But there was something. That was for sure. Every instinct warned about that.
Then Gowrie visibly forced himself to break off from her, tore himself out of his trance, turned on his heel and was on his way, surrounded by his entourage, without answering her question. But Steve saw him turn his head to speak to a security man moving at his shoulder.
The other man nodded, spoke in turn to a couple of others, and Steve saw them spin off, and, without running or seeming in a hurry, push their way back towards the blonde girl. Steve was closer; without stopping to think about the wisdom of intervening, he moved like greased lightning to get to her before they could.
He took her elbow and began walking her out, talking rapidly, urgently, while she looked up at him in startled surprise.
‘My name’s Steve Colbourne, I do a weekly round-up of political news on NWTV, you may have seen me, if not I assure you I’m very respectable and trustworthy. Can I buy you a drink, or do you want those very ugly guys behind us to put an armlock on you?’
She stiffened and instinctively started to turn, but he went on softly, ‘No, don’t look back at them, pretend you don’t even know they’re there. It’s called the survival instinct, animals practise it all the time. Haven’t you ever seen a bird freeze and pretend to be a statue? It works, too; the psychology is shrewd. It throws a possible predator off. They aren’t sure what’s going on or what to do so they wait and watch, and that gives the bird time to plan its escape.’
She turned her head to look up at him, and he smiled at her. By then they were engulfed in the departing tide of media flowing through the exit; Steve held on to her arm to make sure she didn’t get away. He was picking up her scent by then, a cool, light fragrance that reminded him of a spring morning. It went with blonde hair and blue eyes and long, long legs. What the hell was going on between her and Gowrie? She had something on the guy, that was certain – and she wouldn’t be the first beautiful young woman to sell herself to a powerful old man. History was littered with them. Steve surprised himself by not wanting her to be one of them.
He could hear her breathing next to him. They were shoved close together by the crush of bodies moving out of the great ballroom, with its chandeliers and high, wide windows framed by heavy red velvet drapes, into the luxurious lobby of the hotel, and Steve felt the warmth of her skin under the cream silk dress she wore, almost felt he heard an over-rapid beating of her heart.
She was scared, he thought, but when he shot a sideways look her profile seemed calm, unflurried. Was she always this tranquil – or did she lose her cool in bed? He frowned, imagining her with Gowrie. Did that sleek blonde hair get rumpled and tousled? Was she hot? She didn’t look as if she was highly sexed, but then with women appearances were always deceptive.
In the hotel lobby the blonde pulled free, glancing back at the same time. Steve looked back, too, and found the two security men right behind them. Their lizard eyes slithered over him, recognized his face, and then ignored him. They were only interested in the girl.
‘Miss, can we have a word? You aren’t wearing an official press badge, Miss . . . what did you say your name was?’
‘Narodni, Sophie Narodni.’ She looked at one, then the other. ‘Who are you?’
‘We work for Senator Gowrie, Miss Narodni. Did you say you worked for a press agency?’
‘Yes, the Central European Press Agency. Have you got any identification on you? I like to know who is asking me questions.’ She smiled sweetly.
‘Certainly, Miss Narodni.’ The taller of the two, a man with very bronzed skin, flipped back his suit collar to show a badge. She leaned forward slightly to read it. He would be getting a nostril full of her delicious scent, thought Steve, watching with amusement.
‘Thank you.’
A little flushed suddenly, the guy lifted the clipboard he held, consulted the sheaf of paper clipped to it, running a finger down a list.
‘Oh, yes, the agency is listed, but we have a Theo Strahov down as their representative.’
‘He couldn’t make it, he was taken ill, so he sent me.’ She pulled out of the small cream leather purse she held in one hand a plastic-enclosed security card and showed it to them. The shorter man took it from her; both stared at it.
‘You’re supposed to wear this, Miss Narodni.’
‘I couldn’t pin it on my dress, it would have ruined the material and it is expensive.’
Her accent was a little stronger now, perhaps she was more nervous than she seemed? She gestured to her dress and the security men stared at her silk-covered breasts.
Steve had never liked private security guys; they always ended up trying to hijack police powers, believing themselves to be above the law; they were arrogant, crude-minded sons of bitches. These two were prize specimens.
Absently, without taking his eyes off her breasts, his lizard tongue flicking out to wet his lips, the taller one said, ‘We should have been notified of the change. Did you show your identification to the man on the door?’
‘Of course.’
They frowned; somebody was going to get into trouble for letting her in without checking her.
‘We will have to have proof of your identity, Miss Narodni, and proof of your address, perhaps a letter addressed to you there? Or your driving licence?’
She went back into the purse and came up with an airmail envelope, which she handed them. They both studied the address, one of them scribbled it into a pad he took from his pocket, murmuring it aloud as he did so. Steve memorised it.
‘So you live on the Lower East Side? How long have you been there?’ they asked her as she took the envelope back.
‘Not long. I am staying with a friend; she is the tenant of the apartment.’