The question threw me off balance.
My price—he wanted to know my price. He intended to PAY for my silence. Well. He really must be a very rich man, because if the first thing he said was “name a number,” then he didn’t care about money at all. That was the kind of thing that only happened in a movie. Who, in this world, can ask something like that without worrying in the slightest about what the answer will be?
Apparently, this “Alexander Baryshnikov.”
“…Can’t we do this later? The baby is hungry.”
“No. First things first. I need to know it now,” he replied, and his tone sounded offended to me. His fierce eyes were on me again in a threatening posture. The little girl squirmed in his arms, and Andre whined louder. “Just name a number, Johanna.”
Hearing him say my name was even more te
