Page 23 of Hit Man
How are you going to play this change in circumstances, Aubrey?
Enough.
I’m the guy who creates distractions, not one who gets caught up in them. Eating up my time, my energy. Stealing my target’s attention.
Chava’s gotta go.
7
Aubrey
Zoey bailed on me.
Juan Carlos is a creep.
And if these dual dilemmas aren’t worrisome enough, the one person whom I’m the most familiar with at Casa Bella I now want to avoid at all costs.
Yet, even in the light of day, Diego won’t leave me alone. Because I can’t seem to get those dirty, filthy words he murmured in that deep, sexy voice of his out of my head.
Te voy a meter toda la pinga.
Quiero que te vengas.
A hot chill of awareness rolls up my spine. I can’t possibly be that easily aroused by the hot-bodied man, can I?
Yes. I undoubtedly am.And you know what I’ve just realized about myself?
I’m a bit of a perv.
My lips twitch. Lord help me because despite my dislike for the bold, arrogant man, I loved every second of his dirty mouth, his body, and our fast and furious sex.
With that said, I’m also not an idiot. I won’t be making the same mistake twice. Diego will be a wild memory, nothing less and nothing more.
Tonight’s party is all about business. It’s the perfect opportunity to approach Juan Carlos. Surrounded by people,safety in numbers. Alone time with the obnoxious man is out of the question yet it’d be a missed opportunity if I didn’t make one last-ditch effort to secure his financial support. Five minutes is all I need with him and then I can return to my bungalow knowing that tomorrow, I won’t be leaving here empty-handed.
Zoey’s favorite three-inch red patent-leather Manolo Blahnik pumps dangle from my fingertips as I tread barefoot along the garden path leading to the mansion.
Revenge wear. My way of paying her back for deserting me.
Though the truth is I’m hoping the heels will spice up my otherwise conservative black dress. This social event will be awkward enough without Zoey’s company.
Power pumps for a power play.
I slip them on when I reach the living-room doors. Entering, I’m greeted by the calming, ambient sound of the river pool accompanied by the murmur of people talking.
The group assembled is much smaller than last night. No slinging back shots or grinding hips. As I glance around me, I notice how eloquently dressed the men are, in their formal suits, stiff collared dress shirts, and shiny polished shoes. And ties . . . plenty of power ties. I might not be completely at ease rubbing shoulders in this kind of business-first party but at least I’m familiar with this type of setting.
Except for . . . my gaze skims over the women assembled. It’s like every big-busted, long-legged model from Tijuana to Mexico City is in attendance and dressed to kill.
I glance down at my conservative black dress, fashioned with a boatneck, a streamlined cut, and a less-than-risky midthigh length. My go-to dress for important meetings.
Like tonight’s.
A redheaded woman brushes by me, nailing me in the side with her hip in an aggressively subtle action. “Excuse me,” I mutter, shaking my head as she pretends she just didn’t try to knock me off my heels, ignoring me as she saunters across the room. Her dress is white, made of a peekaboo lace material that leaves little to the imagination. And it’s short; the slightest lift of a hip and her bottom will be fully exposed.
Juan Carlos’s words filter across my thoughts. Are you here for the entertainment or are you part of it?
I frown, and casually take in the group assembled, growing uneasy and more and more disgusted as I realize that the business the women are conducting is much different from that of the men.
