Page 80 of Hit Man
“Would you look at that view?”
I do. I take in the view, with her there by the window, her hair damp and freshly washed, her cheeks pink from the hot shower she’s taken, her wide-eyed expression reflected in the window priceless. She’s a beautiful woman. I thought so before, when she wore that sexy red dress. Yet I never allowed myself the luxury of dwelling on what exactly it is about her that appeals to me.
She’s fresh and wholesome, with a sprinkle of freckles across her nose and an innocent air about her. Her being barefoot and wrapped in a fluffy white towel only adds to the natural air about her. The face of an angel with the body of a she-devil incarnate.
What’s hidden beneath the cotton material I remember all too well. Her figure is made for a man like me, full tits, tight ass, sweet-as-fuck pussy. Small, responsive. Hot for me, my touch, my tongue, my cock.
Maybe that’s why she’s kept the towel instead of putting on the clothing I left on the bed? I feel myself grow hard.
I’m a shallow guy. But the truth is, I’ve suddenly and quite unexpectedly realized I’m not simply attracted to her physically—which I am. I keep thinking about her, the feisty woman on the inside. What makes her tick? What’s at the heart of her?
She’s whip-smart, despite being naive. And like my mama, the only woman besides my sister I ever loved wholeheartedly and without condition, Aubrey is a do-gooder.
A beautiful, intelligent, naive do-gooder.
Trouble. Straight-up trouble. Might as well shoot me right now.
I love women, no denying it. Yet I’ve been a cutthroat both in and out of bedroom. I don’t do clingy. I don’t do cuddles and kisses. I don’t do relationships. Sex is what you get, but I can promise you you’ll love it. I’m the kind of guy who leaves women behind. What other choice do I have, right? In my profession, relationships leave you vulnerable.
And above all else, I don’t do do-gooders. Period. Exclamation point.
A lesson in vulnerability I learned the day my parents were doing just that, do-gooder work in the local market. Until they were gunned down during a cartel initiation.
The following week, I killed the three fuckers responsible as well as their cartel leader, Hector Rodriguez. It was either run or fight. Except when word got out, I couldn’t avoid the other cartels looking for killers to recruit.Noisn’t exactly a word they’re used to hearing. It was my sister who tracked down Hayden and convinced him to save me. She’s the only person I know who can tell that bastard to go fuck himself and still remain standing. I’d never felt more relieved than the day I dragged her into a helicopter and hauled her kicking and screaming away from Loreto . . . andhim.
There’s no one who’ll be saving me from his wrath.
One night. Then it’s bye-bye,chava.
“We’ll eat, relax, sleep.” Without waiting for her response, I stalk across the white wooden floorboards to the long breakfast bar dividing the living space from the kitchen area.
A woman comes in every day to stock the refrigerator and keep the place in pristine condition. Hayden’s set her up in an apartment within the same building so she’s always at my beck and call. A simple ring and there’s a fresh roll of toilet paper or whatever else I need.
But what I’m most thankful for is she fulfills my special request that two flank steaks always be marinating in chimichurri inside a bowl in the refrigerator. Ready to grill and be eaten. I might be part Mexican but I’m a global guy with global taste buds working for a global security contracting agency. Though Argentinian steak is my weakness, the more traditional Mexicancarne asadais my second go-to meat.
With a press of a button, I fire up the state-of-the-art grill. Next I open a bottle of Malbec. I pour two glasses and gesture for her to come and sit.
She moves across the room, quiet for a change, as she comes to stand beside me. She smells like my soap. She smells . . . like me.
“Are you grilling for me?” she asks with a brilliant smile.
I blink as a wave of lust hits me hard. Man, I want her. I might even want her more than this expensive glass of wine or my favorite steak.
What the fuck is happening to me?
“You hungry?” she asks shyly. Probably seeing something pass across my face. My attention catches on the second word, softening thehand drawing it out like an invitation to fuck.Hungry.
My gray sweatpants pull uncomfortably tight. You bet I’m hungry.
Wine,sex, steak, it is.
It takes all of my willpower to say, “Relax.” I pull out a barstool and tap the cushion with my hand. “Drink up. One chimichurri steak coming your way.”
“Why are you suddenly being so nice to me?”
“I’m always nice when I have time to eat.” Rather than halfway to hell knows where and grabbing what I can on the way.
She shifts onto the barstool, the towel snagging on the woven rattan weave then sliding up her thigh.
