“To dinner.” Which wasn’t a lie. He was hungry, and Jewell had made them reservations.
“I feel like I’ve failed an elementary course in being aware of my surroundings,” Elise finally said.
“You were focused on your work, and I was there so you could focus.” They waited at a corner until the lights told them and the rest of the pedestrians to cross the road.
“I’m close. I can feel it,” she said again. “If my computer hadn’t … hey, I can buy a new one and dig. I know where I was.” She stopped walking, and he turned to face her. “I can get those answers.”
“Did you ever stop to ask yourself who fried your computer?” Blake took her by the elbow, and they started walking again.
“A virus.” She looked up at him. “I mean, a person couldn’t access my computer.”
Blake laughed at the same time Jewell did. “You were on a public server. It would take Guardian specialists seconds to hack into your computer and fry it.”
Elise looked up at him. “Did they?”
“No. Guardian did not fry your computer.” Which was the absolute truth. It was frazzled but not fried. “I strongly suggest you let Guardian do that deep dive. You’ll get the information, you’ll get your story, and you’ll stay alive.”
“But people are following me,” Elise said. “But they’re just watching, right? That man wasn’t any real danger. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have let him go.”
“Really, what would I have done with him? Taken him to the police? Handed him over to the government?”
Elise sighed. “No, there’s too much corruption.”
“True, and if I’d taken him to the police or perhaps the National Bureau of Investigations, he might have been killed.”
When she stopped again, Blake rolled his eyes and turned back to her. He wouldn’t get to eat tonight, would he? “Why would you say that?”
“Why would I believe different?” He shrugged. “The people you’re messing with are dangerous. Deadly. You know that. You’ve seen what they do firsthand.”
Elise narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you always look at the world this way?”
“Is there any other way to look at it?”
“Yeah, there is.” Elise started walking again. “But I’m kind of glad you’re paying attention.”
“Good to know.” Blake took her elbow and guided her to the crossing. “This is where we’re going.”
Blake sat across from Elise at the white linen covered table, candlelight throwing golden light over the curve of her cheek and catching the glint of her hair. The dining room exuded quiet opulence. It was adorned with crystal chandeliers, polished wood floors, and the hum of low conversations in Hungarian and English. The conversation was accented by the delicate clink of cutlery. Jewell had booked the suite under his cover and made the dinner reservation. The hotel staff treated them with seamless discretion, as if they belonged among the diplomats and executives who often dined there.
Blake was sure his stomach thought his throat had been cut. The near-constant rumbling was something he couldn’t control.
Thankfully, the first course arrived quickly. Gulyásleves,steaming bowls of rich paprika broth, beef, and root vegetables smelled like one of his Grandmother Amanda’s meals. A basket of fresh kenyér, crusty bread still warm from the oven, was placed between them. The waiter poured two glasses of deep red Egri Bikavér, also known as Bull’s Blood wine, which was earthy and bold. Elise dipped her bread into the soup, tasting carefully. Her lips parted in surprise. “God, that’s good,” she murmured, almost to herself. For a rare moment, she looked unguarded, just a woman enjoying her meal rather than a journalist chasing a story.
They moved through the courses—hortobágyi palacsinta, savory crepes filled with spiced chicken in paprika sauce, followed by roast duck leg served with braised red cabbage and potato dumplings. The waiter poured a golden glass of Tokaji Aszú, a sweet and honeyed dessert wine, as they were served a warm apple strudel dusted with cinnamon and sugar.
Minimal small talk occurred. Food seemed to be a priority for both of them. He was glad the portions were sizable, and he noticed Elise ate her food without hesitation. There was no picking at her plate.
“So, tell me about Elise Serra. Is Serra an Irish name?”
“No, but a couple of generations back, my great, no, that would be my great-great-grandfather, came to Ireland looking for a job. He stayed, married, and found fishing, and the rest, as they say, is history.
Elise leaned back in her chair, cheeks faintly flushed from the wine, her fingers cradling the glass. “I should warn you,” she said with a small smile, her Irish lilt softening, “once I start talking about home, I don’t always know where to stop.”
Blake tipped his glass in her direction. “Then don’t stop.”
Her smile faded into a more thoughtful expression. She stared into the amber glow of her wine for a moment beforespeaking again. “I grew up in Galway. A small house near the docks. My father was a fisherman, which meant his life was the sea. He taught me the tide charts before I could read properly. My mother …” Her voice caught, just faintly, before she steadied it. “She worked in the library. That was her world. She loved books, stories, and preserving the town’s history. She gave me that love. She died when I was fifteen. Pneumonia. She passed quick. Too quick.”
Blake stayed quiet, letting her words fill the space.
