dimples once more. “I’m going to share something with you. I’ve never taken a woman bareback before.”

  My mouth drops open at his admission.

  He thrusts home and I arch my hips up to greet him.

  Of all times, of all impossible situations to find myself in, this takes the prize. For a glorious heartbeat, I allow his words to steal into my consciousness and settle comfortably somewhere in the vicinity of my heart.

  “Aubrey?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Things are about to get nasty,” he warns, stiffening against me.

  “Filthy I can handle, but nasty . . . I don’t think so.”

  His eyebrows arch, and he gives me a puzzled look. “Can you hear them? They’re coming. Just react normally.” He punctuates his words with a subtle roll of his hips that has me gasping.

  I hear the footsteps outside and the door of my bungalow as it slams against an interior wall. The wooden frame vibrates loudly on its hinges.

  Three men come barreling into the bungalow. Two have guns drawn. One has a nasty scar that runs from his chin to his eyebrow, cutting straight across his eyelid.

  Oh God. I react normally. With a muffled shriek, I buck and wiggle and attempt to move Diego off of me. When that doesn’t work, I smack him in the head.

  The trio of men have come to a halt at the foot of my bed. As promised, my nakedness is blocked by Diego’s big body. Yet they’re getting a perfect, up-close-and-personal view of Diego’s bare ass.

  He looks over his shoulder, acting as if he didn’t expect them. Doing what he said he’d do . . . making this whole crazy fiasco seem realistic. “Pendejos. Has venido aquí a buscarme pelea?”

  “English,” the red-haired man orders, waving his gun.

  “Dickheads, you come in here for a beating? Get the fuck out. Pronto.”

  He moves, his erection circling against my walls as his weight bears down on me. A shutter of pleasure runs up my body. He pulls the sheet up over us and, with a quick look of warning, withdraws.

  I bury a moan deep inside my throat.

  Climbing off of me, he springs to his feet beside the bed. Leaving me completely covered and my nakedness hidden from their eyes.

  The redhead looks from Diego to me and then to the broken bed next to us.

  He lowers his gun.

  “Were you on the grounds this morning?” the smallest man demands. He reminds me of the Chihuahua that lives with the older man in the apartment next to Zoey and mine’s. Small with a big attitude.

  “Cabrón, does it look like it to you?”

  “Your hair’s wet,” the Chihuahua points out.

  Diego stares at him for a few seconds and there’s an awkward pause. Until the guy shifts uncomfortably on his heels. “Worked up a goddamn sweat,” Diego continues. “You, Little-Man, wouldn’t know about that.”

  He’s going to get us killed.

  I bite my lip. Humility in the face of danger—isn’t that what you always see on the cop shows? Hands up. Compliant. An easy target. Not this brazen show of machismo.

  I’m frightened, mortified, no . . . horrified, and okay . . . shockingly enough . . . the tiniest bit aroused. Yet despite the inner turmoil, I’m somehow cued into what Diego is all about and how extremely convincing he is in presenting our situation. There’s no question what we’ve been doing. Not with him sporting a full-on erection. Not with the smell of sex in the air. Some things you just can’t fake.

  Still, Little-Man doesn’t seem to be buying it.

  “He’s a handful,” I say, nodding toward the broken bed. “I can’t seem to get enough of him.”

  Yeah, truer words were never spoken.

  All eyes turn on me.

  Including Diego’s shut-the-fuck-up glare.

  I shrug. “Quite a workout.”

  The redhead turns toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  Mission accomplished.

  “I don’t know,” the other man persists.

  “Compadre, if you don’t leave me to it . . .” Diego growls.

  “Come on. There’s another bungalow to check. We won’t find the guy standing here all day.” This comes from the third man, who’s been quietly taking it all in.

  Once more, Little Man casts a suspicious glance at me.

  Mustering my courage, I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re interrupting, Little Man.” My gaze drops to his package.

  He flushes and glances at Diego, his eyes dropping. Yep. Pretty impressive. I would know. Then, taking a few quick steps backward, he follows the other two men, rushing from the bungalow.

