Likewise he was looking at Tanya as if he couldn't believe his eyes, but then he groaned, demanding of his friend, "You gave up without even trying, didn't you? But you don't have to settle for that, for God's sake," he said in disgust, jerking his head toward Tanya. "I will procure the dancer for you myself."
It took Tanya a moment to comprehend that she had been insulted in the worst way. She wasn't supposed to be pretty, but common decency kept a man's mouth shut about it. But to be made to feel that she wasn't good enough to be the rug they would walk on — that hurt, more than she would have thought possible. That she could be hurt by a few insensitive words, and from a stranger no less, also infuriated her. Two emotions that didn't sit well together raged within her.
Who did they think they were, these strangers, the one sure she could be bought, the other sure no one in his right mind would want to buy her? She wanted to disappear. She wanted to retaliate. First she had to get off the lap of the dark one.
She settled on two out of three, since the arms that had held her were now loosened. She rose with as much dignity as she could muster, carefully placed the gold coins on the table, and mindful that The Seraglio had witnessed a scene just last night and didn't need another, she turned to leave. A wise decision she could have been proud of, but her anger suddenly got the better of her and she swung around and slapped the golden Adonis with all her might.
What happened then was swift, no one's reflexes lagging. Vasili raised his arm with the clear intent of slapping her back, Stefan leaped up and caught his arm, while Tanya unsheathed her knife. But for once she didn't care to make good on her threat, didn't even demand that they leave. While they both stood unmoving, staring at her knife, Tanya backed away, turned, and ran out the back door.
As soon as the wench was gone from sight, Stefan turned on his friend with a snarl. "Vasili, you are about as sensitive as a pig!" At the same instant, Vasili burst out incredulously, "That bitch pulled a knife on me!"
"Not surprising, since you were about to hit her," Stefan noted with disgust.
"Deservedly, after she slapped me."
"Which you deserved."
Vasili shrugged and then grinned. "What does it matter, as long as you have forgiven me my loose tongue. Now, would you like me to find the dancer for you?"
"Idiot, that was the dancer."
Only the merest widening of Vasili's eyes showed his surprise, before he said imperiously, "Then I returned to save you just in time. You may thank me later."
Chapter 5
After hearing Serge's discouraging news that the Dobbs woman was another lead who had been dead many years, Vasili had been in favor of returning to The Seraglio last night, but Stefan had talked him into waiting until the morning. It was ironic that they had been so close to their quarry without even knowing it. But the woman's husband, the owner of the tavern and their only remaining hope for some solid information about Tatiana, had lived in this town for over twenty years. He wasn't going anywhere.
The truth of the matter was that Stefan was embarrassed to face the little dancer again, after he'd sat there and let her be wounded by Vasili's arrogance. Granted, he'd been amazed into momentary speechlessness by Vasili's insensitivity, but that was no excuse. He'd chosen the wench for the evening, so he should have protected or at least spoken up for her sooner than he did.
Of course, it had not taken him long to understand why his friend had been upset enough not to care whom he insulted. Vasili had seen the entire situation as being his fault because of his earlier remark, and so had tried to correct it as swiftly as possible, and contempt was a specialty of his, developed to perfection.
At any rate, Stefan didn't want to return to the tavern until he could be assured the wench wouldn't be there, which was this morning, while the place wasn't open for business. Yet who should open the door to Serge's pounding but the very one Stefan had hoped to avoid. And what did she do upon seeing them standing there but immediately shut the door, and none too gently.
It was a new experience for all four of them, having a door closed in their face, and they each reacted differently.
Serge became aggressive, asking, "Shall I break it down?"
Before anyone answered, Vasili voiced his indignation. "More audacious behavior by the wench. Do you still maintain she doesn't deserve to be put in her place, Stefan?"
Stefan was purely disgusted with himself, for his first reaction to that closed door was relief, which smacked of cowardice, something no one in his right mind could ever accuse him of. Accordingly, his tone was a bit clipped when he shot back, "And what is her place, my friend? She's not a Cardinian peasant, you know."
"She's an American peasant. What, pray, is the difference?"
Lazar was laughing by this time, he was so amused, and answered, "Damned if I know, but I'm sure she can tell you. Why don't we ask her?"
"We'll have to break the door down to do that," Serge reminded them.
"I didn't hear a lock turn," Vasili said. "Just open—"
The lock clicked even as he spoke, so Serge asked again, "Shall I break it down?"
With a sound of annoyance, Stefan stepped forward and rapped sharply on the door, bailing out, "Mistress, our business is with Wilbert Dobbs, not with you. Kindly—"
"Dobbs is sick," the female voice shouted. "I run the place now, so you'd have to deal with me, and that means you might as well leave."
She'd answered so quickly, it was obvious she'd been listening at the door, now ledge that would have increased Stefan's embarrassment if her stubbornness hadn't just pricked his temper. "Unless you wish to do without a door until this one can be repaired, I would suggest you open it very quickly, mistress!"
Magic words, apparently. The door opened, but the wench stood there blocking the way, hands on hips, one on the hilt of her knife. The knife was still sheathed, but Vasili and Stefan knew how quickly that could be amended, and the light of battle in her eyes said it was likely to be. Her clothes were similar to those she'd worn last night, with merely a different colored shirt, one that cast a gray pallor to her complexion. The bright light of day was definitely not kind to her.
"You speak English real good for a foreigner," she told Stefan directly, not bothering to look at the others. "But you sure don't understand its meaning very well. I told you Dobbs is sick. That means he can't be disturbed by the likes of you."
Stefan took an intimidating step toward her, but she held her ground. Her courage was commendable, but foolish under the circumstances. He was, after all, nearly a head taller than she and in prime physical condition, and she had no idea what he was capable of. His eyes had begun to glow with his annoyance, though he was unaware of that fact, or that it was the reason her hands had started to sweat.
"If you understand English yourself," he said with soft menace, "then understand that we will speak with Wilbert Dobbs because it is imperative that we do so, and nothing you can say or do will alter that. If my own understanding is correct, I believe that means you would be wise to step out of the way."
She hesitated for a long moment, glaring at him, before she said, "Go on, then, disturb a dying man. It's on your conscience, not mine." And she whipped around, leaving the doorway and their presence as quickly as possible.
"You could have at least asked her where the fellow is," Vasili grumbled as he and the others followed Stefan inside.