Page 7 of Vienna Bliss

“Food,” Alexander said after a while.

“Food. Defined as things people and animals eat in order to remain alive.”

“Ha, ha,” he muttered. “We didn’t have dinner.”

The bit of toothpaste she’d accidentally swallowed was burning a hole in her stomach. The idea of actual sustenance was deeply appealing.

“No, we didn’t.” Alena turned to him and touched his arm, so Alexander too shifted his attention away from the view. “If you can get us to the kitchen, I can scramble eggs and we can talk.”

“I will ring for breakfast.”

He went to the door, and picked up a phone from the console table nearby. He spoke into it for a few moments.

Alena had used that time to pour them each a glass of still water.

He joined her at the sideboard and they sipped. As they did, Alena studied Alexander, her mind running through possibilities.

“What question do you want to start with?” she asked.

“Breakfast will be here soon.”

“Ah ha. I knew it.” She set aside her glass then grabbed his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. “You dragged us halfway across Europe to get answers, and now you don’t want them. Why?”

His gaze slid from her face to her neck.

To the collar.

She froze.

There was a brief knock on the door, and then one of the older women wheeled in a cart. She quickly set a two-person table positioned under one of the windows and deposited plates on the sage green tablecloth. A pot of coffee, another of tea, and various jars and pots were added, then the woman wheeled the cart out and closed the door.

Alexander held her chair out for her, and Alena sat, hissing as she did.

Alexander froze. “Your, ahem, backside.”

“My ass. You can call it my ass.”

“It still hurts?”

“It’s black and blue.”

Alexander winced and dropped heavily into his chair. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Alena wanted to shake him. “You’re a sadist, I’m a masochist. A bruised ass is neither unexpected, nor a mistake.”

“Bruising isn’t—”

“Bruises, having them, and giving them, are a fetish. If they’re one of yours, no judgment from me.”

Finally, he smiled. “No, that particular item is not one of my fetishes.”

Alena took a roll that seemed to be halfway between a croissant and a bun, and split it with her knife. Alexander picked up his utensils too.

They ate in silence, not because she didn’t want to talk, and clearly they needed to discuss more than just the investigation.

The silence was, at least on her part, because after the first bite she was ravenous, and ate her way through a plate of eggs, thick sausage, and two of the odd bread pastries slathered in a tangy orange jam.

He finished first, and sat back, watching her. She speared the second half of her sausage with her fork, lifted it, and bit off the tip.