  Diego stalks over and slams the door shut. Hard enough that the walls of the bungalow vibrate.

  “Did I not say to keep quiet? Do as I tell you?”

  All signs of the gentleman have left the room with Juan Carlos’s men.

  “You said to trust you and to act natural. How do the women you normally sleep with react to having thugs walk in while we are in flagrante delicto? You make it impossible to like you, let alone trust you.”

  “Yeah. Well, you know what I like. When your mouth is closed and your legs are spread.”

  “You are the most infuriating man I’ve ever met. Get out.”

  “Going.”

  And he is. Squatting down, he retrieves his clothing, stepping into his wet sweatpants, pulling them up, and tying the waistband. He pulls on his soggy sneakers and sits on the corner of the bed while he laces them up. Prime blister material, wet insoles without socks. Good, I’ll be lying here with my mouth closed and my legs spread, hoping he bleeds.

  He doesn’t bother with a shirt. “Go the hell home,” he orders without looking at me when I can’t seem to take my eyes off of him.

  Without a backward glance, he stalks out of my bungalow.

  Leaving me to wonder at the swift change in him, from sweetly asking permission to bossy, demanding alpha.

  Why risk so much to protect me when he clearly dislikes me?

  I inhale and exhale until the pounding of my pulse subsides. Whether he likes me or not is irrelevant; I have a bigger problem to consider. But how exactly am I going to get away from Casa Hella when the power is out?

  CHAPTER NINE

  Diego

  “You were with her all night?”

  I lean toward Mendoza, my forearms folded across the solid oak table we’d been summoned around less than an hour after this morning’s entertainment ended. If I wasn’t so pissed off about Aubrey’s involvement in all this, I’d be amused. Mendoza has a notorious temper. As bratty as a kid having the worst of tantrums. This morning he’s giving full rein to his emotions. Letting them cloud his judgment. And allowing me to do what I’m so damn good at, fuck with his head. “Eso es lo que dije, compadre,” I say.

  Mendoza slams his fist down onto the table. “English!”

  “Dónde estamos Nebraska?” I add, sounding disgruntled when my intent is to push his buttons. You’d think all his business would be conducted in Spanish, whether his associates gathered around him are from the States or not, given that he was born in Mexico City. What gives with everyone insisting I speak English, anyway?

  “Answer my goddamn question!” he shouts, waving his finger at me from the other end of the table.

  “I already did. But you keep repeating the question like my answers are going to change. If you don’t believe me, muchacho, ask one of them.” I nod at the three pendejos who interrupted me mid-thrust in the bungalow. Who unknowingly did me a favor because if my riding bareback in Aubrey’s fist-tight pussy had continued, I most likely wouldn’t be seated here right now. No, I’d still be fucking her six ways to Sunday.

  A first for me, both in the act itself, and in my becoming a victim of my dick.

  Foolish idiot. I won’t be making that mistake again.

  “Well?” Mendoza turns his attention to them.

  “He was fucking her all morning. Sweating like a rutting bull, too.”

  “It doesn’t prove anything,” Little Man ch
imes in. I scowl at him, watching as he opens his trap to continue then immediately snaps it shut after catching my glare. Easily intimidated. Easy to manage in present company. The kind of asshole who’ll likely to do something behind my back when no one’s listening. Reading you loud and clear. You’ll be dealt with soon enough, amigo.

  “What is this all about? I don’t understand why you’re so upset? What did he see?” I’m careful not to use she.

  Soon enough, they’ll come around to my way of thinking.

  Mendoza’s been tight-lipped as far as what’s inside the crates delivered this morning. Seems very few of his men were brought up to date on the shipment’s arrival. The sooner I get this over with and the heat off Aubrey’s back, the sooner I can investigate further.

  Mendoza abruptly pushes his chair back. It topples over from the force, but he ignores it, instead stalking over to the television monitor built into the wall. He hits the receiver button.

  The room hushes as Aubrey and her friend come onto the screen.

  Zoey’s as naked as the day she was born. She thrusts a familiar skimpy red dress at Aubrey.

