Page 13 of Fangs for the Memories
My phone is vibrating across the nightstand when I enter. I don’t remember putting it there, but my confused brain doesn’t really register. What it does notice is the number is “unknown.”
I know my mother isn’t tech savvy enough to hide her number, so in a moment of madness, I pick it up and swipe to answer.
“Grace?” Ferenc’s deep chocolate tones hit my ear.
“How did you get this number?”
“I own the hotel now, or did you forget?”
“So, you’re creeping in all the personal records?”
“I’m merely checking on a guest’s welfare.”
“I don’t need checking on.”
“It’s my job to make sure you have everything you need, Grace. Do you have everything you need?”
I drop onto the bed. He’s persistent, I’ll give him that.
“Yes, I have everything I need, Mr. Kóbor.”
“Call me Ferenc.”
“I have everything I need, Ferenc.”
“And what about my offer to show you Budapest?”
“I already have excursions booked,” I say hurriedly. “They’re non-refundable.”
“I see,” Ferenc says. In the background, I hear the sounds of muffled Hungarian being spoken and the clack of a keyboard. “However, apparently the excursions are all booked for two. How about I join you?”
“You’re not going to take no for an answer, are you?”
“When I have a beautiful woman staying alone in my hotel, and she won’t tell me who hurt her, then it is my duty to make sure Budapest provides all the healing.” He says.
What am I supposed to say to that? Has something got lost in translation? Why would he do any of this for me?
“Um…”
“I’ll be waiting in the lobby.” He says.
And hangs up.
He hung up on me.
My hungover brain has my mouth dropping open. He didn’t give me a choice.
He’s waiting.
Mr. Mafia is waiting forme.
It takes a long shower until I decide what to do. I step out of the elevator to find him sat reading a Hungarian paper, another massive Rolex poking out from under his suit sleeve. Ferenc’s sharp, dark eyes lift, alight on me, and then his gaze traces down my body.
I’ve never felt so naked in all my life while also being fully dressed. It’s as if he can see straight through the vintage cargo pants and the Yves Saint Laurent sweater I’m wearing (courtesy of a little known charity shop in a smart part of London). He stands as I approach.
Holy shit, this man isbig. Well over six foot in height, the cut of the suit is such it enhances his wide shoulders and slim waist. He is intimidation in Italy’s finest.
“So, what is on your itinerary today?” he asks, folding up the paper and placing it back in a rack on the wall.
