Page 43 of Hit Man
Diego’s eyes meet mine, briefly.
I turn away and toward the insurance man. “Rates will continue to rise,” I interrupt his conversation. Feeling Diego watching me.
“I’m in total agreement. Universal health care is costing . . .”
How dare he, right? my thoughts drift. The no-good, bed-hoppingdrug dealer.
This afternoon I’ve had time to pull the pieces together. What’s inside the crate must be drugs. Which paid for this lavish dinner of quail in a rich butter sauce, escargot over linguini, and potatoes au gratin. Even the baked artichoke hearts are restaurant-worthy perfection—though this is the only dish I could bring myself to eat. It’s hard to explore new cuisine when the man you’ve had sex with twice is being fluffed like a male porn star being prepared for action.
And chances are, despite him helping me, Diego is in neck deep with Juan Carlos’s men. Is he a drug dealer too?
I hope I never find out. Ever so casually, I glance at the clock on the far wall. Nine-ten. Time to get the courage to excuse myself.
Yet . . . I’m not the only person watching the clock. Juan Carlos’s attention seems to be fixed on it.
“Are the rest of the guests coming for dessert?” I interrupt the debate still in progress.
“Everyone’s gone. Several stretch limousines arrived before dawn to drive them back to Mexico City,” the accountant tells me. “Pierre was extremely annoyed to be leaving at four in the morning.”
I frown. “Why wasn’t I informed?”
The insurance man takes a moment to think. “Was your name on the guest list?”
Oh no. Probably not, given how Zoey and I were technically Renaldo’s guests.
“I really had so much to do,” I murmur.
“No one will be coming or going until tomorrow,” the accountant adds. “Not with this downpour and the roads being flooded.”
“What?”
“Were you hoping to leave us?”
I bite my lip.Hell, yes.“And I was hoping my friend would be returning along with her boyfriend.”
But both men nod with understanding.
What a disaster. Another night?
Tomorrow morning, bright and early, I’ll try calling a cab again. Until then, all I want is to retreat to my bungalow.
But being the first to leave this delightful dinner will shine too much attention my way when all I want is to fade into the background. Hands clenched in my napkin, I tune out my dinner companions and wait for some indication the meal is over, wait for someone to leave the table first, signaling it’s safe for me to run and hide.
And that signal ends up being Diana.
Diana who has been devouring Diego with her eyes all dinner. Definitely not that I’ve been looking or acknowledginghim. Diana’s dessert. Tasty, like crème brûlée except the kind that keeps on burning and frazzling my thoughts.
Her hips swing in pure seduction as she walks to the door, completely aware of the male eyes that follow her.
Two men step in front of it and shake their heads.
What?
“No one leaves without Señor Mendoza’s permission. Go sit down, sweetheart.”
I take several calming breaths, only vaguely aware of the other woman’s exaggerated pout and retreat to her seat, while subtly zeroing in on the other diners. Because I’m suddenly very conscious of the fact that, except for Diana, I’m surrounded by men.
A big, beefy man talking to a slightly smaller man.
