Page 90 of Hit Man
It was more likehello. More like . . .stay.
We did things I never imagined two people could do. We . . . connected. And as the cloud nine I’ve been riding comes crashing down to earth, I still can’t help but think it isn’t all about sex.
Well, not for me, anyway.
I bite my lip.Wasn’t about sex—past tense. His body language says it all.Chalk it up to a good time, Aubrey. A temporary fling. No strings. No attachments.
I sigh and refocus on the purr of the Camaro’s engine as we drive along the streets of Mexico City.
“Park on the corner,” he finally addresses me, pointing to an open space off to our right. “Stay put and hang low. I’ll be right back.”
He exits the Camaro, pulls the hood of his black sweatshirt over his head, and tucking his hands inside his pockets and hunching his big, broad shoulders forward, he stalks away around the corner and out of sight.
As I sit and wait, I consider an earlier conversation we had about the Marines. He certainly acts like someone with military experience. The perfect warrior, in fact. His muscled body, his clever mind, and his uncanny gravitation toward trouble. The perfect makings of a military man.
Or a stripper.
My lips twitch at that memory.
Proof. Maybe there’s something inside his Camaro that’ll help me put the puzzle that is Diego together.
I flip open the middle console separating the bucket seats. Inside is a souvenir from the 1980s, a stale pack of Juicy Fruit gum, and a prepaid video-game download card.
Assassin’s Creed II.
I grin because I’ve not only played this game, I excel at it. Though my reasons are more esthetically oriented than violent. The game maker hired twenty architects to design the landmarks’ features and ensure the accuracy in detail. I scowl and place the card back inside. Diego and I are headed in separate ways. They’ll be no whooping his ass in this video game, or in any other way.
The console is otherwise empty and the glove compartment locked.
I sit back in my seat and wait for his hooded head to reappear around the corner, which it does seconds later. But instead of sliding back into the car, he opens my door and ushers me out.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“I’ve checked you into another hotel just around the block. You’ll stay here for the night.”
“Why the change?”
“This one has better room service,” he replies with a straight face.
“Seriously, why?” Suddenly, I’m anxious, a feeling that’s begun to fit me like a second skin.
And Diego doesn’t miss it. “Relax. It’s just a precaution.” He pauses before looking away. “I need to get going.”
My heart clenches.
“You’re booked on tomorrow’s one-fifteen flight to Sacramento.”
My eyebrow lifts. I never confided to him where I was from. What doesn’t this man know about me?
That I don’t have a passport. That without one, it makes flying home problematic. “Tomorrow won’t work. I need time—”
“Make it work,” he growls out, cutting me off as he narrows his eyes on me. I feel my spine straighten. “Don’t be difficult now. I don’t have time for this.”
“Difficult.” I feel my lips draw into a tight line.
“If you are worried about your possessions, clothes are replaceable.”
But two years of architectural design work isn’t. And both the original and miniature copies are in my other hotel room. Yet instead of telling him this, I hear myself say in a hurt tone, “I bet you say that about women, too. We’re all replaceable to a stud like you.”
