Page 41 of Hit Man

“Leave us.” From his seat at the head of the long table, Juan Carlos waves him off, leaving me alone in the room with him.

“Sit.”

I walk across the space and take a seat to his left side.

“You’ve had an active morning, Miss Hamilton.” It’s not meant to be a joke. His eyes narrow on me, assessing my reaction.

Calm. Don’t give anything away. But the way he narrows his eyes on me makes me nervous enough to laugh.

“Why are you at Casa Bella?”

This question is beginning to get repetitive yet one I can answer honestly. I carefully take out my housing plans and set them on the table. “I have a business proposal for you, one philanthropic in nature. These are affordable-housing plans I designed with the goal to help Mexico City’s poorest residents. But the organization I’m affiliated with is a nonprofit, and desperately in need of financial support to get the project underway.”

I push my plans across the table so he can have a closer look. At this point, I’m committed to making this proposal as realistic as possible. No way do I want anything to do with his dirty money or to establish any kind of future relationship with this horrible man.

“The construction is based off of a socially engaged philosophy,” I continue. “We build housing that addresses general needs with an opportunity for future expansion.”

“There’s half a house here.”

“Exactly. The idea is offering homeowners ownership of their residences. Over time, they can expand their interior living space by easily adding a roof and drywall to the already framed-out outside terraces. Until then, the terraces provide livable outdoor space.”

“And you believe these . . . how do you say . . .lowlifescare about expansion? Expanding their wallets by begging and thievery.” He pushes my plans across the table toward me. “A big waste of time.”

I stiffen at his words. “They’re poor, not lowlifes. Victims of circumstance.”

He snorts. “And who are you? Mother Teresa?”

I sit up straighter in my seat. “I’m someone who cares about humanity. These designs have been the outcome of two years of work. All because I think it’s a disgrace that anyone can sit back and do nothing while the less fortunate struggle with basic needs. I’m in a position to do something about it.”

“I’ll tell you what. You explain to me exactly where you were this morning, and I’ll fund your goddamn project.”

Where I was . . .Juan Carlos doesn’t give a rat’s ass about investing in a good cause. Lowlifes. It’s become crystal clear why he funds philanthropic projects at all. Fame. Attention. A way to self-stroke that big ego of his.

“Well?”

I stare him straight in the eyes. Annoyed and anxious and unflinching. Because with a man like him, any sign of weakness will be my downfall. “ I was in bed.”

“Sleeping?”

His eyes drop to my chest, giving me the once-over.

I lift up my chin. “No. I had company.” As hard as I try to fight it, I can’t control the blush that spreads across my skin. He was inside me. As intimate as two people can get when we were interrupted. How else am I suppose to react other than be embarrassed?

Was that something else Diego was hoping to achieve? My honest mortification in exchange for fostering a lie?

Juan Carlos seems pleased. “Quite a lover, our Diego. Spending a morning screwing you . . . perhaps even overnight after seducing you in the garden?

I scowl. It’s disturbing how he knows all this. Like he enjoys stalking his guest.

“Want to know where he is right now?”

“Not particularly,” I manage, needing this conversation to end so I can hurry off to call a cab.

“In Diana’s bed.”

I gasp.

“He likes the ladies, our Diego.”