The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [154]
Stevie watched, fascinated, as they laughed at Heini’s stories: their puffy mouths formed little O’s of hilarity and they chuffed, making little ‘hoo hoo’ noises. They looked, Stevie thought, like finger puppets.
Heini’s bodyguards were lined up along the wall, and his three pugs roamed amongst the guests wearing diamond necklaces intended for necks slimmer and far less hairy than theirs.
Then Stevie’s roving eye caught sight of Dragoman. He was standing slightly to one side, a cigarette smoking in his ebony holder, his hair immaculately combed back off his forehead. The crescent moon stood out like a perfect sideways smile. His shadow hovered to his left.
He was wearing a dinner suit in which no other man in the world would have been able to look menacing. Perfectly cut, sharp as a blade, it was the colour of congealing blood. A cream silk scarf floated over his shoulders like a shroud.
Stevie watched as a proud pug snuffled towards his handmade leather shoes. Without so much as a blink, Dragoman snapped his heel upwards and caught the poor animal in the jaw. Heini’s laughter across the room drowned out the yelp as the creature scuttled back to find his master, curly tail low between his legs.
There was a woman with Dragoman. This was unexpected. Josie had told her he was not interested in women—or men.
The woman had her back towards Stevie. She was of medium height—taller in fact than Dragoman—and very slight. Her blonde hair was swept into a perfect chignon and she was wearing a black velvet dress that scooped low on her back and exposed her delicate spine.
Stevie glanced at the woman’s feet. She was wearing black suede heels covered in gold stars. The shoes were rather beautiful, but they were too big. Much too big. It was as if a little girl had slipped on her mother’s shoes for fun.
Stevie threaded her arm through Henning’s and made her way towards Dragoman.
‘Good evening, Mr Dragoman.’ Henning smiled but kept his hand in his pocket.
The woman turned to face them.
Stevie almost gasped out loud.
She was only a child—Stevie had seen that face before, in photos, a hundred times. It belonged to Anya Kozkov.
A thousand questions tumbled into Stevie’s mind: what was Anya doing at the dinner? Was she here of her own free will? Did she know that her father was dead, that people were looking for her? What should Stevie do?
One look into Anya’s eyes answered half of them. There was an unmistakable look of deep terror settled behind the pupils.
Stevie needed time to think, time she didn’t have. She was tempted for a split second to just grab Anya’s hand and run like a demon for the exit, but Dragoman’s shadow was at Anya’s side, no doubt armed in several deadly ways.
Stevie saw Anya’s eyes suddenly flash with confusion and recognition. Of course—Henning! He was Kozkov’s great friend. Anya would have known him, too. She mustn’t be allowed to let on, it would jeopardise everything.
Stevie turned her smile on high beam and grabbed Anya by both hands. They were freezing cold.
‘Hello, I’m Stevie Duveen,’ she said in her absolute best Hollywood starlet voice. ‘I simply adore your shoes! I noticed them from all the way over there—just so glam-rock fabulous. Did you get them here in Switzerland?’
Anya seemed deeply confused by this. She looked again to Henning and opened her mouth. Dragoman was watching—Stevie could feel his eyes. She dived in once more with her silly, high-pitched chatter.
‘And who does your hair? You’ve totally channelled Princess Grace of Monaco—it’s divine. I’d love that look for the Oscars next year.’
Henning caught Anya’s eye and gave an imperceptible shake of his head. Dragoman put an arm around her waist and pulled her towards him.
‘My niece is very shy. She doesn’t take easily to strangers.’
Anya looked back at Stevie, who smiled even