Page 48 of Hit Man

“Are you?” He leans back on the mattress with his legs stretched out in front of him, wearing a pair of worn jeans that hug the muscles in his legs, a clean white T-shirt, and a smug look that reads nothing but trouble.

Our eyes connect, for a fraction of a second, before his drop.

“Glad to see you haven’t,” he murmurs.

I fold my arms across my chest.

“What do you want?”

His lips curl up in a naughty smile as he continues his perusal.

You. I want you.

“Nothing but answers.”

“Answers?” I repeat. “Hop in line.”

Answers or not, tomorrow morning I’m leaving. I managed to collect myself enough after last night’s dinner from hell to check the phone line. To my surprised delight, it was working. A cab will be picking me up at the top of the driveway, just outside Casa Hella’s gated entrance. No need to request the gates be opened and draw unnecessary attention to the fact that I’m leaving.

“You intentionally set that man up.”

“Is that a question?” he smoothly replies, then shrugs and flashes me a look similar to the one I’d received after he confessed to spilling his drink on Diana.

“Why?”

“Better him than you.”

“What is Juan Carlos going to do to him?”

“Don’t know and don’t care to find out. You shouldn’t either.”

“Did you find out why Juan Carlos is resorting to . . .threats. . . to keep news about the crate a secret?”

“Not yet.”

I feel a crease form on my forehead. “Do you or don’t you work for him?”

“What’s that silly English expression? You saypotato, I saypo-tah-to?”

I clench my fingers into a fist. He’s insufferable. “Yes or no?”

“It appears I do” is his vague response.

“The next time I see Diana, I’ll ask her about you.” I internally wince. What is wrong with me? Why bring her up now?

“She’s not one for talking.”

My mouth drops.

Diego winks.

Hard limit. Despite my foolishly bringing her up, he’s hit a hard limit and all I can do is react. I march over to the barricade and begin removing furniture away from the door. I’m on my third piece of furniture when he speaks. “You’re going to lose your towel.”

I spin on my heels and glare at him. Lamp in one hand and my firm grasp on the towel in the other.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” he murmurs in a soothing tone that only infuriates me further.

“Uninvited, aren’t you?”