Page 31 of Sigma

“Fine.” I lift my hands. “I’ll take a shower.”

A standoff, then. He waits expectantly.

I cross my arms over my chest. “You think I’m just going to strip down and take a shower in front of you? You don’t get a free show.”

“Your clothing is filthy. I’m going to have it incinerated.”

“Fine. I’ll toss it out there. I’m not undressing in front of you.”

His eyes harden. “You are still a captive, Miss Roth. If I wish to view the property which I have acquired, I will do so at my leisure.” His English is so formal, almost archaic at times, his accent lending it a very old-world aristocratic tone.

I almost miss it when it happens: his hands move in a blur, one bunching in the front of my tank top, the other lancing out and slicing down.

The whole thing occurs in an eye blink.

My tank top is sliced open from top to bottom, baring my belly and the insides of my breasts. I gasp, jaw hanging open. I’m too stunned to move, to react.

He reaches out with the knife, and I freeze stone still—he uses the tip of the knife to brush the strap of the now-ruined shirt over my shoulders on one side and then the other…the garment slips backward and tumbles to the floor.

I’m naked from the waist up. My nipples pucker as his eyes rake over me, lingering blatantly.

I’m trembling now, fear leaving me breathless and paralyzed.

He’s not done.

His fingers hook into the waistband of my tennis skirt and his knife slashes downward—it’s faster than a snake bite. At no time does the knife even so much as whisper against my skin.

Sliced open but for an inch or two near the very hem, the skirt slips past my hips to the floor.

Now I’m clad in nothing but a yellow thong, and I cannot even force my hands to move to cover myself.

That knife is too quick, and I’ve felt its razor-sharp edge.

I shake, and stare at him in fear.

His finger, the index, curls against my belly, slowly, as it hooks into the elastic of my thong, the tip of the knife a hair’s breadth from my navel. “How intimately acquainted do you wish to become with this little knife of mine, Corinna?” he asks, his voice a low, caressing murmur.

Hands shaking, knees threatening to give out, I take the hint for the command it contains; renewed fear now breaks my paralysis, and I wrench my limbs into obedience. Tug the thong down past my hips, fear heightening every sensation, every sense. I feel the straps slipping over my hips, the string sliding down between my buttocks. I smell him, the soap and cologne and maleness spicy and heady in my nostrils.

I wiggle my hips to remove the undergarment the rest of the way, let it fall to the floor and step out of it.

I want to cover.

Huddle.

Cower.

I refuse to be cowed, however, even if fear creates prudent obedience in me.

I stand tall, hands at my sides, and meet his eyes.

His nostrils flare, and he breathes in sharply. Holds it. His eyes scour my curves, lingering, almost caressing. His expression gives nothing away, however.

Abruptly, he pivots on a heel and strides away. “Shower. Be dressed and waiting at the door in thirty minutes.”

My clothing is still in a pile on the floor. “I thought you were burning my offensive clothing.”

He halts. Turns back. Regards me steadily, his eyes now on mine rather than my naked body. He scoops up the shirt and skirt, and then the thong; without another word, he stalks away and I hear the door close and lock.