The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [65]
Coming out of this reverie, Stevie suddenly noticed a tall man watching her from the shadows. He was smoking a Turkish cigarette— she could smell the tobacco. The man moved towards her, letting his herringbone overcoat slide from its hook on the left shoulder into his hand.
‘Been fighting?’ Henning’s tone was light but his eyes were anxious as he kissed her on each cheek.
Stevie smiled and gestured with her eyelashes at the spare chair.
‘Something like that.’
Henning sat, crossing his long legs. ‘Don’t tell me you’re drinking chocolate milk.’
‘Brandy Crustas.’
‘I thought only grannies drank those,’ he teased.
Stevie took a long sip of her brandy, her eyes avoiding his. ‘Have you forgotten what I’m like already?’
‘Quite the contrary, Stevie, quite the contrary.’ Henning leaned back in his chair, all trace of mirth disappearing. ‘What I had forgotten— almost forgotten, and unforgivably—is how fragile you look, how like a robin, all throat, fluttering fingers, huge eyes. Standing over there, watching you, I had a sudden urge to trap you in the hollow of my hands and blow gently on your feathers.’
Stevie flushed, turning the stem of her glass in her fingers. She didn’t quite know how to respond. She changed the subject. ‘I watched two men die in a drive-by shooting today. That’s why I’m having a brandy.’
‘Are you alright?’ Henning’s eyes were inspecting her mouth now.
‘What happened?’
Stevie touched her lip. ‘I walked into a glass door—I’m fine. But I thought the shooters were after me.’ Stevie grimaced, embarrassed.
‘Stupid of me. And I’m still shaking. I can’t even light—’ she raised her box of matches in one pale hand.
Henning leaned over and took the trembling hand firmly in his, box and all; with his free hand he produced a lighter and lit Stevie’s cigarette.
He did not let go and her hand remained trapped in his. ‘I want to protect you, Stevie. Does that sound terribly old-fashioned?’
Stevie drew deeply on her cigarette. ‘Protecting people is my job, Henning.’ She exhaled carefully. ‘You do see the irony?’ He smiled, but it quickly faded.
‘I’m so sorry about today, about not being here.’ He would not look away. Stevie grew awkward under the scrutiny and tried to disconnect her hand. Henning kissed it quickly and easily, then relinquished it.
The fingers were squashed white; Stevie rubbed them pointedly.
‘It appears I don’t know my own strength,’ Henning apologised, then added softly, ‘nor the strength of my feelings.’
Stevie swallowed hard, her pulse rising in her ears. ‘My heart is not a rubber ball, Henning,’ she began, her voice shaking. ‘It doesn’t bounce when it’s dropped. It’s more fragile than that.’ She shook her head, staring in her lap. ‘Joss—’ Her words stopped, ‘I can’t . . .’ she tried again. Still the words refused to come. Exhausted, she raised her face, composed now. ‘This is not for now,’ she said firmly.
Henning considered her words. ‘You’re right,’ he announced, and signalled the waiter. ‘A whisky, if you would be so kind.’ He faced back to Stevie. ‘Still,’ he went on, ‘it remains that I’ve put you in horrible danger.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Stevie shook her head. ‘I’m fine. The shooters weren’t after me. It was bad timing that I was there.’
Stevie filled him in on everything that had happened since he’d left for Istanbul, including Gregori Maraschenko and ending with the shooting.
Henning’s eyes grew dark. For a second, he remained frozen, his blue eyes tight with worry, then he broke into a smile. ‘So, what are you scheming, sitting here all alone?’
‘How to hunt a suspected kidnapper in a disreputable bar without drawing attention to myself.’ Stevie glanced at Henning. ‘Ourselves. Today is Thursday. Masha said Maraschenko goes to The Boar on Thursday evenings. But we‘ll have to be circumspect. No bright colours.’
Henning looked at their reflection in the large, gold-framed mirror suspended on the wall: