Something I’m dreading dealing with for obvious reasons.
Men waving guns. Barging into people’s rooms uninvited and unannounced. Chasing me across the grounds. Why? Because I saw them moving a crate? What on earth could be inside it that they don’t want anyone to know about?
This place might look like something out of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous but aside from the events of this morning, there’s something just beneath the surface that alarms me.
Nothing is as it seems.
Even Diego. Where did he even come from earlier? He popped up out of the shrubbery and dragged me across the grounds like he’s spent a lifetime maneuvering and evading. And what kind of man fucks someone to help foster a lie?
It’s absurd.
A staycation, I told him. How about a hell-cation? One that with luck and courage, will shortly be at an end.
I run the broom handle once more beneath the bed but come up empty-handed. No raincoat. I’m on all fours when there’s a knock on the door.
Instantly, I’m on my feet and clutching the broom.
A second knock. A third knock. The door handle doesn’t turn. Whoever is outside could easily enter . . . on a normal day.
“Just a minute.”
With a sigh, I first move the chair out of the way. It takes a bit of effort to slide the heavy bureau far enough so that I can open the door a few inches to peek through.
A man I’ve never seen before is standing there. Despite the awning, he’s holding a huge blue built-for-two umbrella overhead. “Señor Mendoza asks that you come with me to the main house.”
His tone in monotone, giving nothing away.
“Did he say why?” I ask. Calm. Keep calm.
“Yes.”
I draw in a breath, then prompt, “And . . . ?”
“You requested an audience with him. He’s decided to give you what you asked for.”
I blink at the man. An audience. Juan Carlos’s accountant must have arranged it.
“I’ll need a few minutes.” To calm my panic. I don’t want to meet with him. What I want is to get out of here.
“I’ll wait.”
Swallowing hard, I force myself to move. Grabbing the miniature copies of my drawing from my suitcase and neatly tucking them inside my oversize purse. Normal. Acting normal. Calm. Anxious. Panicky.
Dig deep. Pretend it’s what you want.
We head outside and trudge in silence toward the mansion. My escort is all business, which helps. Several times the umbrella inverts, the deluge drenching us as wind sweeps across the mountaintop. We’re almost to the French doors when it does it again, and my companion breaks his silence. “Goddamn it,” he shouts into the wind.
“At least it’s a warm rain,” I holler. Normal. Calm. Like nothing is wrong.
I’m soaked straight down to my underwear as he knocks on the meeting-room door. My hair and clothing are plastered to my body. My loafers ruined.
My now-frazzled escort knocks three times, until the door is opened and we’re ushered inside.
“You’re late,” Juan Carlos says in the way of a greeting.
“Sorry, sir. The rain . . .”
“Leave us.” From his seat at the head of the long table, Juan Carlos waves him off, leaving me alone in the room with him.
“Sit.”
I walk across the space and take a seat to his left side.
“You’ve had an active morning, Miss Hamilton.” It’s not meant to be a joke. His eyes narrow on me, assessing my reaction.
Calm. Don’t give anything away. But the way he narrows his eyes on me makes me nervous enough to laugh.
“Why are you at Casa Bella?”
This question is beginning to get repetitive, yet it is one I can answer honestly. I carefully take out my housing plans and set them on the table. “I have a business proposal for you, one philanthropic in nature. These are affordable-housing plans I designed with the goal to help Mexico City’s poorest residents. But the organization I’m affiliated with is a nonprofit, and desperately in need of financial support to get the project under way.”
I push my plans across the table so he can have a closer look. At this point, I’m committed to making this proposal as realistic as possible. No way do I want anything to do with his dirty money or to establish any kind of future relationship with this horrible man.
“The construction is based off of a socially engaged philosophy,” I continue. “We build housing that addresses general needs with an opportunity for future expansion.”
“There’s half a house here.”
“Exactly. The idea is offering homeowners ownership of their residences. Over time, they can expand their interior living space by easily adding a roof and drywall to the already framed-out outside terraces. Until then, the terraces provide livable outdoor space.”
