Hit Man: A Sexy Action-Packed Alpha Adventure Romance

by Michele Mannon

  “I’m an architect and I can tell you quite honestly the lines of this house are beautifully done. Exquisite, in fact.”

  “You’re intelligent and perceptive. I like that.”

  I frown. Do I share my troubles with her? I quickly weigh the pros and cons. “Señora, can I ask for your advice?”

  She claps her hands together and nods.

  “If someone misled you into believing you were hired for a job, a pay-to-work position much like an internship except with your life savings involved—”

  She holds up her hand. “Don’t tell me. He robbed you blind.”

  I blink. She’s quickly guessed what I was about to say. And her English is impeccable.

  “What would I do? I’d kill him.”

  I choke on my tea before swallowing it back. A woman with a sense of humor.

  “You’d like to create homes like mine?”

  “I love your hacienda. But my goal is to help the poor by offering affordable housing. Perhaps with a less-expensive, stained-glass window like yours. Everyone should have something beautiful to come home to.”

  “An idealist?”

  “Yes, you could say that.”

  “Me, too.”

  I smile. “How so?”

  “The world is ruled by men who do nothing but run numbers. Who has the biggest army, the best weapons. Who can outcompete whom. Who is the best liar. Women don’t get the same respect.”

  I nod in agreement.

  “Ever wonder what your life would be like if this all changed?”

  “I voted for Hillary,” I say, flippantly. There’s a harshness in her tone that’s unsettling.

  “I like you, Aubrey. For helping my baby. And as I’ve just discovered, we have something in common.”

  I smooth out the wrinkles on my skirt. Self-conscious of how I look, like someone who’s spent far too much time driving about Mexico. Especially compared to the classy señora. “We do?”

  “Sí. We’ve both been cheated out of money by some dirty, disloyal man with a misguided sense of machismo, who undervalues the abilities of a good woman. What happens to men who think with their dicks?”

  I’m so shocked I don’t know whether to laugh or draw back in fear. Her aggressive manner is so contrary to proper, polite teatime etiquette—or what I imagine it’d be.

  “My ex thought with his dick,” I offer with a weak smile. “What happens, Señora?”

  She sips her tea, then sets the empty cup down on the tray.

  “They end up as manure.”

  She stands and pats me on the shoulder. “Once again, I thank you for taking care of Sylvester. I am in your debt. You’ll stay the night. A car can pick you up in the morning and return you to the airport. And I have your passport. As you know, there is no customs office at the airport, so you won’t be going anywhere without it.”

  Isn’t that the truth? I think yet I politely reply, “If it’s not too much of a burden. Thank you.”

  “I have packing to attend to so we’ll have an early dinner. Will you stay and have tea with my son? He’s so looking forward to it. Afterward, someone will show you upstairs to the Blue Room. I encourage you to explore the grounds . . . except the shed. I kindly suggest you stay away from it while my staff attends to a dead animal that’s passed away. Too many beautiful things to see instead of that ugliness.”

  I wrinkle my nose. No shed, it is. “Thank you, Señora, for the invitation to explore and spend the evening. I’ll be leaving Mexico with pleasant memories.”

  Mixed with a little heartbreak.

  I sigh as she steps toward the door. “Aubrey?”

  “Yes, Señora?”

  “I’m in the mood for a fresh salad with dinner. If you care to, would you mind picking a few tomatoes from my garden? You’ll never taste a sweeter fruit.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Diego

  Aubrey moves about the grounds, mindless of how I’m tracking her.

  Unaware of the danger she’s in.

  I itch to snatch her by the waistline and drag her into the bushes. Escort her back to my apartment, lock her inside, and toss away the key.

  But to do so would jeopardize everything. I’m so close to ending this assignment, giving Hayden critical information to move forward with. Fahder might be dead, yet a bigger threat exists. Someone who’s been operating beneath the radar: Señora Killjoy.

  I patiently bide my time. Even after Aubrey disappears inside the hacienda. To when I’m certain dinner is being served, and an opportune time to investigate the office.

