by Tara Leigh
I am tempted to lie beside her. Disconcertingly tempted.
I can’t remember the last time I actually slept in bed with a woman. Have I ever?
Fucked—yes.
Slept—no.
But after what Aislinn did earlier, clearly, she can’t be left alone.
I stand up, roughing agitated fingers through my hair and blowing out a heavy breath. Quietly, I pull my phone from my pocket and open the app I created to control the environment of my apartment. It’s basically a more secure version of The Nest. Lights, music, temperature, air humidity, locks—they are all controlled through a hard-wired system I implemented myself and can be accessed through my phone or any of the touchscreen panels strategically placed in each room.
But when the room goes dark, Aislinn lets out a sharp squeal. I immediately flood the room with brightness, scanning for the source of her alarm while reaching for the knife strapped to my ankle.
Aislinn is shielding her eyes as she squints at me. “Sorry. I just—” She ducks beneath the covers and lets out a muffled groan. “Can you leave a light on? Please.”
I don’t pull my weapon. I merely stare at the slight mound in the middle of my bed, wondering what the hell just happened.
It is not her question that gets to me. Aislinn is in a strange place, why wouldn’t she want a light on in case she needs to get up and find the bathroom in the middle of the night? I should have considered that. I adjust the lighting with a curt, “Of course.”
It was her squeal of fear that ricocheted through my bedroom, smacking me dead in the center of my chest. The cry of a terrified little girl.
And it’s the word tacked onto the end of her request. The please that dripped with shame.
I don’t like hearing that frightened yell, that tarnished tone. Not at all.
Aislinn is strong and feisty. Confident and haughty.
A lioness that purrs like a kitten when stroked just right.
The woman lit a goddamned fire in my apartment. A fucking fire.
Christ. I still haven’t figured out whether to be outraged or awed.
I’m something else, too. So turned on I can barely see straight.
And now I’m … curious. I’ve made it my business to know everything there is to know about Aislinn Granville. But I don’t have a goddamn clue what would make her scared of the dark.
Surely, I heard wrong. Aislinn has led a charmed life. Until the first signs of her mother’s illness, she lived a goddamned fairy tale.
I shake off the last few moments. They don’t conform to what I know to be true, so, therefore, they must be invalid. An outlier data point to be ignored. Disregarded.
Had there been any other woman in my bed, I would have woken her up with my dick in her mouth, or her cunt, or anywhere else I damn well pleased. But Aislinn isn’t just any other woman. And I have no intention of ruining that soft, unguarded expression I glimpsed on her face earlier when she unraveled in my arms.
It was a welcome addition to the fierce, bristling anger and the cool, imperious attitude she wears so well.
Passion.
Aislinn has that in spades.
I fucking love it.
16
Aislinn
I come awake gradually, the details of my surroundings slowly invading my unconscious. The woodsy scent that shouldn’t belong in Manhattan, the deep silence that feels like another blanket on top of the heavy duvet, the soreness of my ass—
The what …?
Shards of memory cut into me, and I freeze, every instinct on alert.
My eyes fly open, the only part of my body that moves. In the unfamiliarity of Damon King’s bedroom, I listen for any sound of him. My captor.
The description isn’t entirely apt. Last night may not have gone as expected, although I certainly did enjoy it.
But I still have no proof of this so-called threat against me. I may now trust King’s ability to deliver an orgasm, but his capacity for truth … not a chance.
More details filter into my brain, one at a time. Including the reason for my sore ass—because I’d fallen on it trying to prove a point.
What that point was, I can’t remember.
I’m not nearly as sore as I should be though. Whatever magical potion King had rubbed into my skin …
I gulp at air as the full memory of last night implodes in my mind. Me, stretched out over his lap. His fingers kneading my muscles, using some kind of ointment that warmed me to my core. Or maybe that effect was due to King’s skilled touch. His very skilled t—
“You’re awake.”
I startle at the deep, rich baritone that belongs to the owner of those skilled fingers.
I’m not ready to engage in a battle of wits with Damon King yet. I need time to get my game face on, time to decide what to use for a suit of armor. Surely there has to be some way around the fact that he holds all the cards and I’ve played my only one. And burned it.
King, however, is neither solicitous nor empathetic. And he certainly doesn’t operate on anyone else’s timetable.
I roll over slowly, reluctantly, the high thread-count Egyptian cotton caressing my skin like silk. “I am,” I admit.
Damon is sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, the deceptively relaxed pose of his body betrayed by the intensity of his gaze. Beneath the covers, my nerve endings are clanging in warning.
“Do you have my things?” My phone. I need my phone.
“You’ll have them shortly. So,” he releases an impatient sigh, “I will acknowledge that locking you in a room last night might not have been the kind of welcome you anticipated. I am willing to discuss alternative arrangements.”
I swallow, then clear my throat. “It was pretty much the opposite of a welcome. Although the only thing we need to discuss is this cartel business.” I pause, hesitating over my word choice. “Last night was … fun. But you can’t expect me to just stay here. I have a life. I have a job.”
“I thought you quit.”
