Admittedly, he lingered upon Zhenya as though searching for words stuck on the tip of his tongue. She was a beautiful woman, but strangely, Seven was not particularly attracted to her. There was a sense of familiarity he could not explain. He did not recognize the Security company she represented, so that couldn't be the cause, but he equally liked her. Fortune smiled upon him that night.
“Like the number,” he repeated with jovial acclimation. He was more than willing to participate in local custom, even moreso when the custom involved copious drinking among beautiful people. Such circumstances always led to favorable outcomes.
“Vodka tonic,” he ordered when the chance came. From the choices, he allowed Ephraim to select the maker of the spirit, trusting to his judgement. As they waited, he chose to elaborate. “I typically select gin, but the persuasion to Russian custom is so convincing, I am unable to refuse the temptation,” he laughed. “I will hold you to the promise of glory, Ephriam!” he added with a wink. Zhenya agreed, and while the lilt of her tongue suggested otherwise, he did not overlook a drink in her hand and a flush to her cheek.
He agreed with Zhenya’s guess, but a tease followed on quick wings. “Such as what I am told, Miss Disir. Or is it Mrs?” he gestured at the ring on her hand. “Your guess is correct. I was born and raised in Stockholm eons ago.”
Drinks were promptly delivered, glittering in crystal glasses. He lifted his, perched upon the tips of his fingers, and praised the evening with a toast. “To glory,” he cheered and sampled the diamond liquid. “Your choice was well-selected, Ephraim. Waterfalls and moonbeams, certainly,” he added, skipping a glance at Zhenya. It was fully uncertain whether he was being sarcastic or genuine. By the warmth in his eyes, the latter was more likely.
“And you, Zhenya, you are Russian, yes?” He guessed at her heritage based on ear, rather than the eyes, which may not be trusted too far. Visions were unruly things.
“Like the number,” he repeated with jovial acclimation. He was more than willing to participate in local custom, even moreso when the custom involved copious drinking among beautiful people. Such circumstances always led to favorable outcomes.
“Vodka tonic,” he ordered when the chance came. From the choices, he allowed Ephraim to select the maker of the spirit, trusting to his judgement. As they waited, he chose to elaborate. “I typically select gin, but the persuasion to Russian custom is so convincing, I am unable to refuse the temptation,” he laughed. “I will hold you to the promise of glory, Ephriam!” he added with a wink. Zhenya agreed, and while the lilt of her tongue suggested otherwise, he did not overlook a drink in her hand and a flush to her cheek.
He agreed with Zhenya’s guess, but a tease followed on quick wings. “Such as what I am told, Miss Disir. Or is it Mrs?” he gestured at the ring on her hand. “Your guess is correct. I was born and raised in Stockholm eons ago.”
Drinks were promptly delivered, glittering in crystal glasses. He lifted his, perched upon the tips of his fingers, and praised the evening with a toast. “To glory,” he cheered and sampled the diamond liquid. “Your choice was well-selected, Ephraim. Waterfalls and moonbeams, certainly,” he added, skipping a glance at Zhenya. It was fully uncertain whether he was being sarcastic or genuine. By the warmth in his eyes, the latter was more likely.
“And you, Zhenya, you are Russian, yes?” He guessed at her heritage based on ear, rather than the eyes, which may not be trusted too far. Visions were unruly things.