Illya was growing impatient and, in a motion intended to convey his dissatisfaction with the exchange between Napoleon and whoever this woman was, he thrust his hand into his trousers pocket and produced the key. The key was the reason they had all come to Grand Central, and now the locker required their attention.
“Do you think we might get on with it, or do you two intend to stand here all afternoon staring at each other?”
The abruptness of Illya’s comment made Napoleon smile, something mirrored in the woman’s expression as well. They understood each other, and it was both satisfying and unsettling to the American. He wasn’t supposed to be this attracted to the opposition, and he was definitely attracted to this one.
“Hold your horses, Illya. Oh, pardon the racetrack humor. But really, this is a big moment; we might as well savor every second.”
Miranda gave Napoleon a sidelong glance as she pushed back her hair.
‘Too blonde…’ thought Illya. What Napoleon saw in her was a mystery to the young Russian. He preferred his women to be…ummm… trustworthy. An admirable quality.
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