Reaching up, he tapped his ear twice before looking at her. “You had your chance to walk away,” he said simply. “You didn’t. So, now, you get me.”
Her pulse tripped in her throat. Part irritation, part adrenaline, part … something else she refused to name. When the elevator chimed and came to a halt, she strode out, heels making little noise against the carpeted hall. Her door was halfway down the corridor, the little brass number glinting in the overhead light.
She unlocked it, pushed inside, and turned to block the doorway before he could enter. “Let’s set a few ground rules.”
His brows rose, but he didn’t move back.
“One, you don’t touch my notes. Two, you don’t dictate what I do. And three”—she jabbed a finger toward his chest, firm—“if you snore, you’re out the door.”
A smile tugged at his mouth, subtle but genuine. “Noted.”
“And if you think I’m letting you watch me change …”
“Elise.” His voice cut through her list, low and certain. “I’m not here to control you. I’m here to keep you breathing.”
The words landed heavy. She swallowed, suddenly aware of the muffled sounds of the city drifting through the window and the steady rise and fall of his chest just inches from her.
Reluctantly, she stepped aside. He entered, scanning the space with quick precision. She watched as he examined the windows, the corners, even the bathroom door. Professional. Efficient. It should have annoyed her. Instead, it left her oddly reassured.
She placed her bag on the desk and pulled out the stack of papers she’d been pouring over. “Fine. If you’re staying, you might as well know what I’ve found. Tomorrow, I’m digging into the Budapest port authority records. These shipments line up too neatly with his donations. It’s thin, and there’s no criminal activity that I know of, but it’s an anomaly, and I’m going to follow it.”
He glanced at her notes but said nothing.
She lifted her chin, defiance sparking. “You can stand there all night like some brooding gargoyle, but it won’t change the fact that I’m not giving this up. People need to know who he really is.”
Blake met her gaze, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Then I’ll make sure you live long enough to tell them.”
Her breath caught, but she didn’t let him see her falter. Instead, she set the papers down, turned her back, and told herself she wasn’t rattled. Because she wasn’t. No matter how many threats closed in, she would keep walking straight through them.
The silence stretched after his declaration, heavy with the weight of things neither of them wanted to admit out loud. Elise busied herself at the desk, flipping through her papers as though her life’s work wasn’t suddenly sharing a room with a stranger who carried himself like he’d walked straight out of a battlefield.
“You always this charming when you invite yourself into a woman’s room?” she asked without looking up.
Blake settled into the chair by the window, long legs stretched out, his profile cut against the city lights beyond. “Usually, I don’t bother with charm.”
“That explains a lot.” She shot him a sideways glance, her lips twitching despite herself.
His mouth curved faintly. “You could always pretend I’m not here.”
“Oh, that’ll be easy.” She set her notes down with exaggerated care. “Just ignore the six-foot wall of muscle guarding my hotel room door.”
“Six-four,” he corrected, almost absently.
She turned in her chair, brows arching. “Did you just … fact-check your own height?”
He shrugged, unbothered. “Accuracy matters.”
She laughed then, quick and bright, surprising herself. It had been days since anything had struck her as funny. Weeks, maybe. She leaned back, arms folded, studying him. “So, Mr. Accuracy, what exactly do you do when you’re not stalking stubborn journalists?”
“Security,” he said smoothly. No hesitation.
The answer was neat. Too neat. She narrowed her eyes. “Mmm. And I’m the Queen of England. Please note the Irish accent for the ludicrousness of that statement.”
He didn’t rise to the bait, just watched her with that maddening calm. Which only made her want to poke harder.
“You don’t have the posture of a bodyguard. Too self-contained. And you don’t act like a cop. Too quiet. So, what is it? Some secret Guardian gig? Double-O-something?”
“You should probably go to sleep, Elise.”
