The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [148]
Gunnar Gobb smiled magnanimously and assured Henning discretion was his watchword. He left to tend to the hysteria of the other guests.
Henning knelt beside Stevie. Red streaks of blood had seeped unnoticed through the fingers of Stevie’s right hand and were now dripping onto the carpet.
Henning gently unclenched her fingers and put the bottle on the floor.
‘My God, Stevie, what have you done?’ His voice was low and full of concern. He examined her hand, wiping the blood carefully with a clean handkerchief. ‘I thought you had just gone to look through the windows,’ he whispered. ‘Next thing I know, the roof is falling.’
Stevie opened her eyes and smiled. ‘You mean I brought the house down?’
‘Not very funny,’ but Henning almost smiled. ‘You’ve cut your wrist and palm. I think you need a stitch or two.’
Stevie sat up in alarm. ‘Oh no—I’m sure it’s nothing, just a small graze. See?’ The wound on her palm throbbed and disgorged a small gush of blood that ran quickly down Stevie’s arm.
‘Nothing at all.’ Henning wrapped the handkerchief tightly around her hand. He glanced quickly around. Men with guns had arrived, but it seemed everyone in the room was looking up at the roof.
He took the champagne bottle by the neck and deftly smashed it on the edge of the table. The neck broke off. He cursed aloud.
‘You’re a danger to yourself, Stevie. Come on!’ He scooped her up in his arms like a child and called for the manager.
‘We need a doctor here! She’s managed to cut herself on the champagne bottle.’ Henning held her up for the manager to see. ‘She’s bleeding. We need stitches.’
As the medics rushed Stevie away, Henning called after them.
‘And no scarring—we can’t have scarring. She’s a celebrity.’
Later, freshly bathed and stitched, Stevie was sitting in her room, feet curled under her, cosy in a fresh bathrobe and holding a glass of medicinal whisky. Henning was sitting on the corner of the bed in a red poloneck jumper of fine cashmere that not many men, Stevie thought, could have got away with.
‘What were you thinking, Stevie? You were almost killed—in quite a few ways.’
‘I needed to get a photo for Rosie’s story. It seemed like the obvious way was over the roof. From there, things, well, took on a life of their own.’ She sipped her whisky. ‘Looking back though, I am rather pleased with the grand finale, the slithering down the curtains. I think that was quite Errol Flynn of me.’
Stevie saw from Henning’s face he was not in the mood for her flights of fancy.
‘They were watching Kozkov’s funeral on television.’ Her voice now serious, Stevie told Henning what had happened.
His brow furrowed with concern. ‘Did the man at the window see your face? Will they guess it was you out there?’
Stevie shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t think I could have been more than a dark shape.’
‘The man would be a well-trained killer. The fact that he missed hitting you each time he fired probably means you were, mercifully, almost impossible to see. And there’s not much of you at that.’
Stevie nodded. ‘That was always my greatest advantage when I was fencing. My opponents used to complain that, by the time I had turned side on, there was nothing left to hit.’ Stevie smiled. ‘I think that’s the only reason I always seemed to make the team.’
Henning stared at her. ‘Let’s hope you were as invisible as you think . . . but in our favour, this might make Dragoman more certain that someone from the Kremlin is out to kill him.’
Stevie thought for a moment. ‘I only wish I could have heard what they were saying. What did you think of the funeral?’
‘He would have hated it. The hypocrisy of all those who wanted him gone shedding crocodile tears.’
‘Did you notice the men with the president? One of them caught Dragoman’s attention.’
Henning shook his head and reached for the television remote.