“And you believe these . . . how do you say . . . lowlifes care about expansion? Expanding their wallets by begging and thievery.” He pushes my plans across the table toward me. “A big waste of time.”
I stiffen at his words. “They’re poor, not lowlifes. Victims of circumstance.”
He snorts. “And who are you? Mother Teresa?”
I sit up straighter in my seat. “I’m someone who cares about humanity. These designs have been the outcome of two years of work. All because I think it’s a disgrace that anyone can sit back and do nothing while the less fortunate struggle with basic needs. I’m in a position to do something about it.”
“I’ll tell you what. You explain to me exactly where you were this morning, and I’ll fund your goddamn project.”
Where I was . . . Juan Carlos doesn’t give a rat’s ass about investing in a good cause. Lowlifes. It’s become crystal clear why he funds philanthropic projects at all. Fame. Attention. A way to self-stroke that big ego of his.
“Well?”
I stare him straight in the eyes. Annoyed and anxious and unflinching. Because with a man like him, any sign of weakness will be my downfall. “ I was in bed.”
“Sleeping?”
His eyes drop to my chest, giving me the once-over.
I lift up my chin. “No. I had company.” As hard as I try to fight it, I can’t control the blush that spreads across my skin. He was inside me. As intimate as two people can get when we were interrupted. How else am I suppose to react other than to be embarrassed?
Was that something else Diego was hoping to achieve? My honest mortification in exchange for fostering a lie?
Juan Carlos seems pleased. “Quite a lover, our Diego. Spending a morning screwing you . . . perhaps even overnight after seducing you in the garden?”
I scowl. It’s disturbing how he knows all this. Like he enjoys stalking his guest.
“Want to know where he is right now?”
“Not particularly,” I manage, needing this conversation to end so I can hurry off to call a cab.
“In Diana’s bed.”
I gasp.
“He likes the ladies, our Diego.”
I struggle not to give in to my anger. Juan Carlos is telling me this to unsettle me. Don’t react. Don’t think how that lying, manipulative devil used me. Kissed me silly. Had sex with me this morning—kind of. And now he’s hopped on over to Diana’s bed.
“Thank you for your time. Is there a phone I can use?”
“In the hallway.”
I stand.
“Sit,” he snaps.
I swallow hard and do as he demands.
He clicks on the television on the wall and points at the screen. “Is this you?”
My eyes follow his finger.
Oh, heaven help me. There I am, in my deep-blue raincoat. Face hidden, body distorted by the rain. What do I do? What do I say?
“No.”
“That’s not you?”
“No. It’s too stormy of a morning to enjoy your magnificent gardens.”
“Look at me when you speak. Is that your raincoat?”
I look straight at him. “No.�
�� An easy lie. Because, technically, it’s no longer mine. Heck, it could be anyone’s right now.
He sits and stares.
I hold my chin up high, not giving him an inch.
“We’ll soon find out, won’t we?”
I shrug, nonchalantly, my pulse quickening like I’ve entered the second mile of a short race. “You have cameras all over the grounds?” Up until this point, I never fathomed how many cameras there were. How else does he know about Diego kissing me in the garden?
Juan Carlos sits back in his seat. “This is Mexico City.”
I stand. “Thank you for having me at Casa Bella. But all good things must come to pass so perhaps it’s best if I’m on my way home. I’ll call a cab to pick me up so—”
“Impossible. The phones are out.” He says it like he’s not at all disturbed by the fact, as if whatever business he’s involved in—and those crates and the subsequent explosion of action at my seeing them are cause for suspicion—must wait. “Should I send my man to escort you to tonight’s formal dinner?”
“I’m not much for social dinners.”
He narrows his eyes on me. “I insist.”
I suddenly feel nauseous. “An escort isn’t necessary. What time?”
“Eight PM sharp. You can go now.” He waves me off, just like he’d done to my escort.
