Hit Man: A Sexy Action-Packed Alpha Adventure Romance

by Michele Mannon

  The men point.

  I close my eyes. Listening as I hear their footsteps charge across the room. Anticipating the worst.

  “No,” I hear a man cry out.

  I snap my eyes open only to find the men hauling Little-Man to his feet.

  “It wasn’t me. I swear it.”

  The man behind him elbows him in the side. Then, to my incredulous disbelief and utter astonishment, says, “We found it hidden beneath his pillow inside his bungalow.”

  There’s a struggle, Little-Man putting up a fight as they drag him from the room.

  I swallow hard, unable to process what’s happening. The danger I’m in . . . or was in. Who can possibly understand . . . I search out the one person in the room, the one I dislike the most, the nonchalant devil still seated across from me.

  Diego. Who is grinning like the cat who’s eaten the canary.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Diego

  “Dios mío, la expresión de pendejo en la cara.”

  “Diego,” the boss man warns me. We’re on a secured cell line that must have cost Hayden a fortune to set up yet you can’t beat satellite service’s dependability.

  I grin. It feels great to be back on familiar ground. “Fine. The look on that asshole’s face was priceless,” I repeat.

  I’m freshly showered with a towel around my waist, standing in my bungalow bedroom. Just like the woman herself, Diana’s floral perfume still clings to me no matter how hard I scrub my skin. Annoying as hell but . . . necessary. I had to ruin any romantic thoughts Aubrey might have for me. Nip any daydreams about me being some knight in fucked-up armor, unsure if I’d pissed her off enough to think otherwise. Because in the heat of the worst-timed moment ever, like un idiota, I had confided in her, “You’re the first woman I’ve taken bareback.” Even if it is true, even if I felt everything including us. Keeping Aubrey at arm’s length has become my second priority.

  She’s smart, and I let my guard down. Look too closely and she’ll figure out I’m not all I appear to be. I’ll be damned if this sudden desire to play superhero is going to interfere with my assignment.

  “And Mendoza bought into it,” Hayden comments rather than questions. Aside from my sister, Luciana, only Hayden understands exactly how persuasive I can be.

  “Unlike his father, he’s not the sharpest tool in the shed. Little-Man couldn’t have picked a better time to piss me off. He’s the perfect scapegoat, which I plan on taking full advantage of. I’m not close to being done with him yet.”

  “You spent the day covering for some woman when you could have been searching through the contents of those boxes. Why go through all this trouble of protecting her?”

  I wisely keep quiet.

  “You understand her name was not part of the guest list? I’m waiting for the background check I just issued on her and her friend to come in. In the meantime, we need to anticipate the worst, that she might possibly be Fahder’s plant sent to spy on his bastard son.”

  I sigh, wondering the same thing myself.

  “If she gets in your way again, terminate her.”

  I ball the towel up in my fist and hurl it across the room. Hayden’s likely testing the waters, still questioning me by intentionally riling me up. Yet I fall victim to it anyway. “I’ll find out what she’s up to. She might be nobody,” I say protectively.

  “Better keep it that way.”

  I’m a professional. A killer. On the goddamn job. The sooner Aubrey is out of my life, the better for both of us.

  “I’ll bring you in on something. But if you start cursing, I’m disconnecting our call.”

  My eyebrows arch. What the fuck? “Tell me.”

  “Fahder is unpredictable. And something big is going down, I feel it in my bones.”

  I stiffen. I’d begun to think the same thing myself.

  “I don’t have the time or the patience to fuck around. Right now, I’ve got a man in Acapulco tracking him.”

  “Dios mío, the elusive asshole went to Acapulco?” I mutter.

  “Our man was quite amused when Fahder showed up at the warehouse dressed in drag.”

  Our man. Don’t fucking tell me.

  “Who?” But I already know who.

  “McDuff.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Blocking out that image, as well as the thought of how, in the chaos following the explosion, I missed Fahder’s escape.

