The Ambassador's Daughter

For the second time that night, Samson's jaw dropped at a stunning turn of events. Standing with one hand on the inside door handle was a scandalously dressed redhead with bright blue eyes.

She said something sharply to him in Russian.

"Uh, what?" was fast becoming his go-to line.

Surprisingly, this seemed to work. The redhead broke out a smile and puffed out her hair.

"You are Americain?" she inquired of him.

"Yeah?"

"Oh, I must congratulate Raul on his fine selection," she said, looking at him approvingly.

Finally catching up to the present, Samson's brain realized something odd about the way she was talking. His mouth had the same realization.

"You have a British accent?" he said, stupidly.

The redhead just laughed curtly, "Raul didn't tell you that your client was the most educated teenager in Belarus?"

She punctuated the boast with one of those shoulder wiggles the way teenage girls so often do, before continuing, "my father made sure that I got the proper English education he always wanted. Never mind that it meant I never got to see him or mother."

"Your father? Your mother?" Samson involuntarily gestured downstairs towards the party.

"That whore? God no," she snorted derisively, "father snatched her off of a reality show back home after dear mumsie ditched him to pursue an Australian businessman. She's quite something to look at though, isn't she?"

Samson felt like this was a trap.

"Not really my type," he lied.

"Oh really?" the girl seemed to like his answer. "Would your type happen to be tight, nubile eighteen-year-old ass?"

She turned around to reveal said ass.

"Maybe," he lied.