Page 44 of Sigma

He stares at me as he speaks. “Your daughter is ravishingly beautiful, Mr. Roth. Truly. Now, I’m a man who appreciates and…collects…beautiful things. I’d really rather not damage any of this…” he steps closer to me, and trails a fingertip over my throat, wiping through the blood, down, and horizontally across the swells of my cleavage, “…beautiful golden skin.” His finger leaves a reddish smear.

I can’t breathe. I’m afraid. So afraid. He’s an unknown—will he hurt me? I don’t know. I sense he may not. Threaten to, and maybe small things as evidence of his willingness to do worse. But if Mom killed his men in defiance of whatever he wanted her to do, and he hasn’t punished me to get at her…maybe he won’t actually hurt me.

But yet…

Again, I find myself not revolted by him, but almost…fascinated.

What’s driving him? Revenge?

It’s a twisted plot he’s cooked up, if so. Kidnap me, and then what? Get money from my parents? He doesn’t need money. It could still be a factor, because you can never count out greed as a motive. But…it just doesn’t seem to be about money.

If it was pure and simple revenge, he’d have just killed me to hurt them.

But he’s said several times he doesn’t want to hurt me.

If anything, he seems as intrigued by me as I am him.

Which is…fucked up.

I can’t breathe, with his finger sliding across my skin, across my breasts. When did he put away the knife?

“You want your daughter back intact, Mr. Roth?” He holds my gaze. “Sell RTI.”

A pause, and a laugh. “I’m perfectly serious. The proceeds will—” he halts, as if Dad interrupted him. “Don’t think you understand me or my motivations, Valentine Roth. You do not. You’ll put the money into an account I will provide to you. And you know what will happen to it then? It will be disbursed a hundred million, billion ways. Scattered like ashes on the wind. I don’t want yourmoney,Mr. Roth. I cannot be bought.”

Another pause, and I don’t have to hear what Dad says to know what his next question is.

“WhatdoI want? I want your ruin.” He ends the call and tosses the phone aside onto the couch. His eyes go to mine. “Do not hesitate, next time I ask something of you.”

I say nothing.

His fingers touch my shoulders. Trace the crimson strap around my neck. My skin prickles at his touch. Every part of me is attuned to his nearness, reacting to him. It’s physiological, chemical, animal. I swallow hard. My heart pounds.

I have no time to react or even flinch when his hand moves, the knife appearing, the flat of it pressing against my chest, sliding up to my neck. I don’t breathe, don’t dare even blink, watching the cold black metal skating over my flesh, nearer and nearer to the strap.

Closer, closer.

The tip halts a hair’s breadth from my throat, where it already pierced my skin.

“Don’t, please,” I whisper. “Don’t. Don’t hurt me.”

“Hurt you?” His stillness is uncanny—no part of him moves, except his eyes as he watches me, stares into me, his emotions guarded, hidden. “I’d as soon splash paint across an original Van Gogh, or smash a Ming Dynasty vase with a hammer.”

“Then what are you—”

My voice gives out when he flicks the knife through the strap.

The dress sags, the weight of my breasts pushing the bodice down. I spill out over the fabric, the heat of his presence and fear and embarrassment at my nudity and a thousand emotions all conspiring against me—my nipples harden under his gaze.

My body is betraying me.

His exquisite features are carved from stone, betraying no emotion. His eyes skate over my breasts. His chest expands as he breathes in deeply.

That’s a reaction.

He only looks at me for a long moment. Then his voice rasps out of his throat. “Remove it.”

I don’t dare hesitate. I clutch the fabric where it clings to my hips, preventing the dress from falling off. Tug it down, wiggling my ass from side to side to slip out of the dress. He watches every movement, every jiggle and bounce of my breasts.