by Tara Leigh
I take an inordinate amount of pleasure at Aislinn’s capitulation, although it is slightly offset by the “For now,” she mutters beneath her breath the second my back is turned.
I pivot on my heel, giving her a look indicating in no uncertain terms that I’ve heard her before adding, “You’ll find your clothes hanging in the closet, as well as a new phone and laptop.”
“My new… what? You can’t do that. There’s information on them I need. I want my phone and my laptop.”
Aislinn’s legs dangle off the side of the bed, her smooth, shapely calves and small feet hovering several inches above the rug. “It is because I know just how easily your privacy can be stolen that I’ve replaced them. All of your photos and documents have been transferred, as well as any apps with acceptable firewalls.”
Her jaw drops slightly. “How … I have passwords.”
“Like I said, privacy can be stolen.”
She pins me with an intense stare. I should turn away, but I’m frozen by the mix of exasperation and submission swirling inside her eyes.
Her lips twist upward in an expression that is barely a distant relative of a smile. “Apparently, so can people.”
18
Aislinn
K ing announces one last rule before he leaves. “All of this stays between us. Only us.”
Us.
The combination of the word itself, and the steely voice it’s delivered in, sends a shiver down my spine. I don’t want to be an us with King. The man is a monster. A predator.
Dirty and dangerous. Probably deadly.
My head knows this, but my traitorous body doesn’t. Unfortunately, my body just wants him.
I take a deep breath, my eyebrows lifting to convey my incredulity at his most recent demand. “How am I going to explain your two hired guard dogs when I show up at the office?”
His expression doesn’t soften at all. “You’ve only just started working for your father. Say that a threat was made against a previous client and you’ve been advised to take precautions until it’s neutralized.”
His rehearsed delivery grates on my nerves. I feel like I’m caught in the plot of a bad Hollywood drama. “And if I’m not able to lie as well as you?”
“No one lies as well as I do, Aislinn. But you were raised in New York, in politics. I’m sure you’ll manage. Besides, I thought you were just going to retrieve your things.”
I think I’m purposely trying to forget that I’ve quit. Until yesterday, I’ve never quit anything in my life. And I can’t even start interviewing for a new one right away either—not until this Los Muertos business has been settled.
I blink and, like a ghost, King is gone. It’s unnerving, the way he can come and go so swiftly. So silently. Damon King is like a shark camouflaged by the color of the ocean—invisible until it is too late, his sharp teeth slicing through skin, breaking through bone, leaving behind only blood in the water.
Making me wonder if I would be better off taking my chances with the drug lord.
Wrapping a sheet around my body in case King sneaks up on me again, I walk into the master bath, noticing that the toiletries from the other bathroom have been moved in here as I grapple with the shower. There are so many knobs and levers it’s like trying to operate a spaceship. But once I step inside, I realize it’s more like a car wash. Water comes at me from all angles, at varying degrees of pressure I can’t figure out how to control.
My body is too sore, too sensitive. After a particularly aggressive nozzle sends a bolt of electricity through a nipple, I find myself shielding my breasts with one hand while shampooing my hair and washing my body with the other.
I finish in record time, more on edge than I was before I got in. My grip on the hair dryer is unsteady, and when I pick up the mascara wand, I send a little prayer skyward that I won’t poke my eyes out.
It’s a relief when I go in search of my clothes. The first door I try reveals a closet bigger than the bedroom of the apartment I’m prohibited from returning to and could easily be photographed for a spread in GQ. Long rows of dark, tailored jackets and crisp white shirts, polished shoes in shades of black and brown. And it smells like King’s cologne. I close my eyes, breathing deep, wishing the scent that clings to his skin like a shadow wasn’t quite so alluring.
Then, realizing what I am doing, I shake my head and jump back into the hall, slamming the door shut with a bang.
I don’t want to like anything about that man.
The next closed door reveals another closet, identical to the one belonging to King except that it displays my wardrobe as enticingly as a posh Madison Avenue shop.
I am not too overwhelmed by recent events to dodge the wave of closet envy. Until today, I hadn’t thought of my own as tiny—it is typical by Manhattan standards. But standing in the doorway of this room, with its center island, chandelier, cushioned bench, and custom cabinetry, I am now thoroughly unimpressed by my single rod and Container Store shoe racks.
I barely own enough clothes to do this closet justice. Of course, setting fire to half my wardrobe hasn’t helped.
With a small sigh, I open the wide top drawer of the island. Artfully arranged on the black velvet lining is my jewelry—elegant, classic designs purposely chosen not to invite excessive attention. Unlike my mother, I don’t yet own jewels worthy of being stored in a safe.
The drawer below it holds half a dozen bras, neatly folded and arranged in rows. The one below that holds my panties, also neatly folded and arranged in rows.
I try to push aside the uneasy feeling that skates over me at proof that someone else—someone I don’t know—has rifled through my belongings and handled my underwear.
With enough reasons to be furious, I don’t need to add another.
Clasping a bra behind my back, I consider my options. Like King, I have my own version of a uniform. Black skirts that hug my figure without showing much skin and draped silk tops that have a sexy but still professional vibe. I’m reaching for a gray one when I abruptly choose a coral top. Maybe a cheerful color will inject some optimism into my outlook.
