Kidnapped by the Billionaire (11 page)

Her face went pale, but he suspected that was from rage not fear. “You wouldn't dare.”

“You're seriously asking me that question?” He lifted the knife, letting the light glitter along its razor-sharp edge. “I wouldn't advise struggling against a man armed with a blade.”

Abruptly she pushed herself to her feet. She was inches away from him, the blanket held firmly under her arms, her shoulders bare, golden dreadlocks falling down in a shower around her head. Her eyes were bright with anger, vivid against her pale skin. “You wouldn't hurt me,” she said, like she knew it for fact. “You just told me you weren't interested in doing so. Plus you stitched me up last night and cooked me food.”

“Don't mistake that for anything but what it is. I want you in one piece for Jericho, that's all.” He flipped the knife in his hand, an easy demonstration of skill that he hoped would make her think twice about any more arguments. “Last chance, princess. Are you cutting your hair or am I going to have to tie you up and cut it myself?”

Something in her gaze flared. “I hate you.”

“Hate all you want.” He stepped closer to her. “I don't give a shit.” And it wasn't a lie. He
didn't
give a shit
.
The only thing he cared about was taking down the man who had killed Marie. And Violet was the means to that end. That was all.

Yet the fury in her eyes didn't let up and she didn't look away as he reached out for her dreads for the second time, almost as if she was trying to stare him down.

Well, she could try. But if she thought his conscience was going to kick in, she was shit out of luck. He didn't have a conscience. He couldn't afford one.

Taking a bunch of dreadlocks in his fist, Elijah pulled them tight. Her hair must have grown some because there were at least a couple of inches growing out from her scalp. She wouldn't be completely bald at least.

Weren't you supposed to not care about that?

Violet had gone completely still, her posture rigid. She didn't struggle. She only kept staring at him as if she could burn a hole right through his forehead.

Ignoring her, he raised the knife and sliced through the gilt strands. The blade was sharp, cutting effortlessly, barely tugging on her scalp at all.

She didn't protest or try to pull away. She only stood there with her arms folded, the expression on her face one of complete and utter fury.

But he didn't stop. He continued to reach for those long silver-gold tails, cutting them off one by one, until he was standing in a circle of raw, golden silk with Violet in the center.

As he'd cut, the glow of fury in her eyes had grown brighter and brighter, so that by now she was virtually incandescent with rage.

With only three inches of hair on her head, she should have looked smaller and more vulnerable but for some reason she didn't. Her eyes were electric, her features seeming stronger and more clearly defined, no longer overpowered by the wealth of hair. There was a proud slant to her jaw, an elegance to the shape of her head and neck.

Christ. She wasn't merely pretty any longer. She was stunning.

Elijah let the last lock of hair fall to the floor, unable to drag his gaze from her face. Because for all that burning fury in her eyes, she was also trembling.

Something in his chest locked, which was goddamn stupid since he hadn't hurt her, merely cut off her fucking hair. Yet the sight of her trembling made that strange, tight feeling get even tighter.

Then she blinked hard, a small tear escaping to slide down the curve of one pale cheek.

And he couldn't help himself. His hand lifted as if of its own volition to cup that proud jaw of hers, his thumb sweeping across her soft skin to brush away the moisture.

She shivered.

Then she went for the knife.

 

CHAPTER SIX

It was his hand against her skin that did it, the touch gentle yet searing her like a streak of fire. And it broke the strange, furious paralysis that had gripped her. The one that had her wanting to scream and struggle against what he was doing and yet stand very, very still.

Because there was another feeling that had her in its claws. As if with each cut of the knife, a small part of her was being cut away. A part she didn't want and didn't need. Sloughed away like dead skin from a scar.

She didn't know where the feeling had come from or why, but it held her motionless. Torn between the part of her that raged against what he was doing and the still, quiet part that wanted to know why she felt different as each lock of hair fell to the floor. Why she felt she was changing with each pass of the knife.

So that at last she stood there, her head feeling so light she thought it might float away, and as the last lock fell, his eyes went wide, something unreadable flickering in the lightless depths.

A surge of emotion went through her, rage and fear and loss all combining together into one overwhelming wave, making her have to clench her jaw hard and blink to stop stupid tears from falling. But one escaped anyway. Which was when he'd touched her, warm fingers sliding over her jaw, his thumb moving over her cheek.

She moved before he could, reaching for the knife held loosely in his other hand. Not to attack him, since even in the grip of this weird emotional storm she knew she couldn't win against him. But maybe just because she could, because it gave her some power.

He didn't move as she snatched it from him, his fingers falling away from her jaw, that strange expression flickering across his face.

The hilt felt warm against her palm and she held onto it tightly, her breathing coming fast and hard. Her scalp prickled as the air moved over it, no longer protected by the heavy weight of her hair, and she was suddenly conscious all over again that not only was she completely naked except for the blanket, she'd also been completely shorn.

You've got nothing to hide behind now.

She remained motionless as the realization struck her, a great wave of fear making her feel so vulnerable and exposed, she wanted to run away and hide.

Turning abruptly, one hand clutching her blanket while the other clutched the knife, she went quickly toward the hallway, moving in the direction of the bathroom.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

She didn't stop and she didn't turn around. “I want to see what you've done to my head, you bastard.” Well, that too, but mainly all she wanted was to get away from those sharp black eyes and the terrible vulnerable feeling that had gripped her.

In the bathroom, she cautiously approached the mirror, dreading what she'd see.

Then she stopped. And stared.

The young woman in the mirror stared back, spikes of blonde hair sticking up all over her head, making her look a little like an outraged dandelion. Her eyes were very blue and the shape of her face seemed … different. Sharper. More angular.

Violet swallowed, unable to drag her gaze away.