  I enter through the upstairs window. Pass silently through the Blue Room and into the hallway. Positioning myself at the top of the spiral stairwell, which is going to be the most critical part to navigate undetected.

  Halfway down, I’m able to see straight into the dining room.

  My attention immediately falls on Aubrey. Laughing and rolling her eyes at something the little boy to her left has done. Safe. Clueless as to how Señora del Leon studies her, like a tigress watching over her cub. One. Wrong. Move.

  The little boy’s nanny sits across from Aubrey. I pause and narrow my eyes on her. She’s a bit more subtle in her actions yet she also is focused on the unsuspecting woman facing her. I take a mental snapshot of her; chestnut-brown hair, pale skin, mousy, almost unassuming with her looks. Intelligent. Her gaze lifts my way, and I hastily pull back.

  Observant.

  Señora keeps the conversation light. No religion. No politics. No shooting men in cold blood.

  I’m forced to wait, and wait. Ready for any opportunity to finish my descent.

  My stomach rumbles in protest as their main course is finished. I pray there is coffee. Or dessert. Time.

  Three plates of salad are brought out.

  Dios mío.

  Señora digs in with great relish. But before Aubrey can get a bite in, the boy next to her jerks the tablecloth and the plate goes crashing to the floor.

  I don’t wait around to see what happens next. I’m down the stairs and hallway, and into the office in no time. With the door half-closed, I begin my search.

  As with the bureau, the desk is neatly organized. Sitting in the leather seat, I open the file drawer. And grin. Neat. Organized. Labeled.

  The following catch my attention: Household. Investments. Linguistic Academy. Travel. Warehouse.

  I arch an eyebrow and begin with the latter.

  A bill for six months’ storage in a warehouse in Acapulco stands out. Not because of what it’s for or the location. No, it’s the red marks someone has scribbled over it. X’s and numbers that are significantly higher than the amount listed. Calculations. Quantity per cost. Whoever wrote them—most likely Señora—did so with an angry hand as red inkblots bleed through the paper. I stuff the paper inside my pocket and move on to Travel.

  Perfecto. I immediately find a faxed itinerary for two. Looks like someone is going on safari in Kenya. Meeting with her uranium supplier, by chance? Most people believe Iran is a hotbed for off-the-grid facilities converting raw uranium into enriched, bomb-ready uranium. However, Africa, in general, is a huge producer of uranium with mines in most countries. With government eyes cast toward the Middle East, could there be a facility for enriching uranium no one knows about hidden there? I tuck her itinerary inside my pocket as well. A simple call to Hayden and one of us will be headed on safari. Though, if I have it my way, the only wild animal Señora is going to see is me.

  Interesting enough, there’s nothing on Cork.

  I hear a noise and freeze.

  Whoever walked by has passed. I press on. Looking for that lucky charm. Ireland. Where are you?

  Under Investments, I find everything under the sun. An invoice for weapons from Marseille. Notes about several prominent government officials. Huge amounts of money being deposited into banks across the globe. Switzerland, especially.

  Dirty money.

  I fold up several more sheets to take with me. Knowing I have to hurr
y. Yet knowing there’s got to be more. Señora might be organized but she’s far from ignorant. Whatever is here isn’t important.

  So . . . where?

  I stand and inventory the room. A stone statue in the corner. Two comfortable chairs by a fireplace. No window—which is why I tempted fate by using the one and only door leading into this room.

  Nothing. Nada. Zip.

  Even the goddamn cows on the painting on the wall seem to be shaking their heads . . . wait . . . like mother, like son . . . ?

  I stalk over to the painting, remove it from the wall, and flip it over. No cameras this time—not that I expected there to be. No, this painting has a false back.

  I twist the small latch and open it up. I feel like whistling at the sight of the thick folder inside. Quickly, I take it and tuck it into my pants. Then, just as quickly, I place the picture back into position.

  With small steps, I creep down the hallway until I can see into the dining room.

