Page 196 of This Bitter Sweet Temptation
But now…
“Sit down, Miss Blackthorn. Please,” Mr. Talbot clips, gesturing to the chair in front of the desk.
My heart hangs in my throat, beating ferociously as I scan the room again, trying to take in as many details as I can before I move.
That’s what Holden would do, but if there’s a threat, where?
I already regret sending him away, hating how Talbot jumped at the mere suggestion.
I can’t breathe.
I just see his shocked, pained face when I told him to leave.
He knew.
He knew and I made him stand down. Like a spoiled brat, I puffed up and insisted I could handle this alone.
Nothing like a little life to prove me wrong.
Time slows as my eyes dart to every corner.
Pretty, pretty paintings on the wall.
A desk stacked with neat papers and an expensive looking iMac next to Fairfax and his bulging eyes.
A huge vase filled with flowers on a side table, flush with gold details I’d stop to admire if it was any other time.
A window that probably looks out to a side street, covered by thick blinds.
The entire museum is set back from the road, ringed by a black iron fence. Even if I could jump out, there’s no easy, clear escape.
Plus, the door is locked. That’s why Talbot stares me down, stopping by the side of the desk, waiting impatiently for nothing good.
I’m definitely trapped and I don’t know why.
Dragging a slow, harsh breath into my lungs, I face the curator again, who’s pacing by the desk. My hands shake.
“Sit down,” he says, harsher this time.
Yikes. Why didn’t I notice hownervoushe looked this morning?
But I didn’t want to acknowledge the faintest possibility that Holden might be right. I wanted to prove I wasn’t helpless and I never wanted to see him again.
Bitter, catty stuff, and now it’s caught up with me.
I edge toward the seat, biting back the urge to run to the door and scream. I wonder if Holden would even hear me.
It’s an old building and these walls look thick.
The only thing left is to listen to whatever sick demand they’re about to make. I’m their captive in what should be the safest place around.
“Good, good. Thank you,” Mr. Talbot whispers with relief. He collapses on the edge of the desk, throwing his long legs over it as he buries his face in his hands.
What. Is. Happening?
…and if I’m their prisoner, what do they want? Why do they both look like they’re at a funeral?
“Guys, what’s going on? Tell me!” I yell, hugging the black briefcase to my chest like a shield.
