by Tara Leigh
Blinking against the sting in my eyes, I twist the knob of the door leading to the bathroom. It doesn’t turn.
“Aislinn, open the door.” Even as the words leave my mouth, I’m appalled to be saying them. I don’t have family. I don’t have friends. There are few people in my life who don’t comply with my orders, immediately, and with a combination of fear and deference. Any trace of defiance has been stamped out long ago.
The fact that I am ordering a woman to open a door for me—in my own apartment, no less—is ludicrous.
Then again, I’ve never dealt with anyone so stubborn they would sooner burn to death than obey my orders.
Fuck.
The door doesn’t open. I check once again to make sure the fire is entirely out, then shift my attention to the men awaiting my command. “Was the alarm for the entire building triggered?”
“No, boss. Just for this apartment.”
I give a stiff nod. “Good. Return to your stations.” Whatever is about to happen between Aislinn and me, the last thing I want is an audience. I pound on the door again. “I will kick this door down, Aislinn.”
Still no response. A prickling anxiety curls around the base of my spine. What if she ran into the bathroom to escape the flames and slipped? What if she’s lying on the ground, her skull—
Goddamn it to hell.
I grab one of the destroyed lamps and slam the base against the door handle, deciding not to kick the door in on the chance that Aislinn is sprawled in front of it. It immediately breaks off, the door giving way.
My eyes scan the floor for blood, for Aislinn’s broken body. But what I see is a small pile of clothing, followed by a wisp of lace—panties—and a matching bra. The woman they presumably belong to is watching me from within the tub, her naked shoulders rising above a sea of white sudsy bubbles. A few damp tendrils have escaped the mass of blonde piled atop her head, framing her flushed face.
She is perfectly safe. Completely calm.
And me? I’m fucking furious.
“Just so you know,” she says, “I don’t like being locked in any more than you like being locked out.”
I blink, swiveling around to take in the ruined bed, damaged walls, broken door, and shattered lamp before returning once again to face Aislinn—relaxing in the tub as if she isn’t the cause of it all. The bathroom is barely smoky; the fan is running, and the air smells faintly of honey.
“You could have burned the entire place down. You could have died. You could have caused the deaths of others.” My voice is hoarse, my expression incredulous.
And my knees, they are weak with relief.
Aislinn is unharmed.
The combination of emotions creates a storm inside my gut like I’ve never experienced before. A storm that feels violent and out of control. I feel out of control. “Explain to me right now why I shouldn’t haul you out of that bath and smack your ass like a senseless adolescent. Because that’s sure as hell how you’re acting.”
However, it’s the imperious jut of her chin, the air of complete nonchalance, the almost lilac tint to her blue, blue eyes, that makes me want to fuck some sense into her instead.
“I made sure you had a smoke detector.” There isn’t the slightest hint of remorse in her voice or expression.
“What if it wasn’t working? If the batteries hadn’t been replaced or the wiring had short-circuited?”
One tawny eyebrow lifts, her chin lifting at a haughty angle. “Are you admitting to shoddy workmanship in your building? This is your building, right? Not just the apartment, you own the whole place, right?”
“A building other people live in, too. Innocent people.” It’s true. I own the building through an overseas shell corporation with a hundred layers to it. It is run by a management company, a legitimate management company, which leases apartments to people who have never heard of me, people who have no idea of my stranglehold on the city they walk through so blindly.
“Even if there was a problem with the smoke detector—there are back-up systems,” she shoots back. “There’s probably a camera somewhere, too.”
Yes. A fact of which I am not ashamed. I watch over every part of my domain. It is how I’ve maintained control all these years. By constant, unwavering attention. I am no politician voted in and out of office based on the public’s fickle support, or a CEO subject to stock market moves and the whims of a board of directors. “You took risks tonight, with your own safety and the safety of others. It’s inexcusable.”
