Page 17 of Found

"Work for? I don't know what you mean."

"Tsk, tsk." He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Don't play dumb with me, Charlotte. You're an art historian. You were in Edinburgh during the festival with a large sum of cash. So, I'll ask again, who do you work for?"

He had researched her. He would know she had a family. "I work at a golf club in Connecticut. In America."

"I know where Connecticut is." He laughed, pouring himself another whiskey. "I know you left with him. I watched you run out of the pub and down the back street. What's his name?"

"Sinclair?"

"Good girl. Now we are getting somewhere. You're smarter than your traitorous friend."

"Imogen?"

A brief look of confusion crossed his eyes. "Your roommate?"

"Let her go. She's innocent in this."

"Did Sinclair hire you to try to swindle me out of my painting?" he asked dryly. "Were you there to make a counteroffer? This isn't nearly enough money." He pointed to the stacks of cash. "But it could be a down payment or goodwill offering."

Charlie looked at him, confused. "Honestly. I don't know what you're talking about."

He put his hand over hers, the pressure just shy of painful. "You wrote your thesis on Klimt. The exact artist of the piece I was purchasing. That's not a coincidence. Tell me about Sinclair."

"He kidnapped me. Took me. I swear to you, I don't know anything about him."

"Charlotte, I have other ways of getting information. Please don't make me hurt you or Imogen." His eyebrow raised in a sinister fashion as he said her friend's name.

Tears streamed down her face. "His name is Sinclair. That's all I know."

"Where have you been for two days?"

"North of here. Caithness. But I promise I don't know anything else."

He stood up and came behind her, lifting her long brown hair off her neck and putting it over her shoulder. He ran his hand down the side of her face and whispered in her ear, "I'm going to need more than that, sweet Lottie. I have Imogen in the other room. Nicholai wants to fuck her." He rang his bell again. Nicholai came back. "Tell Ivan I'll need his services." He waited for the man to leave. "You owe me a piece of art. And since you can't produce one, we'll create it ourselves." His breath sent a shiver down her spine. "Tell me, what inspires you?"

"I'm not an artist. I studied art history," she said, afraid to move.

"But it still evokes something in you." He ran his finger along her neck. "It still calls to you."

"At one point maybe, not anymore." His touch caused goosebumps to erupt on her skin.

"You're not being truthful." He grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling her head back roughly. "Stand up."

She pushed her chair out and stood. He undid the clasps on the suspenders of the pants she wore, letting them drop. She tried stepping back, but he grabbed her arm, digging his fingers into her. "Don't be difficult." Sokolov yanked her forward and she tripped on the bundled material at her feet, falling to her knees. He pulled her boots and socks off, taking the pants with them. "Lift your arms," he said.

"Please don't," she begged. "Please let me go."

He put his finger under her chin, lifting it up so she had to look at him. "You owe me a painting. Now lift your arms."

She did as he said, raising her hands up as he grabbed the sweater, tugging it over her head.

"Tell me why you wanted to study art?" he asked, his voice returning to its clipped cadence.

"I don't know why." Tears streamed down her face.

"We won't be able to create anything if you're not truthful."

Nicholai returned, carrying a folding table, followed by a small man with round glasses perched awkwardly on the edge of his beaked nose. He set down a small case, rubbing his hands together nervously, and licked his lips.