Shit. Working is such an instinct, I’d actually forgotten about the fact that I didn’t have a job anymore. “I still have to go and gather my things, hand off any open work.” That’s not exactly true, but I want out of King’s bedroom, out of his apartment as soon as possible. I need some space to think about what’s transpired in the past twelve hours, and what the hell I’m going to do about it.
“Since your office happens to be in a government building, I’m willing to give on that. But your apartment is off-limits for the time being.”
I grind my teeth. “Assuming you convince me these measures are necessary.”
“They are. Now, let’s set some ground rules.”
I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t scream in frustration. Between falling down at his feet and revealing that I’m scared of the dark, I’ve embarrassed myself enough in front of the man.
“Rules?” I search the strong features of King’s face for any hint of irony, any trace of sarcasm. I am a rule-follower by nature, but not arbitrary ones enforced by arrogant one-night stands.
“Yes. Rules.” King’s big hands slide down his thighs to his knees, fingers flexing just before he stands. “Or you can spend the day here. I’ll send someone in with breakfast shortly.”
Surely he’s joking. He’s not really going to leave me in here. He can’t.
The oxygen in my lungs evaporates as if I’ve ascended Everest.
He can. And he will.
Not again not again not again.
I jolt upright, clutching the duvet to my chest. “Wait!”
King turns, one shoulder leaning against the doorjamb, meeting my expectant gaze with a nonplussed expression. He is dressed in a suit, looking immaculate although not quite freshly showered. As if his day began several hours ago.
“Did you stay here with me last night?”
“Was I supposed to give you another opportunity to commit arson?”
I can’t stand feeling powerless. It is a corset laced too tig
htly around my ribs. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
His lips pull into a disdainful frown. “Don’t even pretend to understand what it means to be desperate, princess.”
I should be offended. But the look in his eyes, the darkness that goes so much deeper than the color of his irises, tells me any protest would be futile.
Besides, like everyone else, King believes I’ve led a charmed life.
And except for two days, twenty years ago, I have.
Two days that changed the trajectory of my life.
Two days that put an end to romantic notions of damsels in distress.
I’ve spent years helping victims of domestic abuse. Women who are trapped. Verbally and physically abused at the hands of men who get off on having all the power, using pain and intimidation to control their victims.
I’m no victim, damn it.
I am a victim’s advocate.
I glare at King now. “I’d like to see what you would resort to if someone locked you in a room.”
“That’s assuming they would have lived to turn the key.”
My breath hiccups at King’s indifferent delivery, as if taking a life is an everyday occurrence for him. “Are you saying I should have tried to kill you?”
His chuckle is deep and sonorous, and so damn sexy. Completely inappropriate for eight-thirty in the morning. “You wouldn’t be the first, and you sure won’t be the last.”
This conversation has gotten away from me. Arson and murder are not my usual pre-coffee fare. Then again, everything about Damon King makes me distinctly uncomfortable. “Noted. Now, let’s talk about the cartel and what my father and Chad did—”
“—shaking down Los Muertos for a bigger cut.”
King’s explanation sounds every bit as awful, maybe even more so, than the clip I’d heard in my father’s office.
Unfortunately, it’s the truth.
I give a shaky nod, my eyelashes fluttering as I blink at him. “And they really believe I’m the key to getting my father to do their bidding?”
“I don’t have every page of Hugo Cruz’s playbook. What I do know is this: he’s not going to let your father push him out of New York.”
“But that’s his job. Ridding the city of drugs and crime is exactly what the Manhattan DA is supposed to do.” In theory, anyway.
“There’s a delicate balance in this city between organized crime and ordinary citizens. Between criminal syndicates and civil servants. That balance is carefully controlled, and if—”
“Controlled by who?”
The look he gives me is annoyance wrapped in disdain. “Me.”
“Oh, of course. I should have known. Do you have an official title, maybe a business card for your services?”
His stare hardens and a flutter of nerves skates along the lining of my stomach, almost a tickle against my ribcage. “Are you through?” King asks.
“Yes,” I say, feeling chastised.
“Cruz sent a few of his most trusted men to New York. Their objective was to kidnap you and take you to Mexico.”
For a moment, I am completely numb, as if King injected me with an enormous vial of Novocain. There is a ringing in my ears, a buzzing. Kidnap.
Me.
Not again not again not again.
I look up, into King’s eyes. Needing to focus on something steady. Something strong.
“That’s—that’s—” I pause to take a gulped inhale. “That’s insane.”
“Mexican cartels aren’t particularly known for their adherence to logic. Kidnapping is a favorite strategy of theirs.”
“Does my father know?”
“More or less.”
More or less. “What does that mean?” But before the hurt of my father’s disinterest can creep in, I sit up straighter, clutching the blanket more tightly against my chest. “Wait—if I’m here, will they go after my mother? You have to protect her.”
“Cruz knows she isn’t well. Taking her is too risky. And the threat has been eliminated. Temporarily.”
“What do you mean temporarily? This is my mother we’re talking about.”