  “Sylvester, finish your pudding. You’ll be leaving as soon as the car arrives. Remember, be on your best behavior or I won’t be taking you anywhere.”

  “But, Mommy, I want to see the big cats.”

  “You will,” says his nanny. “Mommy has business to attend to. We’ll meet up with her on Saturday for our trip.”

  I shake my head. Itinerary for two? I wonder if the nanny realizes that the only trip she’s going to be taking is to Señora’s garden.

  Sylvester swipes his arm across the table and sends plates, glasses, silverware, the works, crashing to the floor. “I want to stay with Mommy.”

  I hear Aubrey’s gasp as I seize the opportunity to find my way upstairs.

  Once inside the Blue Room, I close the door and, making my way over to the walk-in closet, step inside, turn on the light, and close the door behind me.

  I pull out the file and open it up. It’s there. The uranium invoice from South Africa from Lanther Enterprises. A million-dollar purchase. Hayden will be pleased that I’ve found the source. Included in the file is detailed correspondence between Señora del Leon and one Henry O’Brian. Financial partners, you bet. Looks like Henry will be taking over the uranium shipment once it leaves Mexico.

  I’ve hit the mother lode, all right.

  Job over. Fahder’s dead. Señora’s unknowingly offered up her contacts. O’Brian will most likely be meeting McDuff.

  I can leave Mexico. Return to the little house I own in Sedona, Arizona. Take a breather. Kick back and watch the sun fall over the red-rock mountains.

  Aubrey will love it.

  Aubrey.

  I dial Hayden.

  “Report.”

  “You might want to relax the knot in your man-bun before hearing my news.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Aubrey

  After dinner, Señora hustles Little Lord away for some quality playtime together before he leaves. An invitation that was extended to me yet one I quickly excused myself from, offering the excuse of being tired. The boy’s behavior at dinner was reprehensible. For all her talk about a woman being in charge, her son seems to do as he will. The salad-dressing stain on my skirt is proof enough.

  I’ll need time to locate my suitcase before the afternoon flight. Meanwhile, I have to make due with what I’m wearing.

  I stare at the floor and at the rose-colored light reflecting across the white tiles from the stained-glass window in the room beyond. I stand just inside the door, appreciating the esthetical beauty of the changing colors as dusk settles upon us.

  My interest aroused, I decide to explore.

  I pass room after room, all exquisitely decorated and, like my blue room upstairs, all have been designed around a main color scheme.

  A few doors down, it’s a beautifully handcrafted mantelpiece of wood carved with intricate rose details that pulls me inside one particular room. An office, with a large functional desk, two chairs by a wall, and a picture on the wall that reminds me of the pastoral scene of the picture within my bungalow. I scowl at the mismatched artwork, which ruins the entire effect of an otherwise eloquent office. It reminds me of an unhappy memory I thought I’d put behind me.

  “You won’t find anything in here,” a voice interrupts me.

  I jump and turn toward Little Lord’s nanny, who has quietly stepped inside the room behind me.

  “The carving on the mantelpiece is jaw-dropping. If you look closely, you’ll see it’s actually two separate pieces fused together. So in a way, you’re wrong. Every inch of this house has something unique about it.”

  She gives a very unnanny-like snort. Yet the V in her forehead suggests she’s displeased by my comment. It remains in place as she passes by me to get a closer look at the mantle. Her finger brushes across the seam melding the two sides together. “I thought this was too obvious a place. What else have I missed?” she mutters.

  “Excuse me?” I ask, confused.

  She cocks her head at me. “Who are you, really?”

  I sigh. Here we go again. “I was Sylvester’s teacher at The Linguistic Academy. There was an . . . unfortunate incident—”

  “Isn’t there always with that kid?”

  “—and Señora felt obligated to thank me and invited me to Hacienda Santo Miguel. My flight was postponed, so here I am.”

  “And you accepted her invitation?”

