Page 6 of France Face-Off
Striker reached the woman before she could plunge the knife into the Russian’s neck. He grabbed her wrist and yanked it up behind her back.
“Damn it, let go of me,” she muttered.
Striker put his lips near her ear. “Ah, my dear, I found you finally. I believe they’re playing our song. Shouldn’t we be dancing?” He pretended to just take notice of the man on the ground. “What’s this?” He frowned down at the Russian. “Sir, have you fallen?”
The Russian grunted and struggled to get to his feet.
With his free hand, Striker reached down and gave the man a hand up.
The woman he held with the arm up behind her back stood straight, unmoving, her chin tipped upward in defiance.
As the Russian stood, he brushed leaves from his suit and glared at the woman in silver.
“Are you okay?” Striker asked. “Do I need to call for medical assistance?”
The Russian shook his head. “Nyet, I am quite fine,” he said in his stilted English. “Is this your woman?” He jerked his hand toward the woman in silver.
“Why, yes,” Striker said. “I came to get her because I’m ready to leave. Are you ready to depart, my dear?”
She gave him a narrow-eyed glance out of the corner of her eye.
Using her body as a visual barrier, Striker removed the knife from her hand, folded the blade and slid it into his pocket. He lowered her arm to her side and slipped a hand around her waist, his grip firm. “Please, sir, allow us to see you back to the reception hall.”
The Russian adjusted his suit. “I do not need assistance to find my way back.” He turned and walked back toward the building.
Striker guided the woman in silver behind the Russian, giving him several yards of distance between them. Once the Russian reached the reception hall, Striker came to a halt, stopping just short of the building. He turned the woman around and lightly gripped her arms. He stared down into eyes as black as the night, the only light in their dark depths that of moonlight reflected off their liquid surface. “Who are you, and why were you trying to kill the Russian?”
She spoke in Russian.
He shook his head. “English.”
Again, she spoke in Russian.
“I heard you curse in English. Talk, before I turn you over to the security guards.”
She stared up at him through narrowed eyes. “He attacked me. I was only defending myself.”
“Sure, and you always carry a knife to diplomatic receptions? How did you get that past the security guards and metal detectors?”
She lifted a narrow shoulder. “A woman has to defend herself.”
Her English held no trace of an English accent; it was American.
“You speak American English. Are you American?”
The woman crossed her arms over her chest, tipped back her head and stared down her nose at the man. “What’s it to you?”
“Let’s just say that I like to know my enemies.”
“Am I one of your enemies?” She arched a black wing of a brow.
“I don’t know. Are you?”
Her eyebrows dipped. “Only if you’ve done something to hurt me or my family.”
“And is that what Petrov has done to you?”
Her mouth firmed into a thin line. “Perhaps.”
