The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [109]
‘Enough of this muck. Do you think the barman will do me a voddy pom pom?’ He wandered off in search of his vodka and apple juice. Stevie was left alone with Joss.
‘. . . and I never will,’ he continued softly, his velvet eyes on her.
‘You’ve bewitched me.’
She was finding it impossible to pull away from his gaze. He still had the power to hypnotise her like a snake, and there she sat, a little bird on a winter bough, watching him creep closer.
‘Stevie,’ he murmured, savouring her name like a caramel on his tongue. There were days when she would have murdered to hear her name whispered in that voice.
But he is dangerous—don’t be a fool. Remember the heartbreak!
Shouting to herself was like yelling at a deaf man under water. Stevie was gone.
When Joss reached out and stroked her face, took her hand, she let him. Her treacherous heart beat like a wild thing.
‘Stevie, come to the balcony with me. I want to talk to you.’
Every fibre in her body wanted to go with him. She stepped closer.
His eyes flicked up as someone passed. It was the youngest Russian girl, the unsteady fawn, hurrying off in the direction of the bathroom. It was enough to wake Stevie from the hypnosis and concentrate her mind. She broke away.
‘Excuse me.’
‘Stevie—please.’
Stevie turned and looked back at him. He was so handsome, so desirable, so awful. She didn’t trust herself to reply.
Scooting in pursuit, she caught up with the girl in the corridor.
They both leaned against the wall, waiting for the bathroom to be free.
‘Hi,’ Stevie smiled. The girl glanced at her, but didn’t smile back.
She persisted. ‘My friend and I noticed you walk past. You are very beautiful. Are you a model?’
Stevie had uttered the magic words.
The girl turned, this time with a smile. ‘Yes. I want to be a super-model. I do some work in St Petersburg but now I want to sign with an international agency and live in a foreign city, maybe Paris or New York.’
‘Do you have an agent?’
The girl made a face. ‘Not yet. It’s not so easy—there are so many Russian girls who want an agent.’
‘But they are not all as beautiful as you.’ Stevie became a honey-tongued seducer. What a reversal of roles, she thought to herself. ‘We thought maybe those two men you were with were your agents . . .’
The girl’s face darkened and she shook her head. ‘No. They are not good men.’
‘Why not?’
The girl scowled deeper and fumbled in her purse for a cigarette.
She lit it and blew smoke at the wall.
‘Look,’ Stevie leaned in a little. ‘Maybe I can help you. Tell me about those men . . . Who are they?’
The girl turned to Stevie and stared at her. Her eyes were huge in her small, heart-shaped face.
‘Fuck off.’ The bathroom door opened and she disappeared inside.
House music was pumping throughout the chalet. A Moroccan DJ had been flown in from Les Bains in Paris and was working the decks from an alcove by the bar. One or two girls were dancing, but moving to show off their bodies rather than enjoy the music. The two men were still on the settee, entangled with the other girls.
Suddenly there was gunfire—three shots in rapid succession— then an explosion of some kind. They had come from the front of the house.
Stevie ran to KJ’s room, taking the stairs two at a time, and almost crashed into the immovable bulk of one of Yudorov’s security men.
Everything was quiet up here. The baby was sleeping.
Then more shots—four this time, one after the other. Stevie rushed to the balcony. Was the chalet under attack? The terrace below was filled with guests, drawn out by the noise. Stevie could smell gunpowder, see only darkness.
Another explosion rocked the night.
A burst of beautiful gold stars rained down on the silent snowfields in front, lighting up the valley. The crowd cheered as red, green, blue and orange rockets whistled into the sky and shattered into fiery flowers. Yudorov’s grand display would be seen all the way down the valley.
‘Maybe I do need a holiday,’ Stevie muttered under her breath.
‘This is ridiculous.’
She allowed