The Secret Mother And Her Cruel Tycoon

It wasn't a kiss. It was a silencer.

His lips were hard, bruising. He tasted of scotch and mint.

She froze. Her brain short-circuited. The shock of the contact overrode the hysteria.

She tried to push him away, but his chest was a solid wall. His hand came up to cup the back of her neck, holding her in place. He deepened the kiss, his tongue forcing her lips apart, invading her mouth with an arrogance that made her toes curl.

It was aggressive. It was punishing. And God help her, it was grounding.

Outside, the cameras flashed. Pop-pop-pop.

They couldn't see through the tint, but they knew something was happening in the Hoover limo.

Grant turned back to Yvonne, losing interest in the dark car. They walked up the stairs and into the hotel.

Augustine pulled back.

They were both breathing hard. His eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide again.

She stared at him, her lips throbbing.

Then the rage returned.

Smack.

She slapped him. Hard.

His head snapped to the side. The sound echoed in the quiet cabin.

She waited for him to hit her back. To call Jericho.

Slowly, Augustine turned his face back to her. He ran his tongue over his teeth. A slow, dark smile spread across his face.

"Better," he said. "Channel that fire. Don't waste it on tears."

He tapped the partition. "Driver. Take us back."

"What?" she gasped. "No! We have to go in!"

"Not tonight," he said. "Tonight you are a victim. Tomorrow, we make you a weapon. If you go in there now, you lose. You let them see you bleed."

The car made a U-turn.

She watched the Plaza Hotel disappear. She watched Grant and Yvonne disappear.

She slumped back in the seat, defeated.

Back at the penthouse, she went straight to the bar.

She didn't bother with a glass. She grabbed a bottle of vodka and took a swig. The burn was welcome. It numbed the ache in her chest.

"Slow down," Augustine said from the doorway. He had wheeled himself in.

"Go to hell," she muttered. She took another drink.

Ten minutes later, the bottle was half empty. The room was swimming.

She felt reckless. Dangerous.

She walked over to him. She swayed slightly.

She looked down at him in his chair. For once, she was taller.

"You think you own me," she slurred. "Because you bought my debt."

She fumbled with the tiny clutch bag he had given her. She pulled out the black Centurion card he had put in there for "emergencies."

She threw it at him.

It hit his chest and slid into his lap.

"I want to buy you," she announced. "How much? How much for the great Augustine Hoover to be my toy for the night?"

He looked at the card. Then up at her. His expression was unreadable.

"You can't afford me, Aislinn."

"Everyone has a price," she mocked, echoing his earlier words.

She straddled his lap.

It was the alcohol. It had to be. But it was also a desperate gamble. Maybe she could get his wallet, his phone, a key... anything to get out of there. Anything to get back to Leo.

She sat on his thighs, her dress riding up. She grabbed the lapels of his tuxedo.

"I want to forget," she whispered, leaning in. "Make me forget them."

He went still. His hands came up to grip her waist. His thumbs dug into her hips.

"Be careful," he warned, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "You are playing with things you don't understand."

"I don't care."

She kissed him.

This time, she started it. And this time, he didn't hold back.