“Then you aren’t doing it right.”
“No offense, but fuck you, Uncle Zane.” Zane’s laugh lingered. Yeah, he could tell she felt him. Maybe not consciously because she didn’t turn or break her stride. But just now … her rhythm shifted, a fraction off. The instinct of someone who’d felt that subtle tingle of being followed. Blake respected that. Instinct like that kept people alive.
What worried him was that instinct might also send her bolting before he could reel her in. He adjusted course as she crossed toward the tramline. He used a group of laughing students as cover. His hand brushed the phone in his pocket, where Anubis’ encrypted ping still glowed.She has no idea how exposed she is. Make contact. Tell her to stop.
Blake’s jaw tightened. Telling this woman to stop was going to be the hardest part of this mission. Because he already knew the type—too smart, too stubborn, too close to the truth to back away now. His mother, sister, and every blessed aunt he had was this type of woman. Strong, independent, and in no need of a man to protect her. How would he deal with the women in his family if he had to break this kind of news? The answer was easy. Like a fucking ticking time bomb.
But if she didn’t stop … she’d burn, just like her mentor had.
And Blake couldn’t let that happen. Human life was a fragile thing. He’d seen his mom work on too many people out at the Annex not to understand that the logistics of dying were easy. A cut artery, no oxygen, an overdose of drugs sending the systems into a spiral, all of it would stop a life quickly. Of course, his mom worked to save lives. He and his father … they were on the other side of that line. His mother understood, but she didn’t like it.
Blake tracked Elise through the crowd, calculating her angles, waiting for the right moment to close the distance. He needed something casual, something that wouldn’t spook her. Coffee shop. Street corner. An accidental bump. He was rehearsing the approach when Elise made the decision for him.
She veered without warning, darting sideways to avoid a couple stepping out of a café, and collided square into his chest. The impact jolted him, her bag slipping, his briefcase swinging as he reached instinctively to steady her as she went down.
“God,” she muttered, breathless, half-laughing at her own clumsiness. She flipped her dark hair back over her shoulder and brushed off her slacks. “Sorry, I wasn’t watching.” Her Irish accent wasn’t pronounced, but it was there. She looked up at him, her expression froze, and then her smile widened. “Thank you. Are you okay?”
Blake angled his expression into polite surprise. The kind a businessman might wear after being blindsided on the street. Suit pressed, tie straight, briefcase in hand—he looked every inch the part. He bent, helped her right herself, and gave her the ghost of a smile.
“No harm done,” he said, voice smooth, calm. “But maybe I should buy you a drink to make up for it.” He didn’t try to hide his American accent. Budapest was a cultural melting pot like any other large city in Europe.
Elise hesitated, her eyes flicking over him as though trying to gauge if he were serious. She looked tired, tense, but when her mouth curved, it was with a touch of wry humor. “Where?”
Blake straightened, adjusted the briefcase, and nodded toward the building right beside them. The hotel’s lit windows glowed against the evening sky, modest but respectable—exactly the sort of place she’d believe he’d be registered. “I’m staying here.”
“So am I,” she said, the faintest edge of relief in her tone. Then, with a small shrug, she admitted, “I could use a drink. It’s been a long day.”
Blake gestured toward the revolving door, letting her go first. Did he notice the curve of her hip and the way her clothes fit her? Yep, and that needed to stop. The reporter was attractive, though. He mentally shook off that line of thought and regrouped. A coincidental meeting. That was good. It gave him the opening he needed.
Inside, he would have to find the right moment to tell her the truth. Or at least enough of it to make her stop before she got herself killed.
The bar was quiet, tucked into the far side of the hotel lobby, its amber-lit shelves lined with more bottles than patrons. A few businessmen in rumpled suits leaned over high tables, speaking in low voices, but otherwise, the place rested in an easy stillness. Blake let Elise choose the table, and she slid into a booth half-hidden by a brass partition.
“Whiskey?” he asked as the waiter appeared.
“No, whiskey makes me too honest. Red wine, please.”
He cocked his head and then smiled as he ordered a bourbon. After the waiter left, she shrugged off her coat, shook her hair back, and met his gaze with green eyes that were far too sharp for someone he was supposed to dissuade.
“So,” she said, resting her chin on her hand. “Do you make a habit of rescuing women who barrel into you on the street, or am I just special?”
Blake set his briefcase neatly beside the booth. “Only when they look like they could use a drink,” he replied.
“That’s a practiced line,” she shot back, arching a brow. “Do you practice those lines in the mirror before you leave the room?”
A laugh tugged at him, unbidden. It wasn’t often someone threw him off stride, but her delivery was perfect. It was dry, cutting, not flirty so much as testing him, and damned if that didn’t equal a challenge in his opinion. And he fucking loved challenges. “I’ll admit,” he said, “you’re not my usual audience. Most people don’t call me out that fast.” Which was the absolute truth. Of course, he usually didn’t talk to people. Though that was more of a lifestyle choice rather than a trait. He liked people on the whole. It was just the fuckers he eliminated that he had a problem with.
“Then most people aren’t paying attention.” She lifted her eyebrows at him, smiling again.
The drinks arrived. A glass of red wine for her, bourbon for him. Elise lifted her glass, watching him over the rim as she took the first sip. “So, Mr. Suit-and-Briefcase, what brings you to Budapest? Surely not the museums.”
Blake leaned back, letting the whiskey burn a slow line down his throat. “Business,” he said simply.
“Business,” she repeated, eyes narrowing with amusement. “The most evasive answer possible. You realize you’ve just made yourself more suspicious, not less.”
Blake shrugged, and her eyes moved to his shoulders before she met his gaze again. She lifted an eyebrow as if she knew he’d caught her sizing him up. He smiled. “Maybe I like being mysterious.” And her eyes admiring him wasn’t a hardship, that was for sure.
“Or …” She pointed at him, “Maybe you’re terrible at small talk.”
