The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [108]
She wondered what was taking Josie so long—she ought to have information on Lazarev by now.
In with a burst of freezing night air came seven beautiful girls. Discarding their furs and jackets in a careless heap, they revealed fabulous bodies in very little clothing. Stevie recognised the legs from the lingerie store at the Palace. And there was the baby who had almost tripped in her heels.
Stevie stepped out of sight as the two men accompanying them entered. She hadn’t forgotten that the third man from the eighth floor Palace suites was the one now under lock and key in the police cells. The men must have known each other, were possibly friends, even involved in the conspiracy. Unless they were just cover.
Dovetail appeared and Stevie signalled to him. ‘What are those men doing here? I thought we warned Yudorov about their possible connection to the assailant.’
‘We did,’ he replied. ‘It seems he didn’t disinvite them. They must be important to him—’ ‘—to risk the safety of someone as high profile as Sandy, I’d say.’
The Welshman scowled. ‘They won’t be losing so much as an eyelash without me noticing.’
The flock of girls were fawning over the two men, giggling loudly, not quite convincingly. Stevie couldn’t blame them—the men didn’t exactly look like anyone’s idea of a good time, with their stocky bodies, short limbs and the scars of heavy living—and worse—disfiguring faces that had never been handsome. They didn’t share even a hint of a smile between them.
The little group moved their gaiety into the next room, settling onto the large daybed and fur rug in the centre. With loud clicks of their stubby fingers, the men ordered the waiters to bring champagne
and vodka. They seemed utterly uninterested in Sandy Belle. Dovetail slipped invisibly after them.
Stevie’s phone rang. It was Paul.
‘Stevie, I heard you got into a fight . . .’
Stevie suppressed a sudden giggle. ‘Yes, but it was all the other man’s fault, Paul. He started it.’
‘Are you hurt?’
‘No, no. I’m fine.’ Stevie was touched by the concern in his voice.
‘Purple bruise on the side of my face like a bunch of grapes, but more hurtful to my self-esteem than anything else.’
‘Well that’s sort of what I was ringing about . . .’ Paul paused awkwardly. ‘I meant to tell you the other night but you seemed so . . .
radiant. I didn’t want to spoil it.’
‘What is it, Paul?’
‘Joss Carey is here in St Moritz. I saw him the day before you arrived. I just wanted to warn you so you would be prepared if you ran into him.’
‘Too late for that, Paul darling. He found me at the polo.’
‘It wasn’t him you chased, was it?’ Paul asked, horrified.
‘It should have been. No. But I hated myself, Paul. I was shaking and—’ Stevie felt a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t have to turn around to know. How much had he heard?
‘Anyway, Paul, I’m fine,’ she continued breezily, a little too loudly perhaps, but she was on the verge of panic. ‘Just a little whack and a bit of excitement—nothing a glass of bubbles won’t cure!’
Then she hung up on the bewildered Paul and turned to face Charlie.
‘I saw you today, chasing down that man.’ He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Not bad in the saddle—Joss always said you could ride.’
Stevie hoped to death that Joss had decided to stay home.
‘He’s here, you know.’ Charlie blinked at her myopically.
‘I’d rather not see—’ ‘Oh don’t worry about that Norah girl. She’s out of the picture,’ Charlie snorted. ‘Gave him the boot. Still, he hasn’t done too badly off her fame. Quite the star himself now.’
And then Joss appeared. He was holding a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He gave Stevie a huge smile. ‘I think the best man-hunter since Bodicea deserves a drink.’ He poured two glasses, handed one to Stevie, one to Charlie. Then he raised the bottle and looked right at her. ‘I’ve never loved anyone but you, Stevie Margaret Duveen . . .’
Stevie could hardly swallow her champagne. What was he saying?
How could he say that to her?
Charlie