Page 23 of Peyton's Price

The fact she couldn’t drive a speedboat was a problem for another day. She had to pretend to be docile. But acting weak and frightened went against her nature.

You are frightened.Being honest about that might be the best tactic. But after spending years trying to hide her emotions, letting that fear show felt like defeat.

Voices in the hall interrupted her pity party. Suddenly, none of her reasoning was worth a damn. She wasn’t going to let anyone touch her without a fight.

Peyton grabbed the nearest object—a vase—but the damn thing didn’t budge. It was glued to the surface. Abandoning it, she spun, searching for anything else she could use as a weapon. Nothing came to mind. She ran to the bureau and tugged it open, swearing when she found it empty.

Everything is a weapon.Liam had told her that when she was sixteen. He’d been showing her and Maggie some self-defense moves in the then-new Caislean gym.

The drawer came out easily. She raced to the door, standing just behind it. The voices faded. For a second, Peyton thought she had overreacted once again, but then there was a knock. When she didn’t answer, the door cracked open and began to swing toward her.

All Peyton saw was a bright golden-white shock of hair. She swung the drawer up high with all her might, trying to hit the newcomer on the head, but she lost her balance in the process.

The man must have heard the movement, but he didn’t have enough time to get out of the way, not completely. He managed to get his hand up, partially shielding him from the blow. However, she came crashing down on him next. They hit to the floor together.

Peyton landed on his long body. It was like throwing herself against a brick wall—a wall covered in a fine suit.

Her new owner had arrived.

* * *

The stranger lifteda hand to his temple. His fingers came away stained red with blood. Peyton scrambled away as three uniformed goons ran into the room. One hurried to help his boss up while the other two ran toward Peyton.

“It’s okay,” the man said, waving them away. He stood, brushing himself off with his non-bloody hand, then he did the most shocking thing she could have imagined. He laughed.

“Well, Peyton, I must say you don’t disappoint. You’re exactly as advertised.”

Her first blurry impression had been that he was old, with white hair, but he was, in fact, incredibly young. Mid-thirties at the most. His hair was a light white-blonde, very Scandinavian in appearance, with an accent to match.

Standing, he was an intimidating figure—tall and broad-shouldered with a muscular frame that was lean and long. His face was disturbingly handsome with sculpted cheekbones and ice-blue eyes.

Why couldn’t his outsides match his insides? Shouldn’t villains be ugly?

After a moment of staring at each other, he signaled his men with a little motion of his hand. They disappeared out the door without a murmur.

“What does that mean?” she asked, hoping to stall whatever was coming.

Keep them talking. That was what the television said to do when confronted by someone who wanted to hurt her. Except he hadn’t taken a step toward her. He also hadn’t asked his people to tie her up.

She continued backing away, putting an armchair between them. Peyton eyed the matching drawer on the bureau, but she stopped herself from reaching for it. It wouldn’t be an effective weapon if he saw it coming.

“I cooperated with the slavers. I did everything they told me to,” she elaborated. “I won’t be any more trouble—I swear.” Peyton shifted to stand just in front of the remaining drawer. She put her hands behind her back, hoping he didn’t notice.

His lips quirked. “I know well enough to know you’ll never stop trying to get away. I would expect no less after the way you grew up. I, too, had a challenging childhood.”

Peyton narrowed her eyes. “You don’t know me,” she said in a low voice.

What the hell was this guy playing at? Unless the slavers had pulled her bio from the Caislean website…but the information there had been very brief. She’d wrote it herself, and she made sure it included little personal data.

“I know quite a bit about you actually,” he said, immediately contradicting her. He put his hands in his pockets. “Why don’t you try opening the drawer instead of hurling it at my head this time?”

When she didn’t move, he sighed. “They’re clothes. I thought you’d like to change into something more comfortable before dinner.”

He started for the door, but twisted around to face her at the threshold. “I originally planned to have our talk now, but I think I’ll go wash up and find a bandage. Why don’t you have a hot shower and join me in the dining room in half an hour? Stop any staff member you see. They’ll show you the way.”

He was gone before she could think of a decent reply.

“What the hell was that?” she said aloud to the empty room.

---