Page 81 of The Puppet Master
What does he see?
“Is that what you want?” he asks at last.
I smile. “It’s not as boring as it sounds.”
His lips purse as he shakes his head. “It doesn’t sound boring at all.”
My smile falls when he doesn’t go on, but his eyes look no less scrutinizing. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, and I hate that. I hate it even more now than I did an hour ago when I hadn’t been able to read a single thought.
“What?” I finally ask, laughing to cover up my discomfort.
He quirks his lips half-heartedly. “Nothing… You just sound kind of flippant. Most people would say they’d take over the company when their fatherretired. Not died. But…” He shrugs.
My face falls as blood drains. I can’t think fast enough to hide my reaction, so instead I look away.
“Hey.” Sawyer rolls onto his side to face me and tucks my hair behind my ear. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head.
“I didn’t mean that as an insult.”
When his hand feels too intrusive, I pull away from his touch. “I know. Sorry, I just…” Deep breath. Our eyes meet. “People have told me I’m too cold. I’m a little … sensitive.”
A smile stretches across his face. “You mean, you don’t like it when people insinuate that you might be a bad person?”
I don’t understand the irony in his voice for several seconds, but when it registers, I return his smile. Though I don’t agree that he and I could ever be compared.
But we do have similar weak spots. The key to lowering Sawyer’s guard is appealing to his humanity. The key to lowering mine is stepping on my shame.
All good information to have.
I clear my throat and focus my attention on the bulge in Sawyer’s shirt. Blowing out a breath, I tap the little shell. “Where did this come from?”
Sawyer pulls the necklace from his shirt and glances down at it. “My island.”
I squint at the chip on the shell. “Did your island have no better options?”
He chuckles, but he isn’t amused. He almost looks sad as he gently tucks the shell away. “It was a gift from a friend. She liked imperfect things.”
“Mm.” I nod while taking in the grief he tries to keep off his face. I can see why he likes to read people, dissect their liveswithout them divulging their secrets. It’s powerful. “Were you one of those imperfect things?”
He doesn’t respond. My mind takes me back to that first day when he told me about his deceased wife. He had tears in his eyes that I found incredible.
“Was she one of the women you…?”
Kidnapped.
Raped.
Brutalized.
He nods. “Her name was Annie.”
I peer into his eyes and don’t bother asking how she died. I already know.
She was poisoned… Somebody tainted bottles of champagne at a charity event she organized. The detectives said it was a criminal group targeting an individual there.
At the time, I thought it was a strange, tragic death. Later, I wondered why he didn’t choose something simpler. Now I know.
