Breach Of Trust

“Sit.” He gestured to the chair in front of him, frowning at a paper in his hand.
Sit. One word. Sit. Like I’m a dog, a stray dog, full of fleas, about to be put out of my misery.
“I’d rather stand. I doubt that this will take long.”
“It will.” He flicked cold brown eyes over her serviceable navy blue suit. It fit her like a glove, the pencil line skirt ending just below the knee. “Sit.”
She didn’t. Even if she had to stand for hours, she wouldn’t sit.
Philippe took out an eight by ten white square, holding it up as if to compare against her face. “I prefer you with your hair down.” His lips twisted disapprovingly at the tight chignon she was sporting. He tossed the glossy piece of paper, print side up, across the desk.
Before her brain told her hands to resist, Anne clasped the photo. Mistake. That was exactly what he wanted. Why would he want that? To shock me. It was a shot of her face, her hair tumbling down all around, the fitted tee shirt, she recognized as the one she wore on Saturday, grocery shopping. Shock me? Consider it mission accomplished. Anne sat down with a thump.
“Why do you have a photo of me?” she asked, her voice not betraying any of her wonderment. Later, she would be proud of how calm she sounded.
“Not a photo, photos.” Philippe dropped a couple more in front of her. “I like this one.” It was of her laughing, out walking her elderly neighbor’s energetic Jack Russell terrier, the lease tangled around her legs.
“But this.” He tilted the photo up so she couldn’t peak. “This one is my favorite.” He
looked at her, thoroughly entertained, the devil dancing in his eyes.