I head back out into the rain. This time with no raincoat, no umbrella, and no hope of leaving here anytime soon.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Aubrey
By nine o’clock, I’m desperately searching for the best excuse to leave this hellish dinner and check on the phone line.
Juan Carlos is holding court like a king, and is at the head of the long rectangular table in the exquisitely decorated formal dining room, basking in his power and the attention of his men. Little-Man is seated halfway down the table, his beady eyes fixed on me. The accountant and the insurance man, each seated on either side of me, are debating the merits of Obamacare—though neither man is American. And I halfheartedly attempt to listen while wondering where all the guests from last night have disappeared to and ignoring Diego, who is conveniently seated across from me, nonchalantly soaking everything in. That is, while Diana, seated next to him in a far-too translucent dress, is doing her damnedest to take him all in. Her hands are all over him like she’s recording every muscle, every taut plane to memory. And I’m pretty certain she’s groping him beneath the table.
Diego’s eyes meet mine, briefly.
I turn away and toward the insurance man. “Rates will continue to rise,” I interrupt his conversation. Feeling Diego watching me.
“I’m in total agreement. Universal health care is costing . . .”
How dare he, right? My thoughts drift. The no-good, bed-hopping drug dealer.
This afternoon I’ve had time to pull the pieces together. What’s inside the crate must be drugs. Which paid for this lavish dinner of quail in a rich butter sauce, escargot over linguini, and potatoes au gratin. Even the baked artichoke hearts are restaurant-worthy perfection—though this is the only dish I could bring myself to eat. It’s hard to explore new cuisine when the man you’ve had sex with twice is being fluffed like a male porn star being prepared for action.
And chances are, despite him helping me, Diego is in neck deep with Juan Carlos’s men. Is he a drug dealer, too?
I hope I never find out. Ever so casually, I glance at the clock on the far wall. Nine-ten. Time to get the courage to excuse myself.
Yet . . . I’m not the only person watching the clock. Juan Carlos’s attention seems to be fixed on it.
“Are the rest of the guests coming for dessert?” I interrupt the debate still in progress.
“Everyone’s gone. Several stretch limousines arrived before dawn to drive them back to Mexico City,” the accountant tells me. “Pierre was extremely annoyed to be leaving at four in the morning.”
I frown. “Why wasn’t I informed?”
The insurance man takes a moment to think. “Was your name on the guest list?”
Oh no. Probably not, given how Zoey and I were technically Renaldo’s guests.
“I really had so much to do,” I murmur.
“No one will be coming or going until tomorrow,” the accountant adds. “Not with this downpour and the roads being flooded.”
“What?”
“Were you hoping to leave us?”
I bite my lip. Hell, yes. “And I was hoping my friend would be returning along with her boyfriend.”
But both men nod with understanding.
What a disaster. Another night?
Tomorrow morning, bright and early, I’ll try calling a cab again. Until then, all I want is to retreat to my bungalow.
But being the first to leave this delightful dinner will shine too much attention my way when all I want is to fade into the background. Hands clenched in my napkin, I tune out my dinner companions and wait for some indication the meal is over, wait for someone to leave the table first, signaling it’s safe for me to run and hide.
And that signal ends up being Diana.
Diana, who has been devouring Diego with her eyes all during dinner. Definitely not that I’ve been looking, or acknowledging him. Diana’s dessert. Tasty, like crème brûlée except the kind that keeps on burning and frazzling my thoughts.
Her hips swing in pure seduction as she walks to the door, completely aware of the male eyes that follow her.
Two men step in front of it and shake their heads.
What?
“No one leaves without Señor Mendoza’s permission. Go sit down, sweetheart.”
I take several calming breaths, only vaguely aware of the other woman’s exaggerated pout and retreat to her seat, while subtly zeroing in on the other diners. Because I’m suddenly very conscious of the fact that, except for Diana, I’m surrounded by men.
