Page 50 of Hit Man

“How did that painting get destroyed? You crack it over your head and knock a few marbles loose? My dreams turned into a hellish nightmare. I’m leaving here, empty-handed. My year to do good has turned horribly bad. I’ve resorted to educating rich kids, partying with drug dealers . . .” I hastily close my mouth. Better not share my suspicions about his poor career choice with him.

He’s frowning at me. His beautiful full lips, too pretty to be on a ruggedly male man like him, are pulled tight. And for several drawn-out minutes, he seems to be internally struggling with something.

When at last he does break the tense silence, he spits out his words. “A do-gooder.”

I lift my chin a tad higher. “A humanitarian. Is that such a foreign concept for you to wrap your head around?” The awkward silence. The accusation in his tone, like I’m the one doing something illegal. Like I’m the drug dealer.

He rolls to a stand and runs his fingers through his hair. Gorgeous hair, the color of black licorice.

Stop. Stop it.“What else do you want to know so you can be on your way?” I ask sweetly, feeling anything but sweet.

“You really did come here hoping Mendoza would write you a check,” he states, not asks.

“This project means a lot to me.”

He gives me a puzzled look.

“You don’t believe me,” I flatly say.

“Mierda. I want to believe you. You said the tile was all wrong in the living room.”

My eyebrows arch. “You heard that?”

“I have good hearing. A fucking amazing memory too.”

I feel myself blushing. Rememberinga lotof things, too. “I’m an architect. I took a year off between school and finding a job in the States to work for the nonprofit Architects Beyond Borders. With a tough world economy, times are rough for nonprofits trying to make a difference in the world.”

He gazes at me thoughtfully. “An architect.”

“Not every woman’s home baking bread. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But like a said, the economy is tough. Fact is, women are the breadwinners in forty percent of Californian households.”

He exhales, a long, incredulous breath. “Dios mío. You’re a do-gooder. Nothing worse than a do-gooder.”

“Why say that?”

“Their idealism puts their families at risk, gets them killed.”

“You sound like you’re talking from experience.”

He doesn’t respond.

“What do you have against people trying to make a difference in the world?”

“Not a single thing. My mother was cut from the same cloth. Which, like you, landed her in a world full of trouble.” He steps closer, then brushes past me and begins moving furniture away from the door. Figures. For once, we’re having a decent conversation and now he’s ready to leave.

“Where is she now?” I ask, curious about him. It’s hard to imagine a man like him, who oozes sex appeal, as a young kid.

“Dead.”

I flinch.

“So you enjoy building things?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. It’s what an architect does, right? Though for a variety of different reasons. Financial. Prestige. Necessity. Have you ever built a home before?”

“A cabin in Sedona, Arizona.”

My mouth drops. “Do you live in the States? I just assumed—”