So tense she thought she might shatter, Mia gave him a cold look as she leveled the double-action revolver right between his eyes. The matte silver gun was small. But if necessary it would do the job. Her hand was absolutely steady, and so was her voice. “You lied to the police about who and what you are, didn’t you?”
“Are you going to shoot me?”
There were five rounds chambered. That should be enough. “I’m asking the questions. But a heads-up, Barcelona? Don’t tempt me, because right now, if I did shoot you, it would be justifiable homicide, and I wouldn’t mind spending a quiet twenty to life in jail.” It was only fifteen ounces, but the longer she held the revolver, the heavier it got. Tightening her fingers, she adjusted her aim. “What load of BS did you feed Hammell?”
“I gave him my real name and occupation.”
“Really?” She arched her brow. “Wow, and he didn’t cuff you and haul your lying, criminal hit man ass to jail on the spot?” Adjusting the barrel of the gun to point at the middle of his chest, Mia topped up her glass without looking.
She took a drink. “You weren’t just winging it. You knew what you were doing. You moved and reacted like a professional.” She looked into his eyes, looking for a reaction, got none.
“I told you I was in the military—”
“Why don’t you stop bullshitting me, and tell me who and what you really are?”
Chapter Nineteen
Cruz walked across the room and leaned against the other end of the center island. She knew. Now she wanted confirmation. He wanted to give it to her. Should have before she asked. His emotions balled into a tight jumble of self-directed anger in his gut, which he hid behind a mask of pure calm. Just like he always did. Why the hell hadn’t he told her before now? Before she overheard him talking to the others in the cemetery?
Panic. Fear. And a boatload of guilt. Fuckfuckfuck.
He should either have told her yesterday, or walked. Instead he’d been self-indulgent and lied to himself, believing he was being chivalrous. He should’ve explained the Mia situation to Hammell, and he would have taken her into protective custody. Could’ve. Should’ve but didn’t.
“How much did you hear?”
“Enough to know that you assured those guys you were going to do the hit yourself. Is that true?” She swallowed, threw her shoulders back, and looked him directly in the eyes. “Did you come here to kill me?”
“Yes.”
She flinched, her fingers tightening on the gun. “Who hired you?”
“I don’t know.” He crossed his arms over his chest, right where it felt heavy and achy, right where the bullet would hit. At this distance she wouldn’t miss.
When she brushed aside a strand of hair that fell onto her brow, Cruz noticed her hand shook a little. She was maintaining, but at what cost? He wanted to go to her, comfort her, hold her.
“How much were you paid?”
“Fifteen million dollars.” He waited to see the moment the hate and disgust came into her eyes. It hadn’t—yet. There was plenty of emotion, though. “Half down. Half when I completed the job.”
Her eyes widened a bit. “Wow. In the world of sleazy hit men, is that a big paycheck? Don’t bother with an answer. But just an FYI? I’m worth considerably more alive than dead.”
“It wasn’t about the money,” he said, keeping his voice calm and his eyes steady on hers.
She stared him down, the rage, the hurt, the full gamut of emotions, tamped down tight and with the lid on. “It’s always about the money.” She frowned. “It’s easy for you to say it’s not about the money when you already have seven point five million in your bank account. That’s what half down means, right?” He nodded. “Why not just get the next seven and a half mil? Why make love—have sex—and hang around? Are you that cold and heartless to make love to me, act like you care about me, and then kill me?”
Her voice wasn’t as steady as it was a moment before, and Cruz hated hearing the slight waver in it. It tore his insides into sharp, jagged pieces knowing he—not the other assholes in the cemetery—had done this to her. Him.
“Is this what you do? Make love with the people you’re sent to kill before you kill them?” Now he saw the disgust in her eyes, the anger. Worse, he saw the pain of betrayal.
“Is tonight the night? The police will wonder about it if they come over tomorrow and find me dead in the kitchen and you long gone. That will tip them off that you’re the bad guy after all.”
“I told you not to trust me.”