The man's eyes, those dark, dark, hypnotic eyes, didn't leave hers as he stripped off his clothes one by one.

Rosa's skin felt flushed and tingly, but she couldn't seem to drag her eyes away from him.

His black wool blazer dropped to the ground first. His white dress shirt—probably Armani judging by the fit and cut—disappeared next to reveal bronzed bare skin, a broad, well-defined chest, chiseled biceps, and a perfectly sculpted stomach. He rose from the chair then, topless, glorious, like a Roman god to her worshipping gaze.

His large hands then drifted towards his tapered waist. He began unhooking his black leather belt. Slowly and a little suspiciously, he reached behind his back for something.

Was the fucker reaching for a gun?

Rosa readied her finger on the trigger of her Beretta.

Just in case.

She wasn't surprised when a holster and a gun, previously hidden from sight, came into view.

Realigning the barrel of her Beretta to his forehead, Rosa barked at him, "Lay your weapon on the floor. Kick it to me."

To her relief, the man did exactly as she commanded, emptying the magazine before setting his pistol on the ground. He used the bottom of his shoe to slide it towards her, and, as the gun came close enough for inspection, Rosa realized that he was also carrying a Beretta.

92 series model.

9 millimeter barrel.

Military grade.

Manufactured in Italy.

She praised his weapon of choice, "Nice."

Begrudgingly, Rosa had to admit, this fucker was a man of taste because she happened to own the exact same gun. Highly reliable and accurate, the Beretta 92 was one of her favorites. The only downside was that its weight and size made it somewhat trickier to conceal and carry.

"Grazie," the man thanked her. His gaze floated towards her gun. "You and I may be more similar than we thought..."

It appeared he had noticed her Beretta as well.

Observant bastard.

"Do you trust me now?" he asked.

Rosa cocked an eyebrow in his direction. "Not until you take off your pants."

His jaw ticked. "Is it necessary to remove them? You already know I am unarmed."

She waved her gun at him, insisting, "Do I know for sure, though? What if you are hiding a switchblade down there? Pants off. Now."

He scowled deeply.

But, with a quick 'zip,' he undid his black wool trousers. Within the next second, he was standing before her in nothing but his black boxer briefs. As far as she could tell, there was no other weapon on his person.

Discreetly, her eyes flicked towards his crotch for the briefest of seconds.

The man's boxer briefs didn't hide much. His cock wasn't even hard, but there was a prominent and definitive bulge between his legs. It appeared this man had been packing in a different way as well.

Damn.

She quickly averted her gaze.

"Are you satisfied with what you see?" the man asked with a knowing gleam in his eyes.

There seemed to be a double meaning tucked within his question.

She cooed softly, "Oui."

There had definitely been a double meaning embedded in her reply: She liked that he was in a state of helplessness. She also liked what she saw of his god-like body. Maybe a little too much.

Rosa lowered her Beretta from his head, but she didn't put her gun away.

With a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, she asserted, "Thank you for your cooperation. I suppose you have earned a little more of my trust."

"Good," he grunted, "are you ready to discuss your next assignment, then?"

"Not so fast," she countered, "I still have questions for you."

A look of irritation passed over his handsome face. "Questions?"

"Many, many questions."

"I would rather move on."

"You can move on when I know what the hell is going on."

"Hmm."

"Can you blame a girl," she pointed out, "for being curious when a strange man with a gun shows up, unannounced, in her hotel suite?"

Sighing, he settled back down in the armchair. "Fair enough. Ask your questions. I will answer as many as I can."

Rosa's eyes went wide.

She hadn't expected him to comply so readily.

This man wasn't the same rough, no nonsense bodyguard from Marseille who had called her a 'bitch' and patted her down and toyed with her necklace in such a menacing way.

Rosa arrived at the conclusion, then, that he was probably the kind of man who donned as many false faces as she did.

Tonight, he had chosen to put himself at her mercy. Purposely. Intentionally.

Why?

The not-knowing set Rosa on edge.

As he sat before her, the hardness of his piercing gaze seemed to be in direct contrast with the relaxed position of his posture. He was leaning back into the chair, away from her, with his brawny arms draped on the armrests, and his thick, muscular thighs were splayed in the way men always like to take up more space than they needed. He reminded her of a bored, jaded king on a throne. The man still looked ridiculously at ease and in control even though he wore only his underwear.

Her gaze dipped towards his crotch.

Rosa cursed as she caught herself leering at him once more. His big, beautiful, near-naked body was going to be distracting as fuck. The room was definitely growing warm. Rosa struggled to stay focused on interrogating him, to remind herself that she needed to find out what he really wanted from her, and to determine how much of a threat he might pose on her life.

Clearing her throat, she started quietly,  "Let us start with the basics. What is your name?"

"My name is Cristiano. Cristiano Massera."

Mr. Massera, was it?

She wondered if this was only an alias or if it was actually his real name.

"How did you find me in Lisbon... Monsieur Massera?"

"David informed me of your travel plans."

Rosa's expression darkened. "Ah."

"I told you," Mr. Massera reminded her, "the man works for me. There are no secrets between us."

Briefly, Rosa wondered what else David had shared with Mr. Massera regarding her private, personal matters.

Again, the not-knowing troubled her. She wanted more answers. With renewed determination, she pressed on with her interrogation.

Rosa murmured, "You were Monsieur Lavigne's bodyguard, non?"

"Correct."

"If you wanted to kill Monsieur Lavigne, you had full-time access to him, so, why hire me? Why not do it yourself?"