She'd had her dreads for nearly five years and Elijah hadn't been wrong—she'd had them put in to annoy her mother. Hilary had been trying for years to turn her daughter into what Violet could only assume was a younger version of herself. A perfect Upper East Side society wife-in-training. And Violet had just gotten sick of it.

Her mother had refused to speak to her for days afterward and Violet had told herself that was exactly what she'd wanted, thrilled she'd gotten some kind of reaction out of ice-cold Hilary.

But over the years, her hair had started to become something more than merely a subtle dig. It had started to become part of her persona, part of a mask she hadn't even realized she'd been wearing.

Until Elijah had ripped it away.

She tilted her head, not looking at her butchered locks, but at her face. Yes, she looked even more naked without her hair. Yes, she looked vulnerable. But also … there was a strength to her features she'd never seen before.

Who was this woman? This woman who'd been kidnapped and shot at. Who'd sat in that bath and sliced her wrists. Who'd had her hair cut off with a knife.

She was different. Stronger. A woman who didn't need to hide.

What was she hiding from in the first place?

Interesting thought, because Violet herself had no idea.

A movement caught her eye and the sound of boots scuffing on the tiles of the bathroom.

She didn't turn because of course it was Elijah. She could see him rest an arm against the door frame and lean on it, his attention on her.

“If you're worried I'm going to slit my wrists again, you don't need to.” Even her voice sounded different. Firmer somehow and more certain.

He didn't reply, watching her.

Fine. If he wasn't going to talk, then she wouldn't.

She glanced down to see the nail scissors sitting on the vanity so she picked them up and glanced back into the mirror. Then she began to calmly tidy up the ragged ends of her hair.

Elijah kept watching her, not saying a word or making a move toward the knife she'd put down on the vanity. He didn't need to though, because she wasn't going to use it. She was through with desperate measures. It was time for a plan with a little more thought behind it.

The silence was thick and tense, but Violet ignored it as she made a few last cuts before placing the scissors back down on the vanity again then tilting her head in the mirror.

She'd aimed for more of a pixieish look instead of the dandelion thing, and she had to admit, it wasn't a half-bad job. Her head still felt weirdly light, and it was strange to feel air moving over her neck and shoulders, but now that the anger and the fear had subsided, she was left with a weird feeling of … actually, she didn't know what.

Her father was dead. Her brother was presumed dead. Her mother was on some other planet that didn't include her and had always been.

She was alone. And yet …

You can be whoever you want to be now.

Violet turned from the mirror and met Elijah's piercing dark gaze. Held it. “Are we going out or what?”

He didn't even blink at the hard demand in her tone. “You need something to wear.”

“What did you do with my clothes?”

“They were covered in blood so I got rid of them.”

She refused to feel the slight pang of regret that went through her. Those clothes were part of the old her. She didn't need them now. “So what am I going to wear while we get more?”

His gaze narrowed. “Wait there.”

With an abrupt movement, he turned away and went off down the hallway. A couple of minutes later, he was back, a long-sleeved T-shirt in his hand. “Here.” He held it out to her. “You can wear this.”

Violet took it from him and examined it. The faded black cotton was soft, and it must have been one of his because it was very long. It was going to swamp her, but considering she didn't have anything else to wear, perhaps that was a good thing.

“No pants?” she asked.

“I don't have any that will fit you.”

She glanced at him. “But it's cold out.” She didn't have any underwear either, but she'd be damned if she mentioned that.

His dark eyes were unblinking. “I have a jacket you can wear.”

“Okay fine. And then what?”

“What are you talking about?”

“After we've gotten me clothes. Then what?”

The expression on his face closed down. “Then you stop asking me fucking questions. Get dressed. You have five minutes.”

She was ready in two. After he'd mercifully left her some privacy, all it took was to drop the blanket and pull the T-shirt down over her head. The cotton felt soft against her skin and as it fell around her, she was engulfed in the dark, spicy scent of a forest, with the cleaner, sharper scent of new snow. Him …

God, that smell. It made her shiver. Made her heart beat fast and that was just so wrong given everything he'd done to her. But it was also a weapon, wasn't it? A weapon she hadn't discarded yet, no matter what he'd said about manipulating him.

Turning, she looked at herself in the mirror once again. Sure enough, it did swamp her, the hem reaching mid-thigh and the neckline half falling off her shoulder. Jesus, she looked like a little girl playing dress-up with her daddy's shirt.

No, you don't. You're wearing
his
shirt. And you look sexy.

She frowned, staring at herself again. Her shoulder was pale against the black cotton of the loose neckline, and it was painfully obvious she wasn't wearing a bra.

You can use that. There's more than one way to overpower a man after all.

Yeah, but that worked better when the man in question wasn't looming over her and telling her not to play with him. Except … he hadn't looked like he'd minded when his hands were on her the night before. When he'd caressed her breast, his fingers on her nipple gentle yet firm.

Violet caught her breath as her body tightened at the memory. Okay, so she was a little sick for liking that, but she remembered the look on his face as he'd watched her, hunger stark in his black eyes.

You made him drop his guard. You made him want. That's why he's so pissy with you.

Slowly she let out a breath. Oh yeah, he wanted her all right. But he didn't want to want her—that was the issue. He had a weakness and he knew it. A weakness she could exploit if she went about it in the right way.

Yes, that was how to do it. Fuck grabbing his gun or his knife and trying to overpower him physically—that would never work. And she'd blown her one chance with hurting herself, which left using her femininity as the only option. So why the hell not? It wasn't exactly as if she had a lot of other options, and God, he had no qualms about using his superior strength against her. This was
her
advantage, so why not use it? After all, she'd done it before on occasion, with her professors at college—male and female—flirting a little to get extensions on her essays and lecture notes ahead of the class. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn't, but she'd had a pretty good track record.