  “Why do I let you talk me into things like this?” Aubrey sighs, taking the dress and, thank fuck, heading into the camera-free bathroom to dress.

  “Renaldo better keep her happy. Because I wouldn’t mind getting a piece of that,” the redhead from this morning says. Perfect. Let Aubrey’s hot-bodied friend draw the attention away from her.

  But fate decides to screw with me.

  Aubrey reappears wearing the skintight dress that looks like an inner tube, fitting snuggly over her ample breasts and hugging every curve.

  Someone whistles.

  I clench my fist beneath the table as she slides her shoes on. I don’t trust her. I can’t get involved with her. But fuck it if someone makes a comment about that sexy body of hers.

  Luckily, Mendoza fast-forwards the video.

  “Keep going. Unless you want an eyeful of me and my big dick?” I wink at Little Man, who returns it with a look meant to kill. Yeah, but he doesn’t deny it.

  I have the upper hand here. Because I know exactly what happens next. The Academy Award–worthy performance is about to be played out. I’m going to sit back, give them a gander at something else my Scandinavian-Mexican blood gifted me with, eat up their reaction as the thought of me having sex with Aubrey is firmly planted in their heads. This earlier exchange helping feed into this morning’s lie by making it more believable.

  A second collective uproar echoes around the room as I strip for the camera, slowly, taking my time to fold my shirt then my pants and set them on a chair, before turning and offering the fucking Peeping Toms a full-frontal view.

  Cocky bastard.

  “Damn, you’re hung.”

  “You got a third leg between your thighs?”

  “Didn’t know cocks came that big.”

  I don’t react, not wanting to draw their attention from the television screen, where I’ve turned, climbed into Aubrey’s bed, and, placing my arms behind my head, make myself comfortable.

  “Did she invite you or did you just show up?” the redhead asks.

  I shrug my shoulders. “What difference does it make?”

  Next is a very-much-alone Aubrey entering her bungalow. Drunk. Stumbling as she steps inside. Unaware of me, waiting for her.

  I’m conscious of how quiet the room grows and for a second, all I want to do is punch each and every man here in the face, beginning with Mendoza.

  On camera, Aubrey sways back and forth. A smudge of mascara is below one eye. Her hair wild and her lips glossy.

  As beautiful on camera as she was that night.

  I hit my fist on the table, causing every man in the room to jump and turn their attention toward me. Missing how her dress drops to the floor and her kicking it away.

  When they turn back, all they can see is her bare back and tight ass.

  Our intense exchange follows. My charming her while I question her, throwing her off balance at the appropriate times. My snatching the dress out of her hand and tossing it over the camera.

  “Jesus Christ. We can’t see or hear anything,” Mendoza snarls.

  No shit, Sherlock. Another example of how Mendoza’s definitely not up to par with his father when it comes to brain power. The fact he wired each bungalow with a single camera proves what a second-rate thug he is. Daddy’s unwanted bastard desperately trying to earn some respect. Nowhere close to being as dangerous as Fahder, who is ranked number four on the watch list of the world’s most dangerous men.

  If only I’d gotten to the man after the big boom went off. Questioned him before helping him drop down in the ranks on that list from four to zero, null, fini.

  “Goddamn it.” Mendoza fast-forwards before hitting Pause.

  There’s Aubrey in a skimpy white bikini, sitting on the ledge of the north-end pool, her legs dangling in the water.

  My breath hitches for a fraction of a second. My cock hardening within my pants as if in agreement.

  Mierda.

  I noticed this morning how pale she is as she lay against me, seeming even fairer against my biscuit-colored skin.

  I glance down at my hand, flexing it as I think about how my mother used to call my sister Luciana and me her biscuit babies because of our mixed heritage. My mother was a Scandinavian missionary working in Mexicali, a troubled, crime-ravaged hole of a town on the Baja peninsula, when she met my father, a first-generation Mexican, who evidently excelled at getting a woman into the missionary position—Luciana and I being the living proof of this. Though I’m proud of my roots, I often consider what my life—and my sister’s life—would have been like if we were raised in beautiful, basically crime-free Copenhagen instead of one of the worst barrios in Mexico.