A flush moves up Aislinn’s chest, along the delicate column of her throat, settling within her cheeks. In contrast, her eyes are the bright blue of the hottest part of a flame. “You don’t get to be my judge, jury, and warden all at the same time. And I will not be your prisoner.”
Slowly, I pull at one of my suit sleeves, shrugging my shoulder as the fabric slides off one arm, then repeating the process on the other side. Draping the jacket over the vanity, I unbutton the cuffs of my white shirt, folding them over twice and pushing them above my elbows. My eyes hold Aislinn’s the entire time. Even without my suit jacket, I am still fully dressed. Beneath the soap bubbles, Aislinn is naked. A fact I cannot ignore any longer.
I could have fucked Aislinn earlier. The guy in my basement wasn’t going anywhere. I could have dragged her skirt over her ass and taken her up against the wall. And she would have loved it.
Which is precisely why I hadn’t.
I was proving a point.
Aislinn Granville is mine to take—because she wants me every bit as much as I want her—when and where and how I want.
So I left, locking her away from me. Purposely keeping distance and doors between us. Wanting her to stew in her own overflowing lust.
But she’s ruined my plans, and the consequences will be hers to bear.
I am not a man to be refused or toyed with. I have made my best efforts to keep Aislinn safe from Hugo Cruz and his army of loyal soldiers. Safe, even from me.
But now … she’s gone too far.
Maybe this was just a stunt to get my attention. An elaborate ploy by a stupid, spoiled girl raised to become a naïve, spoiled woman.
If it is, bravo to her. It’s sure as hell worked.
But she’s about to learn that I play hard. I play to win.
And I sure as fuck don’t play by anyone else’s rules.
Game on, princess.
12
Aislinn
Maybe getting in the bathtub wasn’t the brightest idea.
I’d started the water in case I needed to dive in fully dressed after running through flames. But then I heard the door open and the whoosh of the fire extinguishers.
I’d quickly stripped and jumped into the water, adding the bubble bath for cover when King banged on the door.
What had I been thinking? Purposely putting myself in a situation where I was naked, and he was clearly … not.
Answer: I hadn’t been thinking, only acting on instinct.
The same instinct that made me start a fire in a locked room.
And now, the sight of Damon King rolling up his sleeves to reveal muscled forearms covered in swirls of ink has swirls of something else—desire, lust, anticipation—dancing inside my belly.
Proving that my instincts cannot be trusted.
Dragging my eyes away from a part of a man’s anatomy I’ve never before considered sexy, I return my gaze to King’s face. Jesus.
How can this savage, beastly man be so damn beautiful?
It is truly a cruel twist of fate.
Below the broad plane of King’s forehead, the sharp slashes of his cheekbones are perfectly symmetrical, leading to a wide mouth currently set in a firm, straight line. Stubble glistens from his hard jaw like crushed gravel. And those eyes, they are twin black voids—absorbing everything in sight.
Unfortunately, I am not immune to King’s gravity. If anything, the pull I feel toward him has only grown stronger. Beneath the water, my nipples have hardened into tight beads, p
ointing his way. If they could speak, they would be begging King’s mouth for attention. Begging.
“Judge. Jury. Warden. Prisoner.” He repeats the words I tossed his way, rolling the consonants and vowels within his mouth as if they were a meal. “Clearly you consider yourself a criminal, Aislinn. Tell me, what crime have you committed? Because I’m sure I can come up with an appropriate punishment.”
I gasp, more from arousal than outrage. A cluster of bubbles breaks off, shooting into my open mouth. The taste is oddly jarring, both bitter and clean, and I snap my jaw shut. “You’re the criminal here, not me.”
“From where I’m standing, you’re the one who set fire to my home, damaging property and putting lives in danger.”
“Only because you lured me here under false pretenses. I’m beginning to think this so-called threat against me is a lie, or at least a grossly inflated rumor. Either way, you haven’t said a single word about it.” With each gesture I make, bubbles fly from my arms and dance in the air, their buoyant glimmer suspended by the heavy tension between us. “Then you left and had me locked in here with no Wi-Fi, no cell service. I did what I had to do.”