I take a minute to scroll through my accumulated emails and messages. Finding nothing urgent, I slip my new phone and laptop into a leather tote bag and step into a pair of studded Christian Louboutin stilettos with a dominatrix vibe, squaring my shoulders as if I’m heading into battle.
The men waiting in the hall greet me with a nod. “Miss Granville, we’ll be accompanying you today.”
I wonder if they witnessed their boss carrying me behind a closed door, naked and struggling. I don’t bother asking.
Occupied by my own thoughts, the drive downtown passes quickly. Thankfully, their credentials are in order and we pass through security without a hitch.
With office space at a premium, I’d temporarily commandeered a small conference room, situated between my father’s office and Chad’s. It was only supposed to be until my father’s campaign kicked off, but now I won’t be needing it at all.
Ignoring the men who take up positions outside my door, I power up my new laptop and try not to be bothered by the fact that someone—King or one of his lackeys—accessed all of my files. Everything from my wallpaper to the arrangement of my folders is exactly the same. Had King not told me he’d swapped out my computer, I would never have known.
I grit my teeth as I pull up my calendar and Evernote app, meticulously forwarding any work product directly to Chad and then deleting it from my hard drive and cloud storage. I want nothing to do with my father’s campaign. Nothing tying me to his criminal activity.
I’m halfway through when I notice movement in the doorway. Chad is glaring at me from around a set of wide shoulders blocking his way into my makeshift office.
Maybe it’s not so bad having a bodyguard.
“Aislinn, tell him to step aside before we have a problem.”
My lips twitch as I fight an inappropriate smile. A problem is exactly why Chad is currently barred from my office.
Chad adjusts the lapel of his suit as he enters my office, shutting the door behind him. “Who the hell are they?”
Blinking, I am stunned to realize that Chad seems to be mad at me. An indignant flush works its way up my chest. “For right now, they are the solution to a problem I had no part in creating and want nothing to do with.” A problem I’m still not certain actually exists.
“What are you talking about?” Chad’s question is drenched in skepticism.
I stand up from my chair. Chad isn’t as tall as King, and with my four-and-a-half-inch heels we’re nearly eye to eye. “Damon King sent them with me.”
Chad’s face breaks into a grin. “Ah, so you did reach out to him. I told your father you were just blowing off steam. I knew you wouldn’t quit.”
“First of all, I did not reach out to him. The guy showed up at my place last night. And second—”
“Is that why you told me not to come over—because you were with King?”
Chad’s sudden bout of jealousy rubs me the wrong way. “Seriously?” The word comes out strident, a reflection of my aggravated nerves. I take a breath, shooting Chad a glare. “And no, I haven’t changed my mind. I’m just here to offload the work I’ve done so far. You can use it as you see fit.”
“Look, I know this is all a shock to you. But this is what politics is. Moving shit from one side of the street to the other. Your father’s just the guy that gets to decide which street gets swept first, and who holds the broom.”
“That’s your analogy?” I run my tongue over my front teeth and shake my head. “Lackluster at best, and completely unconvincing. Actually, it was pathetic. Now, do you mind?” I gesture at my open laptop and scattered files. “I have a lot to get done today.”
“You’ll come around, Aislinn. I have faith in you.” Chad flashes a patient smile as if he’s dealing with a newbie reporter. But then he captures my hand, his thumb pressing against the center of my palm. “But I hope that doesn’t mean you’re quitting me, too?”
His tone has turned conciliatory, and part of me wants to step within the warm circle of his arms and dispel this uncomfortable tension that now exists between us. He is my closest friend.
A long moment passes as I stare down at the sight of our entangled hands.
Twenty-four hours ago, I would have welcomed his touch. But now … now I’m heartbroken and confused. And feeling more than a little guilty. Chad and I haven’t been in a committed relationship in years. But there is a commitment between us. Almost an unspoken agreement that someday, we’ll wind up together. Eventually.
But Chad is not the man occupying my thoughts. And his touch is no longer welcome.
I gently slip my hand from his. “I really need to finish up here.”
19
Damon
A string of curses, in a variety of languages, falls from my lips as I read the alert coming across my phone.
A judge has signed off on a search warrant for the home of Los Muertos’s New York money launderer.
Goddamn him. That fucker doesn’t know when to stop.
Just last week, Granville authorized a raid of their biggest stash house. And that was on top of seizing the contents of a cargo ship docked in New York Harbor the week before.
I fire off a hasty series of encrypted messages that will result in the removal of whatever damaging information could possibly be found in the money launderer’s Upper East Side apartment … and probably the man himself.
Sending Cruz the severed head of one of his soldiers was a calculated risk designed to send a clear message: Aislinn is off limits.
Right now every subpoena, every seizure, every search warrant is like waving a red flag at a bull. And charging bulls don’t negotiate.
Until a new agreement is hammered out between them, Granville needs to dial it down.
Which is why I’m sitting behind his chief of staff’s desk when he returns to his office.
