Kate saw the anger shooting from his eyes along with the enormous fist that came up and shook in her face. She had no idea whether it was simply narcissistic rage or whether he had murder on his mind.
She recalled slugging a guy once—a police officer who had broken down her door and tried to rape her—sending him crashing to the sawdust floor in front of a cheering crowd at Hanratty’s Pub in Brooklyn.
But tonight was different. She was standing in a room packed with fashion sophisticates at the Louvre Museum in Paris. And the threatening look on the face of Mr. Lupransky sent a message that her legendary courage under fire was about to be tested on the international stage.
From the corner of her eye she glimpsed Cam hurrying toward them. At the same time, three men from their table stood up and started removing their dinner jackets.
But before they could come to her rescue, Zora moved between the adversaries. She reached over and grabbed a bottle of champagne.
“If you don’t mind,” she said, “I have something to say.”
With the ultimate in calm, Zora placed one hand firmly on the Russian’s mouth and with the other raised the bottle above his head and began pouring.
The champagne trickled down Loopy’s black wavy hair, his ruggedly-scarred face, his shiny tux jacket and crisp, boiled shirt—until the poor bastard was drenched. He gasped in embarrassment while wiping the bubbly from his face with a handkerchief.
“Merci,” Kate said, turning to Zora. “I admire the cool way you handled that crazy Russian.”
“Crazy is right,” Zora shot back. “I wish someone had told me that before he became my husband.”
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