Page 91 of Hit Man
He snatches hold of my arm before I can stalk way.
“Aubrey.”
I swing back toward him. Wishing I had a passport so I could take the next flight home and be far, far away from him and the disaster that has become Mexico City.
“I’m glad I put a hickey on your neck.”
I gasp, and reach for my neck. Sure enough, there’s a tender spot and from the feel of it, it’s the size of a thumbprint.
“There’s one on your breast, inner thigh, lower abdomen.”
Sure, I felt him nuzzling me. I felt a lot of things, a lot of him.
“I left my mark all over your body,” he informs me with a smug yet restrained grin, denying me his dimples. “So in case you’re wondering, as far as other women go . . .” He’s quiet for a second, before continuing in a low, gravel-filled voice, “Just like you’ve got every inch of me on your body, I’ve got every inch of you stored away here.” He taps his finger to his head.
My throat tightens. “Why are you telling me this?”
“So you can go home, resume your career, find a boyfriend, live a great life but still know . . .” he softly informs me, “ . . . how damn sorry I am we had to end this way.”
* * *
I tap my foot impatiently,waiting for the bellboy to return with my suitcase and architectural plans. I paid him a small fortune, with the promise of more money, if he could retrieve my possessions from my room and bring them to where I’ve tucked myself away and out of sight in the narrow hallway by the elevator bank.
Just a precaution, I mentally remind myself by repeating Diego’s earlier explanation to me.An unnecessary risk, the more rational side of me argues. Still, I won’t be leaving Mexico City tomorrow, not without a passport. And although clothing is irreplaceable, my architectural plans aren’t.
I’d entered the hotel through the secondary entrance at the end of this hallway. And aside from the strange way the bellboy reacted to my request that he do me this small favor—he starred at me with a huge smile brightening his face, like I’d just offered him a million pesos rather than a thousand—before telling me to wait here for his return.
It’s been about thirty minutes. For the life of me, I can’t understand what’s taking him so long. But as soon as I decide to cut my losses and leave, the elevator chimes, the doors open, and out he steps with my plans and luggage in tow.
There’s a piece of paper in his hand . . . a picture. But he tucks it away before I can see it more clearly.
“Follow me,” he says, leading me down the hallway toward the door I’d entered through.
Strange. But for someone who took his sweet time collecting my things, he’s in an awful hurry now.
“Wouldn’t it be wiser to collect the second part of what I owe you inside the hotel?” Exchanging money on any street in a big city seems like a foolish idea.
“No. It was my pleasure to help you, señorita.”
I frown, suspicious. It’s hard to be anything but these days. Yet I have a taxi outside waiting for me so I hurry behind him.
We exit the hotel.
The taxi driver jumps out to help with my suitcase.
They spend a few minutes talking before the driver reenters the taxi. He tucks a handful of pesos into the tall cup set inside the center console, along with what I believe is the same picture the bellboy had had.
“Back to Hotel TransAtlantico?” he asks me in broken English.
“Yes,” I reply, with an overwhelming sense of relief.
“Okay if I lock the doors? Mexico is full of criminals looking to make a quick buck.”
“Please do,” I sincerely reply. I’ve had enough surprises.
“Eh . . . okay if I stop to pick up myniña?” He retrieves the picture from the cup and hands it to me. A beautiful little girl with a broad grin and sparkles in her eyes stares up at me from the faded photo.
“What is her name?”