“I mean Cruz’s men are not in a position to hurt you or your mother or anyone else. But he could be sending others.”
“Are they in jail?”
“No.”
“Are they dead? Did you kill them?” I look down at King’s hands. Hands that had caressed me with infinite care just a few hours ago. The thought that he had killed with them should make me sick. I wait for the nausea to come, but it doesn’t.
“I’ve sent Hugo Cruz a message. It will either lead to a renegotiation with your father or another attempt.”
His answer is frustratingly vague. “So … it’s not over.”
“No.”
“I need to go see my mother, make sure she’s okay.”
“You’re not leaving this room at all until you agree to my terms.”
I open my mouth, an objection at the tip of my tongue. I’m not opposed to rules. But I’d prefer to arrive at them by conversation, not command.
Meeting King’s direct stare, my objection turns into something else. Doubt.
“So, once again you’re asking me to take your word. How do I know you’re not lying? Feeding me some ridiculous story to keep me under your thumb?”
He has the nerve to look offended, his jaw tensing and flexing. “You don’t.”
“Honestly, I’m beginning to think I’m facing a very different threat than the one you’re so insistent I believe.”
King reenters the room although he doesn’t take a seat in the chair. He comes directly in front of me, forcing me to crane my head backward to maintain eye contact. “Oh. And what’s that?”
I swallow down a flurry of nerves. “You.”
17
Damon
A ny other woman would be crying and cowering right now. But not the spitfire who defines strength, Aislinn Granville. She questions the source.
I understand why Aislinn believes I’m a threat.
In my own way, I am. I have threatened everything she’s believed about her life, her family, her future.
I am the biggest threat she’s ever faced.
More dangerous than the Los Muertos cartel who only intend to use her as leverage against her father. At least I can protect her from them.
The only one who can protect Aislinn against me, is me.
I’ve coveted her from afar, this woman I’ve wanted for years. Now I finally have her, but I can’t keep her. Once she is safe again, I will release her.
I’ll still keep tabs on Aislinn, of course. But my direct interest will have waned by then, I’m sure of it.
At least now I know she won’t go back to into Chad Lytton’s arms. On paper, Lytton, with his Ivy League diplomas, porcelain veneers, and a pedigree that dates back to the Mayflower, is exactly the type of man she should be with.
Aislinn is a politician’s daughter groomed from birth to become a politician’s wife. Smart and sly, albeit an accessory. A nonessential embellishment.
However, Lytton is a conniving piece of shit. She may not deserve a monster like me, but she sure as hell deserves better than a pretentious poser like him.
There is so much Aislinn doesn’t know. About the father that raised her. About the father she’s never met. About me.
But now is not the time to expose all of those secrets.
There may never be a time.
“As I said, this is not a discussion.” I bite back an aggravated sigh. “I can’t give you proof because I don’t leave loose ends hanging around—for obvious reasons.”
“What you’re saying is, I have no choice but to take your word.”
“Exactly.”
Her pert little nose wrinkles. “It seems a bit too convenient if you ask me.”
“I’m not asking,” I snap.
I had Aislinn’s new phone altered by my tech team, equipping it with multiple secure firewalls that would give even a master hac
ker a run for his money—and no way not to leave a trace behind. If anyone attempts to hack her microphone or camera or use her phone as a location tracker, I’ll know it.
Of course, I have access to all three.
But I’m not willing to count solely on technology to keep her safe. “Two of my men will be with you at all times. Plus, a driver. You will be driven anywhere you need to go, subject to my approval, by one of my men. No cabs, no Ubers, no cars that don’t belong to me. Third, your apartment is off-limits.”
“Subject to your approval?” From this angle, I can see golden flecks within the deep blue of Aislinn’s eyes. Eyes that challenge mine. They glint at me now, flashing daggers of indignation. “Are you going to make me wear a veil, too?”
The prospect of keeping the beauty of Aislinn’s heart-shaped face to myself isn’t unappealing. Hiding the riot of gold tumbling over the skin of her naked shoulders, concealing the curves that are a nearly irresistible temptation. To be the only man to see her, touch her, taste her …
No, it isn’t unappealing at all.
“That can be arranged,” I say, not entirely kidding.
“Or maybe you should hire a body double? You know, really go all Girl With the Dragon Tattoo.” She nearly rolls her eyes out of her head, and I have to stifle a laugh.
Sarcasm must be one of Aislinn’s coping mechanisms when under stress. I ignore her verbal hits and continue. “In the meantime, I’ve had the contents of your closet brought here—”
She shakes her head. “You have no concept of privacy, do you?”
Privacy is an illusion. Anyone who owns a smartphone can be hacked, their movements followed, behaviors analyzed, information stolen. I should know. A hacker by trade, I’ve built a fortune turning privacy into profit.
I’ve also used my skills to study Aislinn’s habits, the layout of her home, her personal and professional relationships. She would never believe me, but when it comes to her, I’ve used her privacy for protection. “These are my terms. A simple yes or no is all—”
“Yes, okay? Yes, I accept your terms. Even if they do feel a bit … excessive.”