Page 7 of Fangs for the Memories (Budapest Bites #1)

I wake up feeling like hell. Of course I do, I am in hell. A hell of my own making when I thought it was a good idea to get roaring drunk.

I roll over with a groan, wishing it wasn’t so bright before the vague recollections of last night seep in.

The bar, the wine and the…man?

I sit up quickly and wish I hadn’t as my head pounds with what is going to be a spectacular hangover. Gnawing, instant, sweat-inducing horror hits me…I couldn’t have brought him to my room?

I couldn’t! I’m the one who was jilted. I don’t get to do something as stupid as a one-night stand straight out of my disastrous relationship.

Anxiety seeps away when I see the place is how I left it last night. There’s no extra pants, shoes, or dark suits in evidence. No sign anyone was here at all.

And I’m still fully clothed, save for my boots, which sit neatly side by side at the end of the bed.

In my present state of mind, I’m struggling to even think of any man as honorable. Could it be I imagined Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome?

I struggle into the bathroom where the light makes me wince, and I attempt to avoid my reflection. It doesn’t work. Hell has definitely caught up with me. My pale face, far too thin from all the pre-wedding dieting, stares back at me. My eyes are red-rimmed and my hair’s a bird’s nest.

It hits me I can’t even get a mysterious stranger to stay the night. I am a total failure.

I make it to breakfast with twenty minutes to spare. I’m not hungry, but I need coffee mainlined into me, and if there’s one thing the Hungarians do well (other than the wine, but we won’t talk about that), it’s coffee.

When I get up for the breakfast buffet, the blonde I vaguely remember from last night sidles up to me.

“I saw you with him last night,” she says in accented English, although the accent isn’t Hungarian.

“Who?” I ask because my brain simply hasn’t yet had enough caffeine.

“You need to take care, Miss. Mr. Kóbor is Hungarian mafia and bad news,” she says, her voice low. “You should go home.”

“I…” Before I can tell her I have little recollection of last night and I don’t actually have a home to go to, she’s already gone, right over to the far side of the dining room.

I pick up a few bread rolls, add some bacon which makes me feel queasy just looking at it, and turn to return to my seat.

Which is when I see him. Sat at my table, looking as fresh as fresh can be.

Without a bottle of wine inside me, he’s even more handsome than my vague recollection.

He’s wearing another beautiful dark suit, clearly bespoke because it clings to his every sculpted muscle.

He still has the shadow of a beard, even though it’s morning, and it makes his sharpened cheekbones stand out even more.

His black hair is even thicker than I remember too, and I’m already blushing because I also recall I wanted to run my hands through it.

For a second I consider running. Then I remember I am a grown woman and instead I style it out, sauntering over to my table and taking my seat as if he’s been sat there all along.

His dark eyes rove over me, heating my skin, and then, all at once, they’re gone as he lifts a finger at the waitress.

“Fekete kávé,” he growls.

She nods and hurries away.

“I guess you already know?” He brings his attention back to me, his delicious velvet accented voice rolling over me like a soft fog.

“Know what?” I’m acutely aware of the dark rings around my eyes and my hair in the messiest of messy buns. And the fact my face is most probably bright red. But other than that, I’m not sure what I should know.

“What I am?”

“And what are you?”

He jerks his thumb at the blonde woman who is studiously avoiding looking our direction, speaking with her male companion.

I stab at some of the bacon on my plate, not sure if I can stomach it.

“I know you could have taken advantage of me last night, but you chose not to. Anything else you are, mafia or whatever, I don’t much care about.” I wave my fork vaguely in his direction. “I’ve dealt with enough monsters, and you’re not one.”

For a moment, a shadow flickers over his handsome features before he leans forward, a gust of citrus scented cologne hitting me and very nearly knocking me out.

“Are you sure?” he says, a wicked glint in his eye.

“I am,” I say confidently. “As long as your name isn’t Mark, you’re not a monster.”

“And what if it is?”

“It isn’t, is it?” My morning after the night before confidence deserts me and a little nausea rises in my stomach.

I think he told me his name, and I can’t remember it.

I study my coffee cup hard.

“Ferenc Kóbor, at your disposal, as you English say,” he says, his wolfish grin coming back, “Grace Spencer,” he adds.

I’m not entirely sure whether to be impressed or creeped out about how he knows my full name. A waitress comes over with a fresh cafetière of coffee, and as she puts it down in front of him, she glances at me before quickly hurrying away.

Ferenc turns over a cup and fills it with the black liquid before offering me a refill. I can’t stop myself from nodding.

He takes a sip of his and makes an interested face. “Not bad,” he says, looking around at the waitress. She releases a small squeak and scurries into the kitchen.

“Do you own this place?” I say. “Or do you just provide protection ?”

I make bunny ears around the word protection and instantly regret it.

He looks at his watch.

“As of nine am today, it’s part of my business, yes,” he says, sipping the dark liquid. “Is that a problem?”

“I probably can’t pay for the wine I drank last night, or the room service I’ve ordered, or anything which isn’t already paid for,” I say quickly. “I’m broke. My business…went under after I’d paid for the holiday and my partner…decided not to come.”

If I thought I was blushing before, I have to be the color of beetroot now. Not only for my admission but all the lies.

“Oh dear.” Ferenc fixes me with a gaze so intense I feel like I’m a rabbit facing down a predator. “I guess we’ll have to come to an arrangement.”

“I’ll call my mother. She’ll pay what I owe.” I race through the sentence, my heart pounding. “Or a friend.”

His smile softens. “I didn’t mean it that way, Grace,” he says. “I would never ask anything of you which you didn’t want to give.” His dark eyes twinkle gently. “I mean, I’d like to take you out, show you Budapest. You can be my companion for the day as recompense.”

I’m hopelessly hot and sweaty at this second. I’m not sure if I’m going to throw up or pass out. I stand, hurriedly, my chair forced backwards.

“I have to go.”

And without any further words, I race back to my room.

How the hell am I going to get out of this?