  “Right now, he’s holed up in a seaside hotel and keeping a close eye on the warehouse. A few of Mendoza’s men even showed up to help. To help and spy on Papí.”

  And goddamn McDuff is working my case. My target. The smug-faced Irish whore.

  “You did us a favor. Capturing and interrogating Fahder too soon would have been a mistake. Something more is going on here than trading weapons. I suspect the answer to that question lies inside those crates.”

  I blink. A mistake. Hayden’s admitting he fucked up? It’s like the world’s stopped rotating. Unimaginable. An event in itself.

  “Whatever Fahder is involved with, it’s both bigger and on a broader scope than we imagined. Or so your counterpart has convinced me.”

  “Your hired hand has been thorough.”

  “He’s not one to waste time.”

  Gritting my teeth, I glare at the phone. What is wrong with this picture, damn it? I’m the man of action in this group. While McDuff is still finishing his pint of Guinness, I’ve usually got things locked and loaded.

  Not this time.

  Fucking shamrock.

  “You don’t think it’s guns in those crates?”

  “We’ve no intelligence, not even on how those crates arrived in Mexico City. They didn’t come through the ports. Fortunately, you’re in a position to investigate the contents while McDuff pursues the weapon issue. And as luck would have it, you’ll never guess which gang Fahder has watching the warehouse?”

  I feel my lips twitch. “Los Lobos.”

  “Masterful, right?”

  For a second, I’m reminded of the teenagers we were. Hayden, the king of the Mexicali underworld, and the vicious, unyielding leader of, you guessed it, Los Lobos. And me, right by his side.

  “Masterful.”

  “You know what to do. We’ll talk in a few days,” my boss tells me, back to business as usual.

  “Claro.” I’ve already grabbed my swim trunks and am pulling them on. I burned one expensive suit too many. I’ve taken my sweet time planning this little trip to the cave, down to even the most minute detail of acquiring black construction paper for the cameras. My waterproof bag is packed with minimal yet essential items. This time around, I’ve a rope so I won’t be free-fall climbing the cliff adjacent to the waterfall. My adrenaline kicks in as I consider the challenge ahead of me. I thrive on a good challenge, love the rush I get from having to think on my feet.

  “Do me a favor?” Hayden asks, in a demanding this-is-an-order-not-a-request-like tone.

  “You got it.”

  “Do this task quietly. No big booms. No drawing attention to us. No going overboard.”

  “Next you’ll be asking me to paint rainbows on Fahder’s doorstep.” Yeah, I’m not going to easily admit I’m in 100-percent agreement on this.

  “Understood?”

  “I’ll be as quiet as a drunken Irish church mouse.”

  Hayden snorts with understanding of who I’m referring to.

  “I’ll try not to blow anything else up,” I grind out.

  “Good. Keep it that way. Things need to remain quiet until more information is learned.”

  Hayden disconnects.

  I sigh, then shrug. Simple is safe. Simple is boring. Yet if it means showing up the Irishman and getting this job done quickly and without a hitch, simple it is.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Aubrey

  “How did you get in here?” I murmur.

  Freshly showered, I pause to adjust my towel more securely around my damp body. Am I really that surprised to find Diego sitting on my
bed? Not really. Still, how did he manage it?

  The furniture I barricaded against the door is exactly where I placed it. Though now the ugly cow picture lies in bits and pieces next to it. A small, shattered camera lies next to that. I frown, briefly wondering where it came from and abruptly fearing the worst.

  A warm trickle of air causes me to look up.

  “You dropped in through the skylight?” I demand, dumbfounded.

  His lips curl up into a lazy smile.

  I roll my eyes. “Happy to see you’ve kept your clothes on.”

  “Are you?” He leans back on the mattress with his legs stretched out in front of him, wearing a pair of worn jeans that hug the muscles in his legs, a clean white T-shirt, and a smug look that reads nothing but trouble.

  Our eyes connect, for a fraction of a second, before his drop.

  “Glad to see you haven’t,” he murmurs.

  I fold my arms across my chest.

  “What do you want?”

