Finn pointed to something beside the sofa. I leaned over. One of the detective's guns lay on the floor within easy reach. I frowned. Despite our truce, Donovan Caine still didn't trust me. What had he thought I was going to do? Slip out and murder him in the middle of the night in my own apartment? I was ruthless, not stupid.
I walked over to Finn. The mid-morning sunlight slipped through the curtains and highlighted his face, his strong features that were so similar to his father's. I leaned over and mussed his walnut-colored hair.
"What was that for?" Finn murmured, smoothing down his bed-head cowlick.
"Just because," I said, trying to hide the emotion that thickened my voice. "Late breakfast?" "Omelets. Definitely omelets. Pancakes, too?" Finn asked.
I mussed his hair again, moved into the kitchen, and got to work. I pulled several eggs out of the refrigerator, along with cheese, milk, and butter. Packages of frozen strawberries waited in the freezer, and I plucked them out of the frosty depths. Flour, sugar, nonstick cooking spray, and pepper came out of the cabinets. Again, the steady process of cooking, of creating food, soothed me. I chopped tomatoes, onions, green peppers, and ham to put into my southwestern omelets. The berries went into the microwave to defrost. Buttermilk beaten with flour and just a hint of sugar formed the base of my pancakes.
The faint clank and clatter of dishes woke the detective. Donovan Caine let out a low groan and sat up. The blankets fell away, revealing the same jeans and T-shirt the detective had worn last night. So he didn't sleep in the buff. A shame, really.
Caine frowned, as though he didn't understand where he was. He caught sight of me, and the knowledge and memories of last night flared in his hazel gaze. His eyes cut to Finn, then back to me. He didn't relax.
"Morning," I said, flipping one of the strawberry pancakes.
The detective grunted something unintelligible. Caine rolled off the sofa and stumbled into the kitchen. He leaned on the counter and stared at the bubbling coffeepot like a teenage virgin would at a stripper.
"Mug?" he mumbled.
I opened a cabinet and passed him a white ceramic cup. Our hands brushed. Once again, that hot awareness of him coursed through me. My br**sts tightened, and a pleasant ache pulsed between my thighs. But Donovan Caine was too caffeine-deprived to notice or respond in kind.
The detective sat at the table next to Finn and stared bleary-eyed into his mug. After a few minutes, the caffeine fumes worked their morning magic. The detective blinked and took a sip of his coffee.
"Gah!" He almost spit the steaming mouthful back out. "What the hell is this?
Poison?" "Nope, it's chicory coffee." Finn raised his own mug in salute. "It'll put hair on your chest." Caine grimaced, but he kept drinking. The detective even poured himself a second cup.
When the pancakes were golden brown, I put them on a platter, along with several omelets. Plates, silverware, and napkins went onto the table, along with a pitcher of orange juice. Once again, I used my Ice magic to frost the container. Donovan Caine didn't say anything about my power, but his eyes stayed on me. Cool and calculating.
Everyone helped themselves to the food. Still suspicious, Caine didn't touch anything until after Finn and I had both swallowed several bites. But once he started, the detective ate more than the two of us put together.
"This is really good," Donovan Caine said, attacking his third strawberry pancake.
"You sound surprised," I said.
He shrugged. "I just didn't think an assassin would be able to cook like this." "Well, I do get lots of practice with knives. You could say I'm multitasking." The detective froze, his fork halfway to his mouth.
"I'm kidding. I enjoy cooking. It relaxes me."
"I'll bet," Caine muttered. But his unease didn't keep him from stuffing another bite of pancake into his mouth. We ate in silence for several minutes.
"So what do you do when you're not assassinating people, Gin?" Donovan Caine finally asked. I raised an eyebrow. "Why so curious, detective?"
He shrugged. "Just making conversation. Since we're stuck with each other for a while, I thought it might be polite to talk about something other than the fact we're going to commit a felony today."
"Only one?" I mocked. "You're selling us short, detective. The day is young." Donovan's eyes narrowed. He realized he wasn't going to get anywhere with me, so he turned his gaze to Finn.
"And you?"
"Oh, Finn isn't an assassin," I cut in. "He's much, much worse. He's a banker." My snide comment took Finn by surprise, and he choked on his coffee. Donovan Caine let out a guffaw of laughter. It was the first time I'd heard the detective laugh without an undercurrent of angry sarcasm. A sharp sound, tinged here and there with bitterness, but not an unpleasant one. Rather like my laugh.
Caine smiled, his teeth flashing in his bronze face. The expression warmed his eyes to liquid gold. My breath caught in my throat. If the detective looked that good merely smiling, how would he look after a night of slow, sweaty sex? Mmm.
Donovan's smile faded under my intense gray gaze. "What are you staring at?"
"Nothing," I said. "Eat your breakfast. It's going to be a long day, and everyone needs to keep their strength up. Finn, what do your contacts say?"
Finn gave me a dirty look before answering. "Still no hits on the dead guys' fake IDs or any info on the tooth rune. Whoever the Air elemental is, she's running a tight ship. No leaks so far."
"Any news about me?" Donovan Caine asked. "Or the attack at my house?"
"Nothing on the morning news shows," Finn said. "The elemental must have cleaned up after herself. No talk of bodies, wind damage, nothing. However, according to my sources in the police department, your captain, Wayne Stephenson, is looking for you.
He wants a word about your maverick investigation into the Gordon Giles case and the fact that you haven't reported in for duty today."
Caine grimaced, because his captain's interest in his whereabouts was more evidence Stephenson was involved with the elemental.
"Do you have anything on Stephenson yet?" I asked Finn.
He shook his head. "Nothing so far. At first glance, his financials look clean, and he's not dropping wads of cash on any vice or habit I can find. I'll keep digging." We finished our breakfast in silence. I started to clear the dishes from the table, but Donovan Caine got to his feet and reached for the platter in my hands.
"Let me," he said. "I'm staying in your house, eating your food. It's the least I can do."