  Those hard-core thugs taught me how to be a cutthroat. A natural, too. It’s to be expected, given my Viking-conquistador mixed blood, right? Before Hayden arrived in Mexicali, and redefined the term thug.

  Even as a kid, I’d no choice but to work for him. My sister, Luciana, made it impossible for me to refuse him.

  Years later, I still work for that Bastard, though in an entirely different capacity. He wants answers. And I’ll be damned if I’m not the operative to give them to him.

  “You know what? Renaldo can keep his bitch. Her friend is fucking hot,” one of the pendejos with a death wish says.

  “You’ll have to fight Diego for her. Isn’t that right?” Little-Man says with a sly smile.

  “My man doesn’t waste time. She breathes and he’s up on her. You think you gonna do any better?” One of Mendoza’s men prevents me from answering.

  Yeah. Little-Man’s been making enemies. Something, when the timing is right, I’ll use to my advantage.

  The video switches to the familiar sight of Aubrey kicking a stone across the garden path and tossing a note into the shrubs.

  There’s more off-camera action. That’s when her actions become suspicious. She leaves the red dress on the picture. Why? What comes next, which is not on camera yet, is equally suspicious and that I’m at a loss for understanding, is her hiding her possessions underneath the mattress before setting a clever trap with that suitcase to mess with any unsuspecting visitors. Beneath it she hides money, her personal information, and a credit card. An amateur move if I ever saw one. Her actions don’t fit the puzzle I’m hastily pulling in place.

  I calmly prepare myself for what happens next.

  Aubrey at last night’s party.

  Aubrey leaving the party.

  Me kissing her beneath the little bastard cupid.

  A collective laugh sounds off in the meeting room. Even Mendoza seems amused. “How romantic. You sure he rode her like a stallion all morning or all night? Or was he more of an ass?” he comments, trying to get a rise out of me.

  I stare at him, straight-faced. Giving nothing away.

  Mendoza presses his thumb at the Fast-Forward button like an overeager game-show contestant
. More black screen.

  “No goddamn audio, either.”

  “My guess is it’s probably a loose wire,” I casually remark.

  “Call the installer and tell him I need to speak to him immediately,” Mendoza orders one of the men, who takes off in a hurry from the room.

  But my attention’s drawn to the image paused on the screen.

  My throat clenches tight. It’s a snapshot taken of a hooded shape. You can’t see her face and because of the rain, it’s even hard to make out her slight form—to know whether we’re staring at a female or male snoop.

  Mendoza might suspect Aubrey but he’s got no proof his spy was her.

  And he has no fucking clue I helped her escape capture.

  “My father is going to fucking flip. I can’t have a spy reporting my mistakes to him. Or worse, to the police. I don’t care if you have to strip the rafters off each goddamn bungalow. Find that raincoat.”

  “What did he see that has you so upset?” I ask, playing dumb as a stump.

  Mendoza points his finger at me. “None of your goddamn business. A word of advice, Diego. If you weren’t doing me a favor by bribing those cops, I’d put a bullet in your arrogant head. Mind your own business.” He jumps to his feet and stalks out of the room, shouting at his men as he leaves.

  “Find. That. Fucking. Raincoat.”

  My eyes meet Little-Man’s, and I resist the temptation to smile.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Aubrey

  I’m on my stomach, lying on the tiled floor of my bungalow, working the broom beneath the bed with one hand while I raise the comforter off the floor with the other.

  Everything is packed, except my raincoat, which seems to have grown legs and marched itself out of here because it’s not with the soggy pile of clothing Diego kicked beneath the bed.

  Fighting the urge to panic, I rationalize that even if the thugs did find it after I left, I’d be long gone from this nightmare and easily lost back at my apartment in Mexico City.

  I’ve spent my day tucked away, out of sight and hopefully out of mind. Reliving the events of this morning and contemplating what to do. Arriving at the same conclusion: Call a cab at the first opportunity.