Page 45 of Hit Man
Yet Juan Carlos looked straight at me. My throat hitches. What the hell is going on?
My eyes skim the room for answers. Everyone’s attention is riveted on that bag. Except Little-Man, who continues his obnoxious perusal of me.
And . . . as I swing my head toward the man across from me . . . Diego.
Matter of fact, the devil is sitting with his legs stretched out before him with his arms folded across his chest, without a care in the world.
As if he understands exactly what’s about to happen.
As if whatever happens isn’t going to faze him in the slightest.
“Let’s see if it’s a match,” Juan Carlos shouts, then turns the bag upside down and shakes it over the dining-room table.
Out tumbles my raincoat.
Juan Carlos snatches it and holds it up for inspection.
My world begins to spin. Oh no. This can’t be good. Blocked from leaving . . . now my raincoat. Was this entire dinner about this?
Confirmation . . . of who was wearing it?
Who the snoop is?
I feel like spitting the chewed celery back onto my plate.
I should have found a way home. Off this twisted mountain of horrors. Where things are unfolding around me that I don’t understand. Where suddenly, the danger of the situation is swaying right in my face—my blue raincoat proof I’m in deep trouble.
“It’s a match. Where?” His words are like an invisible fist making its way across the table and grabbing hold of me by the throat. I can’t speak. I can’t breathe. I’ve never been so alone, so scared, in my life.
The men point.
I close my eyes. Listening as I hear their footsteps charge across the room. Anticipating the worst.
“No,” I hear a man cry out.
I snap my eyes open only to find the men hauling Little-Man to his feet.
“It wasn’t me. I swear it.”
The man behind him elbows him in the side. Then, to my incredulous disbelief and utter astonishment, says, “We found it hidden beneath his pillow inside his bungalow.”
There’s a struggle, Little-Man putting up a fight as they drag him from the room.
I swallow hard, unable to process what’s happening. The danger I’m in . . . or was in. Who can possibly understand . . . I search out the one person in the room, the one I dislike the most, the nonchalant devil still seated across from me.
Diego. Who is grinning like the cat who’s eaten the canary.
13
Diego
“Dios mío, la expresión de pendejo en la cara.”
“Diego,” the boss man warns me. We’re on a secured cell line that must have cost Hayden a fortune to set up yet you can’t beat satellite service’s dependability.
I grin. It feels great to be back on familiar ground. “Fine. The look on that asshole’s face was priceless,” I repeat.
I’m freshly showered with a towel around my waist, standing in my bungalow bedroom. Just like the woman herself, Diana’s floral perfume still clings to me no matter how hard I scrub my skin. Annoying as hell but . . . necessary. I had to ruin any romantic thoughts Aubrey might have for me. Nip any daydreams about me being some knight in fucked-up armor, unsure if I’d pissed her off enough to think otherwise. Because in the heat of the worst-timed moment ever, likeun idiota, I had to confided in her, “You’re the first woman I’ve taken bareback.” Even if it’s true, even if I felt everything includingus. Keeping Aubrey at arm’s length has become my second priority.
