Page 49 of Hit Man
“I could be elsewhere, but I’m not.”
God, how humiliating, if he saying what I think he’s saying. Like I care where he spends his time.
“Put the lamp down. Come over here and sit next to me. We need to have an honest talk.”
“Honest? I saypotato, you saypo-tah-to, right? Give me one good reason why I should trust you?”
“That man didn’t fall into a net.”
I stare at him in confusion. “He didn’t?”
“He hit the rocks below. Whether it was an accident or intentional, I haven’t quite figured out.”
Despite my skin being warm from the shower, I’m suddenly chilled. “Is he . . . ?”
“Dead? I’d say so.”
Oh my God. Of course he’s dead. No one could survive such a fall. But . . . Renaldo said . . .
“Who do you work for?”
I blink at his abrupt change of topic. Back to this, again? “I had nothing to do with that man falling. Why keep asking me this?”
“Tell me the truth this time and I’ll . . . drop it.”
The truth. It’s almost like he believes I’ve been lying to him. A man who, by all logical indications, is a manipulator, a liar, and a seducer all rolled into one beautiful package. My back automatically stiffens.
“Leave.”
“Sit your ass down.”
We exchange glares, and it becomes uncomfortably clear that although we’ve been as intimate as any two people can be, I really don’t know him. He’s involved with Juan Carlos yet lying to the man. He knows someone died at Casa Bella yet failed to report it to the police. He’s clever and a quick thinker and as daring as can be. Is it drugs? Drugs in that crate? Drug deals going on around me, with money being placed into a basket?
Is Diego just another low-life drug dealer?
I can’t trust him. What I can do is answer his questions and send him on his way . . . and soon, I’ll be on my way.
He’s studying me intently. The playful, charismatic man replaced by a cool, calculated all-business one.
Fine with me.
“You said you were here for a staycation.”
I snort. “Little did I know.”
“And under the pretense of doing business with Mendoza,” he continues smoothly, before lowering his voice. “You can tell me. Is it Mendoza’s father? Do you . . . and perhaps your absent friend along with her boyfriend . . . report to him?”
“Iwashere for financial reasons.”
His eyes narrow.
I scowl at him. “The nonprofit business I’m came to Mexico City to work for is underfunded. We can’t build houses without materials.”
“Convenient.”
“What’s convenient?” I gasp, growing more and more annoyed by the second.
“You unofficially working for a company that hasn’t done a thing. Giving you credibility, a cover.”