  His lips curl up in a naughty smile as he continues his perusal.

  You. I want you.

  “Nothing but answers.”

  “Answers?” I repeat. “Hop in line.”

  Answers or not, tomorrow morning I’m leaving. I managed to collect myself enough after last night’s dinner from hell to check the phone line. To my surprised delight, it was working. A cab will be picking me up at the top of the driveway, just outside Casa Hella’s gated entrance. No need to request the gates be opened and draw unnecessary attention to the fact that I’m leaving.

  “You intentionally set that man up.”

  “Is that a question?” he smoothly replies, then shrugs and flashes me a look similar to the one I’d received after he confessed to spilling his drink on Diana.

  “Why?”

  “Better him than you.”

  “What is Juan Carlos going to do to him?”

  “Don’t know and don’t care to find out. You shouldn’t either.”

  “Did you find out why Juan Carlos is resorting to . . . threats . . . to keep news about the crate a secret?”

  “Not yet.”

  I feel a crease form on my forehead. “Do you or don’t you work for him?”

  “What’s that silly English expression? You say potato, I say po-tah-to?”

  I clench my fingers into a fist. He’s insufferable. “Yes or no?”

  “It appears I do” is his vague response.

  “The next time I see Diana, I’ll ask her about you.” I internally wince. What is wrong with me? Why bring her up now?

  “She’s not one for talking.”

  My mouth drops.

  Diego winks.

  Hard limit. Despite my foolishly bringing her up, he’s hit a hard limit and all I can do is react. I march over to the barricade and begin moving furniture away from the door. I’m on my third piece of furniture when he speaks. “You’re going to lose your towel.”

  I spin on my heels and glare at him. Lamp in one hand and my firm grasp on the towel in the other.

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” he murmurs in a soothing tone that only infuriates me further.

  “Uninvited, aren’t you?”

  “I could be elsewhere, but I’m not.”

  God, how humiliating, if he saying what I think he’s saying. Like I care where he spends his time.

  “Put the lamp down. Come over here and sit next to me. We need to have an honest talk.”

  “Honest? I say potato, you say po-tah-to, right? Give me one good reason why I should trust you.”

  “That man didn’t fall into a net.”

  I stare at him in confusion. “He didn’t?”

  “He hit the rocks below. Whether it was an accident or intentional, I haven’t quite figured out.”

  Despite my skin being warm from the shower, I’m suddenly chilled. “Is he . . . ?”

  “Dead? I’d say so.”

  Oh my God. Of course he’s dead. No one could survive such a fall. But . . . Renaldo said . . .

  “Who do you work for?”

  I blink at his abrupt change of topic. Back to this, again? “I had nothing to do with that man falling. Why keep asking me this?”

  “Tell me the truth this time and I’ll . . . drop it.”

  The truth. It’s almost like he believes I’ve been lying to him. A man who, by all logical indications, is a manipulator, a liar, and a seducer all rolled into one beautiful package. My back automatically stiffens.

  “Leave.”

  “Sit your ass down.”

  We exchange glares, and it becomes uncomfortably clear that although we’ve been as intimate as any two people can be, I really don’t know him. He’s involved with Juan Carlos yet lying to the man. He knows someone died at Casa Bella yet failed to report it to the police. He’s clever and a quick thinker and as daring as can be. Is it drugs? Drugs in that crate? Drug deals going on around me, with money being placed into a basket?

  Is Diego just another low-life drug dealer?

  I can’t trust him. What I can do is answer his questions and send him on his way . . . and soon, I’ll be on my way.

  He’s studying me intently. The playful, charismatic man replaced by a cool, calculated all-business one.

  Fine with me.

  “You said you were here for a staycation.”

  I snort. “Little did I know.”

  “And under the pretense of doing business with Mendoza,” he continues smoothly, before lowering his voice. “You can tell me. Is it Mendoza’s father? Do you . . . and perhaps your absent friend along with her boyfriend . . . report to him?”

  “I was here for financial reasons.”

  His eyes narrow.