  I frown. But before I can respond, she adds softly, in a voice so low my ears strain to hear her, “my advice to you is this. Follow this hallway to the courtyard when Sylvester’s car arrives. While Señora is saying her good-byes, find your way to the large yellow banquet room—the entrance is on the other side of the courtyard. Once inside, go to the window across the room to the far, far right. It’s broken. Climb through it and run like the dickens straight across the grounds and into the woods. There’s a path that will take you to a gated door. The key to its lock is beneath a boulder.”

  “You have an escape route all planned out?” I suck in a breath.

  “You have no idea who Señora really is?”

  I shake my head.

  “Trust me when I tell you, you don’t want to find out.” She walks by me to the door, and glances back at me. “Please don’t reward my act of kindness by ratting me out.”

  A shudder runs up my spine as she disappears through the door.

  More surprises? I bite my lip. I’ve always hated them but since coming to Mexico, I’ve learned to detest them. It’s like I’m continually stumbling onto one and it’s never the kind that’s easily managed.

  And this surprise . . . I hailed a cab and invited myself right into the center of it. This time, Diego isn’t around to help me, either.

  What do I do? Do I even trust her advice?

  I shake my head, like my decision is a choice.

  Wait. Then run.

  I step into the hallway and am so lost in thought that I’m startled when I hear the faint sound of the staircase just overhead creak.

  Freezing, I listen and wait.

  Minutes pass before there’s a second creak. Someone is creeping down the stairs. Is it Señora, come to deal with an unwanted guest? Damn it. I should have followed through on my excuse and retired to the Blue Room.

  I take three more cautious steps, hugging the wall as I move. On the next creak, I jump, which forces my hip into the panel wall. A door swings open. There’s a small hidden room beneath the stairwell. I squeeze inside and pull the door closed.

  Another creak. Pause. Creak.

  I could be overreacting. Yet the nanny’s warning causes a familiar fear to roll up inside me like high tide. I can barely breathe. I’m almost drowning in it.

  It’s little help that the room is packed full of boxes and there’s no room to move.

  Footsteps sound. Light. Quiet. Passing by my hiding place. I hold my breath as whoever it is continues on down the hallway. My fingers folding tightly over the contents within an open box I’m leaning against.

  I hold the thick stack up to the faint light
. A thick stack of pesos. It’s like I’m standing in a bank vault. There’re boxes of them. Recently packed as some of the boxes are open, like the one nearest me.

  Seriously? Talk about cash on hand.

  Ironic that I’ve spent most of my time exploring ways to secure financing and here I am, in a closet, staring at what has to be millions of dollars’ worth of pesos.

  Hidden in a secret room . . . which is a secret for a reason . . .

  Instinct kicks in. Señora cannot find me here.

  Carefully, quietly, I swing open the door. The hallway is empty.

  Securing it back in place, I quicken my pace, round the stairwell, and practically sprint upstairs and into the safety of the Blue Room.

  I inhale. Smelling a familiar fresh-orange scent that reminds me of him.

  Diego would be positively furious at me if he knew where I was right now.

  I sit on my bed and decide what to do. No way am I staying overnight.

  I’ll wait for Señora to escort her son by my room. I’ll say my good-byes upstairs. When she’s outside and securing Little Lord in the car, I’ll escape the hacienda, just as the nanny advised.

  It seems like forever before a horn honks.

  The car has arrived.

  I step into the hallway. Watch Señora practically dragging Little Lord kicking and wiggling down the hallway. “I’ll say my farewell to Sylvester—”

  “Come meet my other son.”

  I blink.

  The double doors in the foyer below swing open.

  “Mama?” I hear a voice I immediately recognize. A knot forms in my throat the size of a cherry pit. Leaving me gasping for air and praying for mercy.

  Her other son.

  The man with a hit out on me.

  A man who wants me dead.

  “Juan Carlos,” Little Lord screeches, struggling against his mother as they descend the staircase.

  “Cassie!” Señora screams. “Where is that woman? Juan Carlos, put him in the car. Go with your brother.”

  “No.”

  Smack.

  “Now.”

  “I hate you!” the Little Lord hollers angrily as he races down the stairs and out the door in a flash.