Let’s just say, Lytton isn’t exactly happy to see me.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” His voice is an abrasive whisper, not quite loud enough to draw the attention of anyone else in the sea of cubicles that take up the majority of the floor.
“Close the door,” I say, not bothering to take the heels of my shoes off Lytton’s mahogany desk.
He does, but makes no attempt to come toward me. “I can have security in here—”
“You think a pair of rent-a-cops will keep you safe? Is that what they taught you in that Ivy League tower?” My gaze briefly flicks to the diplomas hanging on his walls. “I’m going to give you some advice, free of charge. You should take it to heart—if you want yours to remain beating.”
Lytton pales as he crosses his arms over his chest. “That sounds like a threat.”
I shrug. “Semantics.”
Swinging my feet to the floor, I stand up and cross the room until I am just a few inches from Lytton. The sour smell of his fear permeates the air. “You’re getting too damn greedy. Frankly, I’d sooner kill you than rescue you, but you’re not the one who’s going to wind up as a pawn on Cruz and Granville’s chessboard.”
His eyes widen. “I’m not about to be the next guy you make eat his own heart like that Albanian son of a bitch you took out last week, Kin—”
I jab a finger into his chest. “No. You don’t get to say my name. You have a losing hand. Are you and your boss really so fucking stupid you think that search warrants and subpoenas won’t lead right back to you? They already have—and you know who you’ve put at risk?”
He skirts the question. “James said you agreed to look out for Aislinn until this matter was settled.”
Agreed? Granville had practically cheered when I told him my price for cleaning up his mess was his daughter. “You’re making my job difficult.”
“Are you saying you’re not up to the task?” Lytton reaches for his phone. “Maybe I should handle her security myself.”
I knock it out of his hand and it flies across the room, landing on the ground with a sharp crack. “Your security sucks. Aislinn is staying with me until I’m satisfied she won’t be kidnapped the second she walks out her door.”
His already pale face blanches a pasty yellow. “She’s staying with you?”
I am about four inches taller than Lytton, and I find myself looming over him, my shoulders broadening from implied intimidation. “Yes.”
And just what are you going to do about it, bruh?
I bite down on the question that would have sprung from my lips if I was still in prison. It’s been years since my release, but the thug I became behind bars is held at bay by the thinnest of margins.
Lytton clears his throat and steps around my shadow. “Tell Hugo Cruz this is the cost of doing business in New York. He’s going to have to take a few losses. After the election, we’ll back off again.”
“The election isn’t until next year. You think Cruz will give up hundreds of millions of dollars on the hope that Granville will look the other way once he’s mayor?”
“Convince him. Because I want Aislinn back. She was never yours to take, King.”
Aislinn has always been mine.
He glances at his phone but doesn’t pick it up, as if he thinks I’ll kick him when he’s down. He’s right. The opportunity might prove too tempting to resist.
“I’m not your stooge, Lytton. And I’m not going to sell a bad deal to Hugo Cruz, or anyone else.” My temper flares with rage as I stalk past him, purposely ramming his shoulder with mine. “And, just so we’re clear, you’ll get Aislinn back when I’m good and ready to let her go.”
20
Aislinn
“I s he in, Shelly?”
My father’s assistant has guarded his office door since I was in pre-school, since the days assistants were called secretaries. Shelly followed him from his tenure
as partner at a prestigious law firm to his current role as a public servant.
On the rare occasions my mother would drop by my father’s office with me in tow, Shelly would beckon me to her desk and slowly open her top drawer, pretending the stash of candy inside was our little secret.
Back then, my father made a fuss over me, too.
That was a long time ago. Before—
I stop myself. I don’t want to think about the moments that put an end to my childhood. I’ve been thinking about them too much lately.
Shelly’s face brightens as she looks up from a stack of paperwork. She hasn’t offered me candy in years, but her smile is always a treat. “For you, of course,” she says cheerily, before noticing the men following me. “But let me check—”
I hold up my hand. “Don’t worry, my friends will wait out here.” Pointing to the small reception area, I add for their ears only, “We aren’t at the meeting-the-parents stage of our relationship yet.”
Ignoring their distinctly displeased expressions, I continue past Shelly’s desk and let myself into my father’s office after a quick knock. “Hey, Dad.”
Glancing up from his computer, he looks at me, not bothering with a hello. “You came to your senses?” My father’s thick head of hair is more salt than pepper, his skin more florid, and his air of impatience seems to be growing stronger with each passing year.
I take a seat in one of the chairs opposite his desk. “If you’re asking whether I’ve changed my mind, the answer is no. I’m only here to clear out my space.”
His scowl is withering. “That audio is never going to see the light of day. You’re overreacting.”
“Overreacting? What you’re doing is illegal. Criminal. If I wasn’t your daughter, I would have already notified the police.”
He doesn’t flinch. “But you are. And you won’t.”
I dig my nails into the worn leather of the chair, not responding.
“I understand you’re staying with King.”
“For now.” I leave out the parts about nearly burning his place down, my naked massage, sleeping in King’s bed, and especially the kidnapping plot. “I just came to tell you that I forwarded everything I was working on to Chad.”
