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He walked over to her with a tired smile, like an exhausted husband going back to his wife. “Hey.” His eyes flicked to me and back to her. “Good luck with him. He’s all yours.”
With narrowed eyes, I watched their exchange. She didn’t smile back like a wife.
“Sure.” She gave a curt nod, and the officer evacuated the room with his nervous guard.
Hers mounted himself by the door while she ambled forward with firm but graceful strides, taking a seat across the table.
She knitted her fingers together and smiled again, bright brown eyes drinking me in as she said, “Good morning, Mr. Yezhov. I’m Detective Fox,FreyaFox, and I’m here to spend a few minutes with you. That is, if you don’t mind.”
“Hm.”
I recrossed my legs, one over the other, scanning her like an object on an examination table. She radiated good vibes and positive energy—the type that could draw anyone in and make even the most rational person want to be close to her. It was synonymous with reeling them in like fish on a hook.
And it made me wonder:Who is this woman?
I arched a brow. “Detective, you say?”
“Yes.” Her head bobbed in the affirmative, and the smile on her face didn’t falter. “Detective Freya Fox, from narcotics.”
“Ah….”
Her eyes twinkled, thick lashes fluttered, and a dimple appeared on one side of her cheek, kicking her charm to over a hundred degrees. She beamed. “Impressed?”
I snickered. “Ty dyeven dosh' let dlya etogo?”
Are you even old enough for this?
She sucked in her cheeks, folded her arms on the table, and shrugged. “Mne dvadtsat' dva goda. Po moemu ponimaniyu, eto oznacaet, chto moya rabota legal'na.”
I am twenty-two years old. That makes having this job legal.
She’d responded in Russian.
I dropped my leg and raised my eyebrow higher, my curiosity about this stranger going into overdrive. “Are you Russian?”
She laughed, and her voice was like music, filling the air with a melody that was impossible to resist. It started with a soft, gentle chuckle, like the tinkling of a tiny bell, and grew into a joyful throaty sound.
“Unless my father kept that part hidden from me, as far as I know, I’m not Russian. I just…. Let’s say I have a thing for learning different languages.”
“Hm.”
“Yes.”
“How many do you speak?”
“Four and counting.”
I drummed my fingers on my knees and cocked my head to the side. “Well, have you ever been to Russia?”
She shook her head. “I haven’t. Not yet, anyway. I would love to visit Moscow someday. I hear one can only get the best beef stroganoff there.”
I made a concurring grunt. “One taste leaves you wanting more.”
Her chuckle floated between us. “Can’t wait to have that one taste, then. And, oh, I’d love to take a live video in front of the Kremlin. Or maybe the Red Square. Now,that’swhat I’d call an experience.”
I studied her, thoroughly impressed by her vast display of knowledge and smart idea to try to build a non-hostile atmosphere between us.
But I knew better.
