Page 42 of Hit Man
I struggle not to give into my anger. Juan Carolos is telling me this to unsettle me. Don’t react. Don’t think how that lying, manipulative devil used you. Kissed you silly. Had sex with you 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 over 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 p.m. 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.
12
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 disappeared to and ignoring Diego, who is conveniently seated across from me, who is 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.
