Page 5 of France Face-Off
“The woman speaking with Petrov and Baranovsky, who is she?” Striker asked. He spun Natalya around so that she could see the woman.
His dance partner’s brow furrowed. “I do not know this woman, though I might have seen her before at another event involving Russian diplomats. She seems to be holding a conversation with my two Russian charges. It appears my translation services are not needed.”
The woman in the silver dress laughed and laid a hand on Petrov’s arm. She turned to the side and, as she did, Striker noticed a long slit in the side of her dress that exposed her leg from the ankle to halfway up her thigh.
His groin tightened.
She had a stunning figure and an equally stunning leg. When she moved again, he noticed something odd about the tone of her skin just below the slit’s opening. Maybe it was a trick of the lighting in the huge hall, but there seemed to be a discoloration just below the top of the slit. Perhaps the discoloration and the flesh tone of her leg was an undergarment she used to smooth her shape, as he was aware many women did. Or could it be a strap holding a weapon against the inside of her thigh…?
He stiffened. Thankfully, at that moment, the waltz came to an end.
The woman in the silver dress hooked her hand through the crook of Petrov’s arm and walked with him toward an arched passageway.
On Striker’s initial inspection of the reception hall, he had followed different hallways and corridors to determine where they led. The one the woman in silver was headed down led out to a tropical garden. The beautiful woman could be going with Petrov for a private assignation surrounded by lush, flowering bushes and palm trees. Or she could be carrying a knife beneath her dress with the intention of assassinating the Russian in the darkness.
“If you’ll excuse me, ma’am,” Striker said. “I need to visit the water closet.”
“By all means,” Natalya said. “I need to powder my nose, as well.”
He indicated the direction in which the ladies’ room was located.
Fortunately, the men’s room was on the opposite side of the hall, conveniently positioned along the same corridor that led to the hotel garden.
“One moment, please.” Natalya tipped her head toward the taller of the two Russians. “It appears Sergei might be leaving the reception hall, and Anatoly already has.”
All the more reason for Daniel to hurry and catch up with Petrov and the woman in the silver dress. However, he stood steady and gave Natalya his attention.
“Since they’re leaving the reception, there is no need for me to stay to translate. I find myself fatigued. I, too, shall retire.” She patted his cheek with the palm of her hand. “Your services are no longer required.”
He captured her hand in his and touched the backs of her knuckles with his lips. “The evening has been my pleasure.”
“Mine, too,” she said with a smile. “And you’re quite good at the waltz. The escort service did well in sending you.”
“You’ll have to look into country and western dancing to learn the two-step for next time.” He smiled and waited for her to turn away. Once she did, he headed out across the floor toward the corridor leading into the garden. With no other doorways leading off the corridor, he didn’t wait or check to see if they’d stopped along the way.
When he stepped out into the hotel garden, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. His ears perked as he listened for sounds at the other end of the dimly lit area.
Once his night vision adjusted, he eased away from the chateau and followed a pathway, walking as lightly as he could in his patent leather shoes. He followed the sound of voices.
Before he’d gone more than twenty yards, he saw the two silhouetted against the stone wall at the rear of the garden.
Striker stopped within twenty feet of them. He could reach them quickly, if needed. Instead of rushing the couple, he paused and watched. For all he knew, it could be a lovers’ assignation. A tryst in the garden, away from prying eyes.
Petrov turned and gripped the woman’s arms.
She reached up in an attempt to pry his hands loose from her arms. Her voice turned from a conversational tone to a higher-pitched, strained nature.
“Nyet,” she said and rattled off something in Russian. She tried to break free of the man’s grip on her arms.
When Petrov still hadn’t released her, her tone dropped low, the intensity increasing. A flash of movement brought her hands up through the middle of his arms, breaking free of his grasp. She grabbed his head, turned her back and flipped him over.
Petrov landed flat on his back.
In the next second, the woman had a knife pulled, the blade glinting in the moonlight.
Striker raced forward.
The silver-clad woman said something fast and furious in Russian as she held the knife over the man lying splayed out on his back.
