Xara jerked away from the person’s hold. They spoke with an accent that sounded distinctively Russian. A gentle Russian. Like if the language was hit with a cloud of setting powder.
A man, tall with blond hair past his shoulders and icy blue eyes, waved. “Hallo.”
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“No, no.” He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his dark brown slacks. “Well, maybe. Your name, what is it?”
“None of your business.”
He grinned. “Earlier, at the little, uh,” he drew a circle in the air with his index finger, “fashion show, you leaned and your shirt came up. You have a dragon on your side.”
Xara self-consciously tugged at her shirt. “And?”
“I like it. That and your ring in your nose. And your hair.” He dragged his gaze over her body. “And everything else.”