Nigel Haverstone of Haverstone Tech knew better than to stare at girls sat on their own at the bar of a foreign hotel. Chances are they were after something. Usually money in exchange for a quick party in your hotel room. Or the promise of a party in your room, slyly exchanged for a roofie, a banging headache the next morning and all your valuables cleaned out. Or so he'd heard. No, a quick drink in the bar to relax for the night, in preparation for his big meeting the next day, was all he needed. Nothing that might risk business, or cause an embarrassment with the wife and kids back in London.
Still, he couldn't resist stealing another furtive glance at the girl sat by the bar, as long as she didn't notice. She really was a looker. Just the sort that stoked his boiler, as it happened. Maybe all of twenty-one. Super slim and athletic, dark hair cascading over her shoulders and down her back, with legs that went on for ever, all set off by a stretchy micro-dress that showed every contour. Those breasts looked a perfect handful too, and in proportion to her slender frame. He'd never understood the penchant amongst Eastern European and Russian girls for replacing their small, natural breasts with silicon bags bolted on the front like a couple of gaudy Christmas baubles. Two fried eggs weren't his thing either, admittedly, but gently rising mounds cradled in his palms were his idea of heaven. A heaven he'd love to visit this evening, if it didn't come with such risks.
Whoops! He'd lost track of just how long he'd been staring at her, and she'd caught his gaze. He looked away, flustered. He mustn't give her the wrong idea, or there might be an awkward conversation to be had. Stare determinedly at anything but the bar for a while, and hopefully she'd dismiss it as a chance glance, he thought.
Nigel took another sip of his drink and thought about what had brought him here. The company had been through a rough time the last couple of years, what with dwindling contracts from the EU and pressure on costs. He might have founded the business and built it into the multi-million pound venture it was today, but there were rumours that the Board might try to oust him, if things didn't turn around soon. Then out of nowhere, he'd learnt of an opportunity out here in Russia to snap up a competitor at a bargain price. The tip-off had come through a rather shady channel, and seemed almost too good to be true, but his initial enquiries had suggested it was genuine. A lot rode on this meeting tomorrow. If it went well and he managed to set the ball rolling on an acquisition, he might just turn his fortunes around.
As he pondered likely outcomes, he downed the last of his gin and tonic. He looked to the bar and realised the only available space to get served was next to that girl. If he wanted another drink, he was going to have to risk walking right up to her. Oh well, here goes. What was making him so frisky? Maybe it was the thought of getting that near to such an incredibly beautiful girl. Girls like her would make his nervous system jangle in close proximity. He strode over, squeezing up to the bar, all the while keeping his gaze steadily away from her.
"Hi! Would you like to buy me a drink?" came a voice to his right. If there hadn't been just her sat to that side, the way that Russian accent had reverberated through his body, from ear to groin, would have left him in no doubt as to who was asking.
"No, it's fine. I don't need company tonight, thanks," Nigel replied. He barely looked in her direction as he spoke, desperate not to engage.
"That's not what I asked," she suggested, teasing him. "I've finished my drink. I thought you might buy me another. I'm sure there's a gentleman here will be kind enough, if you won't."
"Oh, sorry. Of course," Nigel stuttered, disconcerted. He hailed the bartender. "What would you like?" She beamed at him, flashing even, white teeth, and lighting up the prettiest, most delicate face he thought he'd ever seen. Her eyes, he noticed now, were piercing blue, a striking contrast to the brunette hair.
He never could resist a beautiful girl's smile, and instinctively smiled back, like the village idiot, unable to wipe it off.
"The same again, thanks. So, what are you doing here?" she asked.
"Oh, I'm just here on business. And you?" Now he really felt the idiot. What a question. What else would a beautiful Russian girl be doing, sat on her own at a bar in a Moscow hotel?
"Business too," she replied. Oh well, that was frank, he thought. "Not that kind of business!" she continued, as if reading his mind. She looked shocked, but mostly amused. There she was teasing him again.
"I'm Valeria," she said, holding out her hand to him.
"Nigel. Pleased to meet you." He took her delicate, slender fingers in his. An involuntary tingle ran through him.
Nigel was intrigued. What kind of business might she be on? Modelling assignment, maybe? He could imagine a few feminists getting hot under the collar at that suggestion. Just because she was a beautiful young woman didn't mean her only option was to sell her looks, they'd say. It might be her best though, to his mind. In his own company, there wasn't a woman could hold a candle to her. Only plain-janes went into IT. Even more so in the rarefied atmosphere of AI development. There were precious few female coders working for him. Because the deck was stacked against women in his line of work, and most others, the feminazis would go on to say. Nigel suspected they just didn't have what it takes. He knew some thought him a sexist, but he was just a realist. It took a particular kind of brain to do the really high end stuff. It wasn't that women weren't intelligent. They could certainly be wily. But brilliant like him? As if.
There was one woman at his company who thought she was, of course. Anna Brightman (oh, the irony), Head of Acquisitions. She'd blazed a trail up through the hierarchy, from intern to Board, in unfeasibly short order. There were rumours she'd resorted to some shady tactics in doing so though. Blackmail, threats, sexual extortion. Maybe that was all so much gossip, the product of resentment at her success. But he didn't like her, to put it mildly. Harvard-educated, she clearly thought she deserved to be at the very top and nobody else measured up to her. Yes, that meant even her boss. There were hints that attempts to oust him had emanated from her. He'd outmanoeuvred her so far though, and pretty soon she'd find herself out of a job entirely, once he'd consolidated his position again. More fool her for not getting in on this acquisition before he'd spotted it.
She'd even tried to make a move on him once. A married man like him. Ridiculous! So he enjoyed playing away here and there, but with her? She was fit enough, and a step up from the wife, maybe even not unattractive, if that was possible for a woman in her mid thirties, but, honestly, didn't she realise he could do a whole load better, and did frequently? He didn't feel like stating the obvious, so he'd given her the cold shoulder. She'd persisted. To dissuade her, when he knew she was looking, he'd made a play of ogling the PA (hottie, twenty years old), while she was bent over the shredder. "Oh, I get it. You have a soft spot for young women, Mr Haverstone. I'll keep that in mind," she'd said.
Nigel was woken from his reverie by the barman handing the girl beside him her drink. "What kind of business are you in then, Valeria?"
