On guard for the first sign of goons or the sickly sweet scent of roses, she let Amelia lead her past the room that had been the site of last night's orgy and behind the double staircase. Sunlight streamed through the large windows into the small room hidden away from direct exposure from the rest of the house. The wood-paneled walls, partnered with the overstuffed furniture, gave the already tiny room an oppressive feel that made her skin crawl. A tea tray sat on a small coffee table near a grouping of four green and white striped chairs.
When she moved to sit in the chair closest to the window, Amelia tightened her grip on Bianca's arm. The woman had more strength in her slender fingers than expected. The other woman's squared-off nails bit into her skin, setting off all sorts of warning bells and whistles.
"Why don't you sit by me? We can't let Oliver have you to himself right away." The smile curling Amelia's blood red lips didn't reach her silver eyes.
"I've been looking forward to chatting with you, so that works out perfectly." She sat down next to Amelia, her back to the entrance, and watched the other woman pour tea into delicate china cups decorated with pale yellow flowers.
Maybe it was just latent jealousy? Even open couples like the Davies-Smythes had to have insecurities, right?
It was logical, but she couldn't put all of her faith into that explanation. Something was off. Plastering the socially-acceptable smile she'd learned her first year at St. B's to avoid spending a night in the closet, she listened to Amelia prattle on and on about the superiority of English tea to American tea.
Sneaking a peek out of the corner of her eye at Taz, she realized she wasn't being paranoid—or if she was, she wasn't the only one drowning in creepy vibes. His jaw was tight enough to be wired shut and he was drumming the Fifth Symphony on his kneecaps. The way his chair was angled had his back to the door and the sun shining through the window hitting him right in the eyes, but she doubted that was the reason for his strained expression. Something was wrong.
"And that's why one should never microwave tea, but allow it to steep until it is ready." Amelia looked up, a flash of cruelty sailing across her face before her mask settled back in place, and then set down her cup without even a clink of china on china. "There you are, darling. Perfect timing."
Bianca was in the process of turning to look at Oliver when the cool press of metal against her temple stopped her.
Everything went still for half a second before panic-laced adrenaline slammed into her. Her fight or flight instincts had her gunning to move, to fight, to do something, but she forced herself to take a breath and assess. Her pulse slowed, her thinking cleared. It was what Taz had taught her to do at the gym, to find and exploit her opponent’s weakness, because everyone had one.
Before she could exhale, Taz leapt from his chair.
The click of the gun's safety sliding back stopped him from taking a step toward her.
"Don't even think of it, either of you," Oliver said as he wrapped her ponytail around his free hand and yanked her head back hard. "You took Ms. Sutherland here away from us last night before we got a chance to talk with her one-on-one, so it was very considerate of you to bring her back this morning."
"What are you talking about?" Taz bit out the question, his hands curled into deadly fists at his side and barely restrained rage giving him a mad man's edge that must have scared the shit out of his opponents in the ring.
Oliver pivoted just enough to point his nine millimeter at Taz. "Don't take another step. I promise I'm an excellent shot."
He didn't move forward, but he didn't retreat either.
Instead he slid his gaze over to hers and in a heartbeat it was like being in the ring with him as she practiced jabs and hooks. They'd worked together for months, and she'd memorized his body language long before she'd ever gotten to touch him like she had last night. Understanding flashed between them. He was biding his time, waiting for the Davies-Smythes to show their soft pink underbelly. Then they'd strike. Together.
"Please, let's not pretend anymore," Amelia said, all of the cultured formality in her voice giving way to a flat Midwestern twang. "We'll lose the fake British accent and you stop lying about why you're here. She's gone, you know."
"Gidget was here." She sat up and snapped forward in her chair, only to be cruelly jerked back by Oliver's death grip on her hair.
"Quite the troublemaker, that one," Oliver said, his own British giving way to a Boston accent. "She proved to be more difficult of a test subject than we expected."
"Where is she?" They had to find her, and the easiest way to get information from the happy-little-psycho couple was to keep them talking.
Amelia shrugged. "They didn't tell us when they took her and since the less we know, the more likely we are to stay alive, neither Oliver or I asked."
"Are those really your names?" Taz asked as he shifted his feet and let his hand drop casually to the table lamp on the end table next to his chair.
"Does it matter?" Amelia laughed. "We'll be Harold and Elizabeth or Timothy and Sandra or some other couple before anyone finds your body or realizes that Kitten here is missing."
"You're not taking her." Concrete was weaker than the conviction in Taz's tone.
"Not us. Someone else wants her. Has wanted her and the others from St. Bernadette's all along," Amelia said. "That Gidget girl was just the first. But our debt will be paid off by handing you over."
Oliver's grip on her hair loosened. She gave Taz the smallest of nods. He dropped his gaze sharply to the floor in an unspoken message before bringing it back to her face. Another tiny, quick nod.
He winked and his fingers curled around the lamp. She slunk down to the floor and ducked. The air whistled overhead as the lamp Taz sent flying cut through the air above her.
Then all hell broke loose.
* * * *