Page 20 of Hit Man
Yes. You’ve dared to do a lot of things outside of your comfort zone. Without giving myself time to overanalyze my actions, I backtrack to the door, knock, and pause, and when an answer to enter doesn’t immediately come, I step inside anyway.
And as I do so, I’m brought up short.
Conversation abruptly stops, and every man assembled around a long boardroom-style table turns to look at me.
Twenty or so men suited men are seated.
No warm welcome or familiar faces from the night before.
Plenty of frowns.
A few grins.
One hell of a mean glare, and coming from the one man I unfortunately know far too well. His ink-black eyebrows are drawn together. His lips tight.
His body, that’s all you know. Not the man himself.
I tear my eyes away from the arrogant man, who, after rocking my world, probably thinks I’m stalking him.
Standing a bit straighter, I address the group. “Sorry for the interruption. I was hoping for a private word with Juan Carlos and never anticipated I’d be interrupting a meeting. . . .” I scan the room for a sympathetic face, yet once more, my eyes connect with Diego’s.
His glare seems harsher.
So I do what I must and scowl right back at him. I’m hungover, hungry, and I’ve four years of experience dealing with obnoxious men trying to put me in my place. Though they were never even close to being this intimidating.
He doesn’t like this. Not the slightest bit. Without breaking eye contact, he folds his forearms across the exquisitely carved tabletop, and leans forward, his chin held high. An aggressive, cocky movement. One I don’t appreciate.
“Gentlemen,” I address the group, yet shake my head at him, a subtle sign how I’mnotreferring tohim, “forgive my interruption.” I force my attention off of Diego to search for the real reason I’m here. A man with curly brown hair and a charming smile, and seated at the head of the table, gestures to an open chair. So happens Diego is seated immediately to his left and the vacant chair immediately tohisleft.
This. Is. Business.
I step a few feet forward, anxious to draw within earshot of the man with the charming smile. Juan Carlos Mendoza.
A few men scramble to their feet to pull out my chair. But Diego has now hooked his arm across the back of it. Either he withdraws it so they can follow through on their impeccable manners or . . .
Our eyes connect.
His head shakes ever so slightly. No.
I pause, assessing the meaning behind his subtle gesture. This private meeting.
The guards surrounding the mansion.
The two waiters anxiously standing just behind Juan Carlos to the left, one holding a bowl of strawberries and the other a bowl of freshly whipped cream.
The other men assembled, who seem unsettled by my interruption.
Now is not the right time for an impromptu introduction . . .
“Sit or leave. Make up your goddamn mind,” Juan Carlos barks, all pretense of being a charming host gone in the flash of a smile. “Women are good for two things,” he continues, addressing the men assembled.
But before he can share what will likely be an unhealthily annoying dose of sexist, macho rhetoric, Diego is on his feet and strutting toward me, his movements lazy, his eyes hard. “Can’t get your fill of me, isn’t that right,chava? How about you head back to bed and wait for me to come to you?” he tells me in a low, seductively arrogant voice as he pulls me toward the door.
“Bed?” I hiss back, “You egotistical, brazen-beyond-belief—”
His lips cover mine, cutting me off. He pulls me into him and up onto my toes. Exhibitionist is right. I struggle against him, pressing my lips tightly together.
Someone whistles.
