The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [110]
In the crowd below, she could make out Yudorov, Amalia standing stiffly next to him, Douglas Hammer and Sandy, chatting to Arik ‘movie god’ Joel, Dovetail’s reassuring bulk behind them, and there were Tara and Tatiana in furs and spiked heels and incredibly luscious hair. They were paying no attention to the fireworks but rather had their eyes on the gaggle of young Russian girls who were standing next to them, completely delighted by the light show. Tara and Tatiana were looking them up and down with an air of disdain that could be felt all the way to the upper balcony.
Stevie shook her head. Everything was a calculation to girls like those two. They couldn’t live in the moment, nor did it look like they had a great capacity for pleasure.
Tara or Tatiana glanced at Yudorov, stepped closer to him. Amalia noticed but kept her attention on the fireworks. Maybe nothing made any difference to her anymore.
Stevie went back inside as the last fiery flower faded over the Engadine Valley. Her fingers and nose were frozen and she was shivering with cold. As she made her way down the stairs, her path was blocked by Joss.
‘Stevie,’ he cracked a beautiful smile. ‘I’ve missed you, girl.’
Stevie nervously tried to brush past. He had her by the arm, stopped her, kissed her on the mouth—that familiar warmth she hadn’t felt for so long. Her legs weakened.
‘Where’s Norah?’ She could hardly bring herself to say the name.
Joss led her into a room off the corridor. There was a large bed with a fur throw; a television lowered itself from the ceiling when he reached to dim the lights.
‘Norah never mattered, Stevie. There was only ever you.’
Joss reached out and stroked her cheek. Stevie couldn’t help it.
She closed her eyes.
‘I can’t stay.’ She would count to ten then tear herself away forever, she promised herself.
‘I’ve planted primroses all through my garden, Stevie, to remind me of you.’
Stevie’s eyes flew open. ‘You did the same thing for Norah—you gave her a primrose. I saw it on the bed.’
‘I did,’ Joss said carefully. ‘I admit it. This sounds stupid . . .’ He ran a hand nervously through his hair. ‘But you’d been away for weeks. I was missing you. I guess I was trying to recapture some of the magic you and I had, but it wasn’t the same with Norah. I need you.’
Words Stevie had longed to hear. The moment should have been the sweetest, but Stevie felt uneasy.
‘How am I supposed to trust you?’ She realised she was still whispering, hated herself for even answering him. ‘You don’t even have a garden.’
‘I know . . . I know, I’m so sorry,’ he cooed, his hand creeping up Stevie’s leg, the other undoing his shirt buttons. His eyes bored into hers and she felt herself falling back into the pillows.
The sound on the television was barely audible, but Stevie could tell the channel was a Russian one. Yudorov had installed satellite. Televised images of oilrigs in Baku blended in Stevie’s mind with Joss’s dark eyes, his full mouth as he kissed her, over and over again.
Joss slid her jumper over her head and cast it aside.
Would it be so dreadful to give in to him? Stevie half-wondered. Perhaps he had changed—people did—realised he truly loved her.
Could she really believe Joss wanted her back? That Norah had been a blip? A part of her wanted to believe so much . . . Her eyes searched the ceiling for answers and caught the television screen.
She sat up like a missile. Kozkov’s face was staring down at
her—images of a black Mercedes in a car park with swarms of militzia— what was going on?
Stevie leapt over the half-naked, bewildered Joss and grabbed the remote on the night table.
The Russian commentator’s voice became audible:
‘—police say Valery Nikolayevitch Kozkov was gunned down this evening after attending a local soccer match. The killers apparently at first mistook his driver for Kozkov and shot him twice in the head as he sat behind the wheel of his car.