A throaty chuckle rumbles from King’s chest as he pins me with a disparaging stare. “Should we call the police? Or maybe just your daddy?”
Embarrassment presses heavily on my shoulders. I sink deeper into the tub; the water rising nearly to my chin. “Get out so I can dry off. I’ll leave immediately.”
Another chuckle. “Oh no. I don’t think so. After what you’ve done, I’d be a fool to trust you on your own.” His smooth strides bring him to the edge of the tub, and I fight the urge to dive for cover beneath the water. He plunges his right hand, the one without a gleaming watch strapped to his wrist, into the water, and pulls the plug. “Let me assure you, I’m no fool.”
I swallow a mournful moan. No, that particular designation belongs to me. I’m the fool. With King’s eyes burning my skin, and the sound of water draining from the tub, I know that now.
And maybe that’s what King thinks of me, too. That I’m nothing more than a jester in his Court, here to amuse and entertain.
The thought rankles, making me want to wipe that smug look off his face.
Rather than waiting for the water to drain away, leaving me a wet, sudsy mess trapped in a tub, I use the surge of adrenaline to clasp the porcelain edge with both hands and rise to my feet, bubbles clinging to my breasts. The bubbles covering my belly slide downward, some finding purchase at the apex of my thighs. A bubble bikini. “Would you mind handing me a towel?”
He backs up a few steps, his smug expression now punctuated by an equally smug grin. “Actually, I would.”
Irritation stiffens the muscles connecting my shoulders to my neck. “Fine,” I say, stepping out of the tub myself and walking to the etagere in the corner that is filled with plush rolled towels and various toiletries. The towels are on the bottom shelf and as I bend down, I hear a guttural groan that sends a shiver up my spine, goose bumps prickling my naked flesh.
Biting down on the urge to shroud myself in terrycloth, I take my time, leisurely unrolling it as the suds give in to gravity and slide down my skin. “I hope you’ve enjoyed the view,” I say, glancing back at him over my shoulder. “Because that’s all you’re ever going to get from me.”
The flare of hostility overtaking the desire in King’s gaze is immensely gratifying. I lift the towel over my shoulders and pivot to face him, intending to get back into my clothes and leave his apartment, never to return.
Except that things don’t go exactly as I plan. Because, while there is a nice fluffy rug right outside the tub, I am now standing on marble tile that is slick with the soapy water I’ve dripped while attempting to prove a point.
A point that is completely lost when I lose my balance and fall on my ass.
Had this been a normal New York City bathroom, King would have been able to reach out and steady me without any effort. But this is not a normal New York City bathroom. This is the Queen Mary of bathrooms and I am at least ten deck chairs away.
My ass makes a slapping sound on the marble, and the only good thing about the painful, mortifying moment is that the harsh reality makes me forget about Damon King entirely. I am aware only of a bone-jarring ache that reverberates through my limbs, loosening the marrow within. Holy hell does that hurt.
My yelp is still ringing in the air when I am pulled into a pair of strong arms, one beneath my knees and one at my back. Instinctively, I lock my wrists around King’s thickly muscled neck, tucking my head into the crook between his chin and collarbone, the solid beat of his heart a drumbeat beneath my cheek.
And until I remember that this sinfully sexy man is my captor … it is nice. Really nice.
The kind of nice that has the power to smooth the sharp edges of physical pain.
The kind of nice I definitely shouldn’t feel toward Damon King.
The kind of nice he hasn’t earned and definitely doesn’t deserve.
I jerk away, tilting my head up to stare directly into his face. “Put me down.” I keep my cool, making the demand as stiffly as if I’m asking him to pass the salt.
But my show of composure crumbles as he angles his head to look at me. Barely an inch separates the tips of our noses. I stare, entranced by the fine scar that marks his left eyebrow. I want to kiss it.
“Or what?”
“Hmmm?”