  I scowl at him. “The nonprofit business I’m came to Mexico City to work for is underfunded. We can’t build houses without materials.”

  “Convenient.”

  “What’s convenient?” I gasp, growing more and more annoyed by the second.

  “You unofficially working for a company that hasn’t done a thing. Giving you credibility, a cover.”

  “How did that painting get destroyed? You crack it over your head and knock a few marbles loose? My dreams turned into a hellish nightmare. I’m leaving here, empty-handed. My year to do good has turned horribly bad. I’ve resorted to educating rich kids, partying with drug dealers . . .” I hastily close my mouth. Better not share my suspicions about his poor career choice with him.

  He’s frowning at me. His beautiful full lips, too pretty to be on a ruggedly male man like him, are pulled tight. And for several drawn-out minutes, he seems to be struggling internally with something.

  When at last he does break the tense silence, he spits out his words. “A do-gooder.”

  I lift my chin a tad higher. “A humanitarian. Is that such a foreign concept for you to wrap your head around?” An awkward silence. The accusation in his tone, like I’m the one doing something illegal. Like I’m the drug dealer.

  He rolls to a stand and runs his fingers through his hair. Gorgeous hair, the color of black licorice.

  Stop. Stop it. “What else do you want to know so you can be on your way?” I ask sweetly, feeling anything but sweet.

  “You really did come here hoping Mendoza would write you a check,” he states, not asks.

  “This project means a lot to me.”

  He gives me a puzzled look.

  “You don’t believe me,” I flatly say.

  “Mierda. I want to believe you. You said the tile was all wrong in the living room.”

  My eyebrows arch. “You heard that?”

  “I have good hearing. A fucking amazing memory, too.”

  I feel myself blushing. Remembering a lot of things, too. “I’m an architect. I took a year off between school and finding a job in the States to work for the nonprofit Architects Beyond Borders. With a tough world economy, times are rough for nonprofits trying to make a difference in the world.”

  He gazes at me thoughtfully. “An architect.”

&
nbsp; “Not every woman’s home baking bread. Not that there’s anything wrong with that—it’s what my mother did. But, like I said, the economy is tough. Fact is, women are the breadwinners in forty percent of Californian households.”

  He exhales—a long, incredulous breath. “Dios mío. You are a do-gooder. Nothing worse than a do-gooder.”

  “Why say that?”

  “Their idealism puts their families at risk, gets them killed.”

  “You sound like you’re talking from experience.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “What do you have against people trying to make a difference in the world?”

  “Not a single thing. My mother was cut from the same cloth. Which, like you, landed her in a world full of trouble.” He steps closer, then brushes past me and begins moving furniture away from the door. Figures. For once, we’re having a decent conversation and now he’s ready to leave.

  “Where is she now?” I ask, curious about him. It’s hard to imagine a man like him, who oozes sex appeal, as a young kid.

  “Dead.”

  I flinch.

  “So you enjoy building things?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. It’s what an architect does, right? Though for a variety of different reasons. Financial. Prestige. Necessity. Have you ever built a home before?”

  “A cabin in Sedona, Arizona.”

  My mouth drops. “Do you live in the States? I just assumed—”

  “How about I share with you my theory on architecture?” he interrupts. I search his face. Dead serious.

  I roll my eyes. “What’s your theory, then?”

  “Sometimes to build things you first need to blow things up.” He grins, and my breath hitches at the sight of his dimples. How could such a charmingly infuriating man be involved in such ugly business? He turns away from me to shove the large bureau away from the door.

  “Move it back into place after I’m gone.”

  “I’m one step ahead of you.”

  He snorts. Yet he doesn’t immediately leave. With a sigh, he turns back toward me and folds his arms across his chest. “I’m going to help you if you agree to do exactly as I say.”

  I do my best to keep a straight face. Whatever he proposes, so long as it’s morally acceptable and doesn’t involve wild, dirty sex with him, I’m going to agree to. Because no matter what it is, I won’t be around long enough to completely follow through. “Depends on what it is.”