I made a gentle knock on the door, the kind room service might use; stepped away from the spy hole.
No answer.
A light shone under the door. I heard movement. A bath running.
I knocked again. This time, an answer. Nadja kept the chain on the door.
She wore sunglasses, her hair tied back tightly.
‘Hello, Nadja,’ I said.
‘Why are you here? I have told you all I know.’
I said nothing. Tried to appear calm, I didn’t want to spook her before I got inside.
She moved to close the door, in a second I jammed in my boot, applied a shoulder. The chain snapped, spraying weak links on the floor.
‘What was that? “Come in.” Glad to.’
I walked into the middle of the room, turned to face her. She wore a short white bathrobe, the hotel’s initials stood out above her left breast.
‘I was preparing to bathe.’ The robe fell open to her waist, exposing an expanse of taupe skin.
‘I see that.’ I also saw she was changing tactics.
‘Let me turn off the water.’
As she walked away from me I noticed her legs. Long and shapely, what was once referred to as a finely turned ankle.
‘Help yourself to a drink, Mr Dury,’ she called out from the bathroom.
I didn’t need to be told a second time.
The whisky decanter was unmarked but before I even tasted a drop I had it pegged as Johnnie Walker, Black Label. Call it one of my many skills, I’ve a nose for these things.
When Nadja returned she’d taken the pins out of her hair; it hung wildly on her shoulders.
‘What’s with the shades?’ I asked.
‘I have a little bit of a migraine.’ She sat opposite me, crossed her legs. My eyes fell on a tranche of thigh.
‘Walking into a fist will do that.’
‘What? No, it is a migraine, that is all.’
I threw back my whisky, walked towards her.
‘Stand up,’ I said.
‘No — No, I will not.’
I put down my glass, jerked her by the arm and pulled her to her feet. We stood facing each other, I held her close enough to feel her heart beat.
I removed her glasses. ‘Who was it — Zalinskas?’
She nodded. Slumped into me. ‘He knows… he knows you were here.’
‘He does?’
‘Yes…’ She gripped me so tightly I felt her nails in my back. ‘You must protect me. I have no one else.’
‘Stop with the tears,’ I told her. ‘I’m not buying into the little-girl-lost act.’
Nadja composed herself, stared at me. I put my hand to her face, moved her eye towards the light. ‘I think you’ll live.’
As I let down my hand, her mouth opened. She threw back her head, showed me her neck. Her breasts slid from beneath her robe. Then the robe slid from her shoulders.
She turned, stood with her back to me, arms round my neck, grinding her rear into my crotch. I smelled expensive perfume on her wrists as she clawed at my head with her nails.
‘Nadja,’ I said.
‘No words.’
‘Nadja, stop this.’ I knew I had to pass it up. Every fibre of me yelled, ‘Stop now, Gus! Walk!’ But reason had left me the second her robe hit the floor.
‘Come… follow me.’ She lowered her arms, walked slowly away from me, her long legs crossing each other like she’d taken to a catwalk.
At the bedroom door, she turned, ran her hand up the jamb, and with the other summoned me to follow.