One corner of his mouth tics up, his eyes flicking away from mine. “You look damn good in my arms.”
I follow his stare and am met by our reflection in the bathroom mirror. I blink, taking in the sight of my naked body held against King’s broad chest, the tanned, inked forearms I’d practically drooled over earlier now wrapped around my back and behind my knees.
I am naked. King is dressed.
There is something indecently erotic about our image. I look like the heroine of an old Harlequin novel—a down on her luck maid or secretary about to be ravished by her big, bad boss. A powerless woman soon to be stripped of her virtue.
I know what it’s like when a man overpowers a woman. When he uses force to take what’s not his. To hurt and abuse and terrorize.
And I know that this isn’t that.
It may not look like it, but I have the power in this situation. Damon King came to me. First at my apartment and now in his. He broke down two doors tonight.
I may be naked, but the only reason he’s touching me is because he knows I want him to.
Emboldened, I look away from our reflection and directly into King’s eyes again. Leaning in, I brush the tip of my nose against his. “Kiss me.”
I’ve barely pushed the words out when his lips are on mine. The taste of him is an explosion inside my mouth. Smooth and potent, but with a hint of mint. As if he swilled some of that Balvenie from his bar and then sucked on a peppermint candy.
He kisses like a conqueror. Stealing my breath along with the last of my reservations.
He kisses like a king. Staking his claim, demanding his due.
My fingers intertwine around his neck and I sigh into his embrace. And when King begins walking, I don’t offer a single protest. Until I open my eyes to find that we’re in the hallway. “Wait! My phone, my clothes—”
He chuckles. “You should have thought of that when you set them on fire.”
“Please.” I struggle for the first time since I’ve been in his arms, kicking my feet and pushing against his chest. “I need my ph—” my mouth clamps shut when we pass two men who don’t make a single move to help me—a naked woman struggling in King’s arms.
They don’t bat an eye. Not even to look my way.
And suddenly, a dormant flicker of fear sparks to life. Could I have misread this entire situation? Does King regularly bring women back to his apartment and carry them naked through the halls?
Have I played right into his hands—literally?
Am I really that naïve Harlequin heroine, stupidly trusting the hero �
� who is not at all heroic?
There’s a word for women like that. Victim.
Not again not again not again.
13
Damon
I am a liar. An accomplished liar. A skilled liar. If there was an Olympic sport of lying, I would have racked up a dozen gold medals by now.
The only person I don’t lie to is myself. It may sound false to some, obvious to others, but the thing about lying—the more you do it, the easier it is. Truth becomes an unsavory obstacle to be avoided. Once you start lying to yourself, you lose perspective. You lose control.
That’s when you fuck up.
And I have. Royally.
So, as the uncomfortable realization hits—that I really fucking like having Aislinn Granville in my arms—I don’t try to push it away or mold it into something else. I accept it for what it is. A fact.
And for what it is not—a situation that can be allowed to continue for any length of time.
When I feel Aislinn go stiff in my arms, her muscles tensing at my touch, I almost welcome it. Almost.
Her resistance is a good thing. Maybe it will rub off on me. Allow us to return to what we’re meant to be—strangers.
Ultimately, we will retreat behind opposite sides of a line that was drawn between us years ago.
There can be no future between Aislinn and me.
She was horrified to discover that her father is corrupt.
And I am the king of corruption.
It is the foundation of my empire. The essential component of my success.
I have enough money to walk away from this life, to leave it all behind.
But I don’t want to.
Not because of the money, or the lifestyle it affords me—but because of what I’ve done with it. I’ve saved more lives than I’ve taken. Helped more than I’ve hurt. I’m no Robin Hood, but I’ve made a difference in my corner of the world. And that fucking matters.
I matter.
And Aislinn matters to me.
I enter my bedroom suite, kicking the door shut behind me. My guards remain in the hall.
If not for Aislinn still yelling about her phone, her purse, her clothes, I would have heard the automatic lock engage. So I check that the small light on the wall panel changes from green to red.