The Masked Siren: Seducing My Enemy

"I'm taking you to Mount Sinai," Julian said, swerving through traffic.

"No," Aine said, her voice raspy. "I don't have insurance. I can't afford the ER copay."

"I have a private doctor. I'll pay for it."

"I don't take charity." Aine pulled his jacket tighter around her. "Just take me home. Please."

He looked at Aine, frustrated. But he nodded. "Where?"

Aine gave him an address. Deep in Brooklyn. A decoy address. A neighborhood where the streetlights didn't work and the cops didn't go unless they were in a squad of four.

Julian frowned. He typed it into the GPS. He didn't say anything, but Aine saw his grip on the steering wheel tighten.

In the dashboard, a small red light blinked. Augustine was watching. He was listening.

In his penthouse, Augustine looked at the map on his tablet.

"She's lying," he said. "That's a slum."

Julian's car pulled up to the curb. A group of men were standing around a burning trash can on the corner. The building looked like it had been condemned ten years ago.

Julian looked out the window, then at Aine. There was horror in his eyes. Genuine shock.

"You live here?"

Aine unbuckled her seatbelt. "This is my life, Mr. Talley. It's not a game for people like me."

She opened the door.

"Wait," he said. He reached out. "Keep the jacket."

Aine paused. She looked at the expensive fabric, then at him.

"Thank you," she whispered.

She ran into the building. The door didn't even lock.

Aine waited in the dark hallway until she heard his engine rev and fade away.

She didn't go upstairs. She went out the back exit, into the alley.

A black sedan was waiting there.

Aine opened the back door and slid in.

Mercer was in the driver's seat. He didn't look back.

"Mr. Haynes requested I bring you to your actual residence," Mercer said. "This area is unsafe."

Aine leaned back, closing her eyes. "He's watching me?"

"He is protecting his asset."

The drive back to Manhattan was silent. When Aine walked into the penthouse, Augustine was sitting on the leather sofa. He had a glass of whiskey in his hand.

He looked Aine up and down. She was still wet, her hair matted, wearing Julian's oversized suit jacket.

"Take it off," he said.

"What?"

"The jacket. It's filthy." His lip curled in disgust.

"It's warm," Aine said, clutching the lapels. "And he gave it to me."

Augustine stood up. He crossed the room in three strides. He reached out and ripped the jacket off Aine's shoulders. He walked to the fireplace and threw it in.

"I bought you new clothes," he said, gesturing to a pile of boxes on the table. Chanel. Dior.

"I don't want your clothes," Aine said. "I'm not a doll."

"You are a reflection of me," he said coldly. "My assets don't dress like refugees."

He was trying to control her. He was trying to buy her.

Aine looked at the boxes. Then she looked at him.

She smiled. She reached down and grabbed the hem of her ruined dress. She pulled it up and over her head, standing there in her wet underwear.

"Since the boss is so generous," Aine said, kicking the wet dress aside. "I suppose I should accept."

Augustine's breath hitched. His eyes raked over Aine's body. For a second, the control slipped.

He turned his back on her.

"Put something on," he growled. "And sleep in the guest room."

Aine watched his rigid back.

Got you.