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“Well, if you want me to put it frankly . . . I was sort of attacked, and maybe almost murdered.” Silence. “But don’t worry. Apparently, the man had a phobia of star necklaces, and I got away.” I pushed a dress on the rack aside. A colorful Russian curse. “Where are you?” “I’m shopping.”
“I’m twenty, by the way, not nineteen.” He looked amused by the admission, like I was a child announcing I was now eight while proudly displaying a hand and three fingers. “Are you?” I swallowed. “My birthday was a few days ago.” “I’m thirty-two, kotyonok.” Oh.
“Ronan’s Steakhouse. Home of the largest sausage in Moscow.” “Ty sukin syn.” You son of a bitch. I chuckled. “Bitch is appropriate, but ‘cunt’ would be a better description of my mother.” “You touched her,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “My mother?” I parried with amusement. “No. Even I find incest unappealing.” Then I added, “Not to mention, not a huge fan of STDs.”
She was giving Ronan those big dark eyes that would be impossible for even Hitler to resist.