Page 28 of Hit Man
Nonexistent brandy?
Alligator?
That devil is full of surprises.
8
Aubrey
Later that evening, my hopes of approaching Juan Carlos end much like the river pool, in a huge drop of inaccessible disappointment.
“Looks like Mendoza won’t be making an appearance,” a man to my left comments.
“Entertaining in his suite upstairs,” the man next to him replies.
The insurance salesman passes me a basket overflowing with money. I stare down at the mixed currency tossed inside, feeling very much like I’m in church and being nudged to place my tithing inside the obligatorily envelope. Seems that I’m not the only one at Casa Bella looking to raise funds. Which is puzzling. Why would a renowned billionaire like Juan Carlos ask his business associates for money?
“We’ll talk to Señor Mendoza on your behalf, Aubrey.”
“Thank you,” I reply. However, a nagging idea has taken root inside my mind and I’m beginning to wonder if I really want to do business with Juan Carlos.
The secretive meeting I interrupted. His keeping money off the books, as the accountant had said. Tonight’s donations. Is Juan Carlos’s dealing in dirty money? And if so, how many people in attendance tonight are willing contributors? In exchange for what? Drugs—though there’s no sign of it anywhere?
Where is Zoey when I need her?
I spy Diana across the room, rubbing her hand beneath her companion’s suit jacket like she’s personally analyzing the quality of his cotton-blend shirt. She giggles and flashes her eyelashes at a second man, charming them both in spite of the giant crimson stain across her chest.
Against my will, I casually search the room for Diego. He’s gone, though, and no longer part of the party.
I frown. Disappointed? No way. Relieved, that’s what I’m feeling. He’s not a nine-to-five, by-the-book kind of guy. There’s no containing a man like him. It’d be like trying to tame a big puma. Power and grace. Ready to strike, always calling the shots. Dominating everyone and everything. Dangerous.
A bit wild.
A beast in bed.
I shake my head, fighting off the restlessness I’ve been experiencing since walking away from him earlier. A bit like a leaf in a breeze, floating from one place to another without touching the ground. A foreign, unsettling feeling. I’d pick being a rooted tree to a dancing leaf any day. But truth is, my bungalow—my bed—is the last place I want to be right now.
The sound of the rushing water catches my attention.
In school, we’d studied Frank Lloyd Wright’s houses, my favorite being Fallingwater. Beautifully designed, the house is constructed over a natural spring that’s fed into a waterfall. The entire home is meant to showcase the architects love of nature. Very Zen and ambient in tone and feel.
It’s unlikely Casa Bella’s waterfall was designed to the same effect. But I’m curious what materials were used to build a waterfall that tumbles straight out of the side of the house without compromising the integrity of the structure. I already observed the use of wood in the mansion’s foundation. Did the architect use a vapor membrane to avoid rot? Or perhaps a more contemporary kind of waterproofing designed to protect the foundation over time against erosion?
Why not investigate? Perhaps there’s another viewing point tucked away in the garden? That’s what I would have done if I’d designed such a spectacular feature.
I slip out of the French doors and into one of the main gardens. This close to the mansion, the night sky is lit up with light.
Casa Bella has exquisite gardens, I’ll credit Juan Carlos with good taste in that. Styled after Parisian gardens or soFilantrópicahad reported.
The night is warm, the garden quiet except for the sound of the rush of water nearby. I kick off my heels and parade barefoot as I walk along a picturesque path illuminated by multicolored solar lights. Similar pure white lights rest at the bases of the statues I pass. Zeus. Hercules. Athena. I approach Cupid, frozen in motion with his arrow and waiting for the right person to nail in the heart. I hustle by, unscathed, to the fork in direction. If I were headed to bed, I’d continue along the main pathway toward my bungalow. Instead I veer left and follow a small, windy pathway that is just beginning to slope downward, its steepening decent a sign it’ll likely lead me closer to the mansion foundation and to the waterfall.
A bit of exercise never hurts even this late at night,I think, taking a few steps forward.
Someone clears his throat.
With a slight squeal, I jump and turn.
A large figure is seated on a bench a few feet ahead of me. If he hadn’t cleared his throat I wouldn’t have noticed him because for some odd reason, the lights surrounding the bench have gone black. All I see are his long legs stretched out in front of him. Crossed at the ankles with his big body reclining backward and arms stretched across the back of the bench. A comfortable, easygoing position, like sitting in a garden at this late hour is as normal as stealing into a stranger’s bedroom and . . .
