Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance(87)

He’s ominous, sure, but he’s hot as hell. He’s not cute, not like a guy my age. He’s all man, but his seriousness gives me pause. I feel like I’m about to be chastised for something. Or hell, he can’t be a cop, can he? I didn’t do anything more than have a few drinks last night, I know that much. I might like to drink, but I never touch anything illegal, especially not out to dinner with my boss.

Immediately, it gets my back up, and I fold my arms across my chest. I must look silly with my messy hair and raccoon eyes, bare footed in a slinky mini-dress in the middle of the day.

“Where am I?” I ask, not sitting, because it’s the only bit of rebellion I have. I don’t deal well with authority figures, I guess you could say.

My first guess is that this is some security man left to watch over me by the congressman. It’s the only thing I can think of that makes a lick of sense. Maybe there’s been a national security threat and I’ve been taken to a secure bunker. Except I’m above ground, so that can’t be it...

“You are at a safehouse,” he explains to me, that husky voice curiously accented, but my mind’s too fuzzy to work out exactly what kind of accent. Not that I’m any kind of expert. “Now sit,” he says, uncrossing those thick, bulging arms from over his chest as he nudges a plate across the table toward my intended seating place.

It’s a breakfast meal, hearty and much more than I’d ever eat. Eggs, ham, various veggies, toast. It doesn’t exactly look fancy, but it looks healthy and recently prepared. “I’m not going to tell you again,” he instructs me, and I finally stop fighting.

There’s something about his tone that makes me want to obey. He’s probably way out of my league, but with a guy as hot as him, I’m not about to piss him off. The chair is cold against my upper thighs, and the food both tempts me and makes me a little queasy.

“Where’s Mr. Gallego?” I ask as I lift my fork, taking a bite first of the vegetables, since they seem the safest. And with how bland they are, I can’t imagine they’re going to upset my stomach. “I’ve never been in one of his safehouses before. I didn’t even realize he had one.”

The man gives me a stoic stare, his dark eyes piercing into me as he watches me eat. There’s no answer at first—he simply stands up from his seat, and I catch a glimpse of just how towering he truly is. He’s at least a foot and a half taller than me. Without a word, he goes to the kitchen, pours a glass of water, and returns, placing it beside my meal before reclaiming his seat.

“Do not worry about your employer,” he instructs me in that dark tone of voice. “You won’t be seeing him again any time soon.”

That’s... cryptic.

Though honestly, I can’t really remember much about last night. We had our business dinner, and that was grand, but I definitely must have drank too much according to my hangover. I could swear I was only ordering wine. After all, I wanted to be on good behavior. I wanted Mr. Gallego to take me seriously, which is hard enough as a young blonde in New York.

I take another bite of food, mulling over what he’s said.

“You’re not the cops, are you? He’s not in trouble, is he?”

He’s a hard man to gauge, but when I ask if he’s a cop I can see some slight betrayal of amusement upon his otherwise calm, chiseled facade. It sends butterflies into my stomach, and for a brief second, I wonder what he’d look like with an honest smile on his face. I bet he’d look sexy as hell.

“You worry a lot about others, for a woman I had to drag out, drugged and unconscious from a party of rich men,” he says, his amusement dry. Really dry. If you could call it amusement at all.

But it makes him sound like a man who is tired of cleaning up other people's messes. Is this who the congressman calls when he’s done something bad that needs covering up? Does that mean…

I nervously sit up, my hand running through my hair and getting caught in the tangled curls at the bottom.

“Wait, shit, am I in trouble? Did he say I did something wrong? Because I don’t usually drink that much, I swear, and I don’t even really remember what happened, so if he’s afraid that I’m going to blab, I’m not going to. And I definitely didn’t use any kind of drugs last night. Maybe it was just mixing the whites and reds.”

His brows furrow, and he crosses those arms back over his chest, studying me with something between confusion and consternation. It gives me further opportunity to notice just how immaculate the man is. He’s hard—hardened looking, to be exact—with dark stubble, a few faded scars upon his jaw, but his brows are so rigidly formed, eyebrows dark and naturally perfect. His eyes look almost kohl-lined. Overall, he’s yummy, even if I am freaked.