I grabbed his tie, pulled him close, and kissed him. Donovan stiffened, momentarily shocked by my boldness. But then, the heat flared between us, as bright and strong as ever. A flame, a fire that wouldn't die. Donovan growled, wound his hand in my hair, and pulled me closer, until I was flush against him. I breathed in, letting his sharp, clean scent fill my nose. His tongue met mine, and we melted into each other, pouring our feelings, our frustrations, our desires, into one perfect kiss.
All too soon it ended.
I dropped my hands from the detective's tie. Donovan Caine backed away. Our gazes met, gray on gold. Then the detective turned on his heel and walked away. I waited a minute before following him at a slower pace.
Donovan Caine went over and said something to Finn, who looked surprised by the detective's sudden appearance. Finn hesitated a moment, and the two of them shook hands. Then Caine left, walking past Fletcher's casket. He didn't look back.
I strolled over to Finn, who was staring at the detective's retreating form with a confused look on his face. "I never thought he'd show up here," Finn said.
"Well, he did. But he's gone now. I don't think we'll be seeing the detective for a while."
Not until Donovan Caine could come to terms with whatever he felt for me. Not until he could reconcile wanting me, the woman who'd killed his partner, with the guilt he felt about not avenging Ingles's death. Not until he could accept all the dark things I'd done, all the people I'd killed-if he ever could.
There was nothing I could do to change how the detective felt or hurry him along.
But I was the Spider. I was patient enough to wait him out.
I reached into my purse, pulled out a pair of black sunglasses, and slid them over my eyes. "I'll see you in two weeks. Try not to get into too much trouble while I'm gone.
I'd hate to have to interrupt my vacation to bail your ass out of a jam."
"Where are you going?" Finn asked.
"Key West," I replied. "I hear the cabana boys are particularly oily this time of year."
Chapter Thirty-Three
I got on a plane that afternoon. By midnight, I was listening to the sound of the ocean from the balcony of my hotel room. The wind whipped my hair around my face and blew the tang of salt up to me. The moon overhead painted everything a dull silver.
I raised my latest round of gin to the frothy ocean waves. Ice tinkled against the side of the glass. "Here's to you, Fletcher."
Only the ocean waves answered me, so I knocked back the liquor, closed the balcony door, and stumbled off to bed.
Over the next few days, I did all the things a tourist would normally do in Key West.
Watched the sun set over Mallory Square. Visited Hemingway's home. Stared at the cats with too many toes. Took a couple of scuba diving tours. Bought myself some cheap shell jewelry and some real key limes. Drank tropical drinks until I never wanted to look at another pineapple or mango again.
Once I'd exhausted the tourist traps, I lounged by the ocean, reading books and admiring the hard bodies of the lifeguards and cabana boys. Fletcher was right. There were lots to choose from. I struck up a conversation with one of them, Renaldo, who was putting himself through school by working at my hotel. Renaldo made it clear he was more than willing to engage in a few hours of hot, sweaty, meaningless sex-and that he wouldn't even expect a tip afterward.
But his eyes were brown, not gold, and I sent him away.
I also spent a lot of time staring out at the horizon, sipping boat drinks, and thinking about what I wanted to do when I returned to Ashland. Because I didn't want to go back to being an assassin. I knew my strengths, my skills, my weaknesses. As the Spider, there was nothing left to prove to myself or anyone else. And it just wouldn't be the same without Fletcher. No one would be waiting at the Pork Pit late at night for me. No one would ask if I'd been hurt or how things had gone.
No one would care.
More importantly, the old man had wanted me to retire. That had been his final wish, and I was going to honor it, even though I had no clue what I was going to do with myself. But it was time to use my skills for something else. What that something else was, I didn't know yet.
But I found myself strangely eager to find out.
* * *
I returned to Ashland two weeks later, feeling refreshed, rejuvenated, and still slightly sunburned and hung over from all the fruity boat drinks I'd had. I went straight to the Pork Pit, where the others had decided to wait to welcome me home.
It was late, and night had already fallen over Ashland. Blackness cloaked the street, except for the neon pig gleaming its bright blues and pinks over the front door of the Pork Pit. I stood outside in the inky shadows and looked in through the window. Finn, Jo-Jo, and Sophia had already gathered inside the storefront. Finn sipped a cup of chicory coffee at the counter. I could smell the warm, comforting fumes even out here on the street. Sophia pushed a mop back and forth across the floor. Jo-Jo fluttered back and forth, refilling Finn's cup, wiping down tables, checking on her sister.
Not the family I'd originally started out with, but a family nonetheless. One that I'd do anything to protect. I pulled open the front door. The bell chimed, and I walked through.
Everyone's head swiveled in my direction, and a moment later, I was bombarded with hugs, back slaps, and questions about my trip. Sophia, in particular, hugged me so hard she cracked my back. Felt good, though.
While the others chattered at me, my eyes swept over the interior of the restaurant.
The door, the cash register, the stools. Everything that had been broken the night Fletcher died had been replaced. A dim shape beside the cash register caught my eye, and I realized what it was-the old man's copy of Where the Red Fern Grows. Sophia must have rescued it from the mess. Still, the Pit felt smaller without Fletcher here, emptier than it had been before, despite the others' presence. I wondered if it would always feel this way to me now.
But this was not the time to be melancholy, so I pushed my dark thoughts away and told the others all about my long-awaited vacation. Jo-Jo, in particular, was interested in my tales of oily cabana boys. Eventually, the four of us settled around one of the tables in the middle of the restaurant.
"I brought you all something," I said, reaching into the cheap straw tote bag I'd picked up in Key West.
Finn's green eyes lit up. He loved presents. "What is it? Money? Expensive liquor? Long-lost pirate treasure? Doubloons?"
I dumped a plastic bag of key limes onto his lap. Finn's face fell faster than a lopsided cake. "Cheer up," I said. "If you're a good boy, I'll make you a key lime pie."
"I'd rather have some margaritas," he whined. "You're getting a pie, so suck it up." Finn stuck his lip out in a mock pout.