A big, beefy man talking to a slightly smaller man.
A bigger, beefier man is slamming back pints like he’s on an Irish pub crawl.
Little-Man scowling fiercely at me.
I nod at him, hiding my rising fear. The way he’s been watching me all night, like he’s waiting for me to mess up, waiting for me to whip my raincoat out and confess that I’m the snoop, rattles me more now than ever.
The accountant and insurance man begin a debate over the cumulative interest rate being charged by the World Bank. Based on the earlier conversation I overheard, they are just as suspicious of him as I am. There’s a weird vibe in the air. Like everyone’s on edge.
“If the roads are closed due to flooding, what do you think everyone seems to be waiting for?” I interrupt them.
“A tax write-off?”
“Investment sense?”
Both men burst into laughter. Clueless to the evilness that seems to have settled into place within the room.
“Since your return, you’ve been holding out on me,” I hear Diana say. “Will you be giving me some of this tonight?” she begs, loudly, drawing several knowing glances.
Some of this. I’m pretty sure her hands are still on exactly the same place as before.
Ignoring her, I reach for the vegetable prongs and help myself to some celery sticks, which I place on the empty plate before me. With a spoon, I drizzle dip on top of them.
Focus. On. The. Celery.
Not . . . him.
I raise a lathered stick, and my eyes lift as well.
To find Diego staring at me, hard. A fierce scowl on his face. Displeased? Disliking my sitting here?
Join the club, you ass.
Holding his gaze, I snap the celery stick in two with my teeth. Hope your cock shrivels to the size of a rolled-up washcloth.
His lips twitch, slightly.
But before I can take another bite, someone pounds on the door, knocking loudly three times.
Then four men hurry inside.
“Boss, we found it.”
They’re carrying something in a dark plastic bag. Whatever it was Juan Carlos wa
s expecting.
Everyone seems to come to their feet in unison, trying to catch a glimpse of what’s inside the bag.
It’s not dessert.
Too small to be a body. I shudder, knowing the thought isn’t totally irrational. The tension in the room is thick enough to slice a cake knife through it.
“What is it?” asks the accountant.
“Don’t know,” replies the insurance man.
“Bring it over here,” snaps Juan Carlos. But instead of looking at his men as he speaks, his eyes are shooting daggers at . . . me. With a look that says you’re gonna get it now that sends chills up my spine.
Whatever semblance of calm there was prior to their arrival vanishes. Replaced by a tangible tension that settles over everyone.
Even my two dinner mates grow quiet, both men fidgeting nervously beside me.
Yet Juan Carlos looked straight at me. My throat hitches. What the hell is going on?
My eyes skim the room for answers. Everyone’s attention is riveted on that bag. Except Little-Man, who continues his obnoxious perusal of me.
And . . . as I swing my head toward the man across from me . . . Diego.
Matter of fact, the devil is sitting with his legs stretched out before him with his arms folded across his chest, without a care in the world.
As if he understands exactly what’s about to happen.
As if whatever happens isn’t going to faze him in the slightest.
“Let’s see if it’s a match,” Juan Carlos shouts, then turns the bag upside down and shakes it over the dining-room table.
Out tumbles my raincoat.
Juan Carlos snatches it and holds it up for inspection.
My world begins to spin. Oh no. This can’t be good. Blocked from leaving . . . now my raincoat. Was this entire dinner about this?
Confirmation . . . of who was wearing it?
Who the snoop is?
I feel like spitting the chewed celery back onto my plate.
I should have found a way home. Off this twisted mountain of horrors. Where things are unfolding around me that I don’t understand. Where suddenly, the danger of the situation is swaying right in my face—my blue raincoat proof I’m in deep trouble.
“It’s a match. Where?” His words are like an invisible fist making its way across the table and grabbing hold of me by the throat. I can’t speak. I can’t breathe. I’ve never been so alone, so scared, in my life.
Hit Man: A Sexy Action-Packed Alpha Adventure Romance Page 10