"The same reason all of your other clients seek your services," he explained, "I value your... discretion."

Rosa frowned as her mind dove further into analysis mode.

What was the angle here?

Had Mr. Massera sought out a position as Mr. Lavigne's bodyguard—only to make it easier for someone like her to kill his employer?

If this was the case, then Mr. Massera was either an enemy of Mr. Lavigne or working directly in conjunction with Mr. Lavigne's enemies.

Rosa didn't beat around the bush when she inquired, "Who are you working for?"

"No one of importance," Mr. Massera replied.

What did Mr. Massera seek to gain from Mr. Lavigne's death?

She huffed in frustration, "Give me a name."

He smiled faintly. "I am working for no one but myself."

"Lies."

"Believe what you want," Mr. Massera said with a shrug.

It seemed he didn't want to answer this particular question.

She sighed and pivoted in another direction, "Who are you hiding from, then? Why do you value discretion so much?"

He shot her a pointed look. "Everyone has enemies, no?"

"You must have quite a few enemies," she observed, "if you felt the need to hide behind David Candia and Valentina Rizzo, instead of approaching me directly..."

"Like you said, I value discretion. I was testing you."

"Testing me?"

"I wanted to see if you could get the job done," Mr. Massera elaborated in quiet, steady tones, "before revealing myself to you. I hate incompetence, and I do not work with fools. If you failed to kill Lavigne in Marseille, then I would not be sitting here right now, having this conversation with you, and risking my life to seek your services on more permanent terms."

"So," Rosa mused aloud, "while I was trying my best to embody Adèle Moreau that night, you were interviewing me to be your long-term contractor?"

He nodded. "Correct."

Grumbling, she lamented, "I see you were fucking around with me the whole time! How fun for you. How unfortunate for me."

Mr. Massera argued, "I am not fucking around with you anymore. I am very serious about us working together."

Unimpressed, Rosa scoffed, "Hmph!"

She glared at him.

He stared back at her with a wry expression.

"Although, you should know, I enjoyed certain parts of our interactions that night," Mr. Massera murmured as his eyes darted to her breasts, "more than others."

She could only assume that he was referring to the certain part of that night when he got to feel up her tits and ass for free.

Rosa chided gently, "Eyes up here, s'il vous plaît."

"Spiacente," he apologized as his gaze snapped up to a more gentlemanly position.

Even though Rosa still didn't trust Mr. Massera or his intentions—whatever they might be—a reluctant smile crept across her face. The man intrigued her, plain and simple, and it had been a long, long time since anyone piqued her interest in such a way.

So far, his story seemed to check out, too.

Perhaps, Mr. Massera's motives were as straightforward as he claimed them to be?

Perhaps, he had only been interviewing her to seek out her services?

She was very good at her job, after all.

There was only one other discrepancy that bothered her.

Rosa pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I cannot help but wonder..."

How did she fit into his picture?

He prompted, "What?"

"Why follow me to Lisbon? Why sneak into my suite? We could have very easily discussed these matters on the phone. Or, you could have waited for me to return to Marseille."

At this, a grimace flattened across his mouth.

Now, it was Rosa's turn to prompt him, "What?"

"There is something else you should know..."

"Oh?"

"I didn't come to Lisbon entirely because of you."

Rosa pouted as though this news was disappointing to her. "Then, why did you come at all?"

"I came for Hugo Granger as well."

The name didn't register with her.

Rosa blinked in confusion as she repeated, "Hugo... Granger?"

"The other bodyguard I was working with," he explained, "that night in Marseille. Unlike me, Hugo was loyal to Lavigne and their allies."

Ah, yes. The blonde, pale-faced, ugly fuck. Rosa remembered him.

"May I ask," she mumbled, "what Monsieur Granger is doing in Lisbon?"

"Hugo started suspecting that you were the one who offed Lavigne. He came to Lisbon to question you and, possibly, to kill you."

Rosa gasped, "What?"

Alarm surged through her veins.

Mr. Massera claimed that he had learned of her travel plans through David, but how the hell did Hugo manage to track her down?

There was a loose thread here, and she intended to find the source.

"Do not worry," Mr. Massera assured her, "Hugo is dead now."

Dead?

"What?" she gasped again.

"I shot him," he stated a little too calmly for her liking, "in your bathroom. About ten minutes before you returned to your suite."

Frantically, her mind began to piece the chaotic order of events together.

It seemed that Hugo had snuck into her suite first, possibly, to torture her for questioning and avenge Mr. Lavigne's death.

Then, Mr. Massera had come to strike at Hugo before Hugo could strike at her.

Another question popped up in her head: Why had Mr. Massera gone through so much trouble to save a nobody like her?

A few theories began to form: Perhaps, Mr. Massera had been trying to prevent her from dropping David Candia's name to Hugo, which might, in turn, lead the guilt back to him?

Perhaps, Mr. Lavigne had friends in dark places that Mr. Massera didn't wish to provoke?

Perhaps, in the end, Mr. Massera was simply looking out for number one, and it had been in his best interest to save her?

Unfortunately, Rosa couldn't confirm any of these theories at this moment. She couldn't dwell on them much longer, either. At this very moment, she had bigger fish to fry.

A big, blonde, ugly, dead fish.

She growled, "Are you telling me that there is a dead body in the bathroom of my five-star hotel suite?"

Still wearing nothing but his boxer briefs, he affirmed in unbothered tones, "Yes."

Fuck.