"I see."
This time, the disappointment was as sharp as one of the silverstone knives hidden up my sleeves. Donovan Caine still wanted me, but he wanted his conscience to be clear about it too. I wasn't the only one who needed to change.
Caine cleared his throat. "You know who the blond kid is?"
"Jake McAllister. Jonah McAllister's nearest and dearest. The giant cop told me - then asked if I still wanted to press charges."
Donovan looked at the cop, who could be seen standing on the sidewalk through the storefront windows.
"Xavier? He's a good guy. Probably thought he was doing you a favor, letting you know about the kid and his connections. Because Jonah McAllister isn't going to like this. He could cause a lot of trouble for you."
"If he does, I'll handle it the way I always do. Quickly. Efficiently. Permanently."
"The way you always do? I thought you were trying to change."
"I am," I replied. "But white trash is still white trash, detective. Nobody comes into my restaurant, tries to hold up the place, and threatens my customers. I don't care who his daddy is."
We stared at each other. Not for the first time, I longed to draw the detective close, to pull his lips down to mine and see if the sex would be as hot and hard and good as it had been before. We'd certainly have more room to maneuver on one of the tables than we'd had in the supply closet. Mmm.
But I wasn't going to make the first move. I'd done that before. If the detective wanted me, he could let me know.
But he didn't.
Instead, Donovan Caine stared at me, his eyes tracing over my features, as if he was memorizing them. As if he was never planning on seeing me again. Maybe he wasn't.
The idea made my stomach twist, but I kept my face smooth and expressionless. I hadn't survived this long by wearing my heart on my sleeve. I didn't plan on doing it now. Not even for him.
Finally, Donovan held out his hand. I took it. His fingers felt hard, strong, capable against my own, and the heat from him warmed my whole body. Donovan dropped my hand like it burned him. Maybe it did, to want me so much, the woman who'd killed his partner.
I'd heard the detective say once that you didn't f**k your partner's murderer. But he'd done it - twice - and enjoyed it. And he still hated himself for it.
"Take care, Gin."
"You too, detective. You too."
Donovan Caine nodded at me a final time. Then the detective turned on his heel and walked out the door, leaving my gin joint and heart a little emptier and colder than they had been before.
Chapter Three
Barely a minute passed before the front door opened once more, making the bell chime. I looked up, wondering if the detective had changed his mind about, well, anything.
Everything.
But the man who strode into the Pork Pit wasn't Donovan Caine or another cop. His suit was much too nice for that. The black fabric draped off his shoulders, highlighting a frame that was compact, sturdy, strong. Given his body structure, I would have thought him a dwarf.
But at six foot one, he was much too tall for that. He had a thick head of hair that was a glossy blue-black, while his eyes were a light violet. A white, thin scar slashed diagonally across his chin. It offset the crooked tilt of his nose.
Those were the only two flaws in his chiseled features, which somehow added even more character to his face, rather than detracting from his good looks.
He cut an impressive figure. Striking, confident, aggressive, forceful. Someone who demanded attention.
Someone worth watching. Especially since he looked vaguely familiar to me.
I half-expected a couple of giant guards to follow the man into the Pork Pit. Most of the rich folks in Ashland employed at least a couple, and this guy was definitely wealthy, judging by his swanky suit and confident demeanor.
But the man entered alone. His light eyes swept over the interior of the restaurant, pausing at the blood spatters on the floor. After a moment, his gaze moved on and settled on the two girls, who were packing up their books to leave.
"Eva," he said in a voice that rumbled like thunder.
"Are you all right?"
Eva zipped up her backpack. "I'm fine, Owen."
The man moved to stand beside her. He walked stiffly but with purpose, like a bulldozer plowing through dandelions.
"Tell me what happened."
"I said I was fine," she repeated in an irritated voice, as though they'd had this argument many times before. "I also told you there was no need to come down here. You never listen to me."
"I'm your big brother," he said. "I'm supposed to watch out for you."
Big brother? Yeah, I could see that. Eva had the same coloring as the thirtysomething man. Blue-black hair, pale eyes, milky skin. It made her beautiful. Him too, in a cold sort of way.
"Now, tell me what happened," the man demanded again.
Eva rolled her eyes and launched into a recount of the attempted robbery. As she talked, the man crossed his arms over his chest. His biceps bulged with the motion, and he started tapping one finger on his opposite elbow.
Despite the movements, he was totally focused on his sister, as though she was the most important thing in the world to him. Maybe she was. He stared at the red welt on her cheek, and his hands curled into fists. I got the distinct feeling he would love to have some alone time with Jake McAllister.
When Eva finished her story, her big brother turned his attention to me. For the first time, I felt the full force of his gaze. Sharp, shrewd, calculating. Like looking into my own eyes. He walked forward and held out his hand.
"Owen Grayson."
Well, the hits just kept on coming. First, Jake McAllister decided to grace my restaurant with his presence, and now Owen Grayson had come to collect his sister.
I'd heard of him, of course. Grayson was one of the city's wealthiest businessmen. Mining, timber, metal manufacturing.
He had his fingers in a lot of money-making pies. With his subdued suit and chiseled features, Grayson didn't have the ostentatious, deadly, in-your-face flash of Mab Monroe, who enjoyed flaunting her status as the city's golden girl. Still, I knew power when I saw it - elemental or otherwise. And Owen Grayson had plenty.
Definitely someone worth watching.
"Gin Blanco."
"Gin?" he asked.
"Like the liquor," I quipped.
Owen Grayson's eyes glittered at my wry tone, but I still put my hand in his. Grayson's fingers curled around my skin like thick ropes of kudzu. Hard, sturdy, and almost unbreakable. He might not be a dwarf, but there had to be some of the blood in his veins. Only way to explain that kind of grip. Grayson glanced down at our entwined hands and frowned, as though I'd static-shocked him or something. Maybe I had, because I felt a brief prick on my palm.