No, the problem wasn't Grayson and his murky motives, whatever they might be. It was the small fact that he wasn't Donovan Caine. Despite my best intentions, I'd fallen for the detective, felt something for him. A warm softness in my chest that went beyond mere lust. And when Donovan had left town, when he told me that he was leaving because of me, well, it hadn't exactly done wonders for my ego. Or made me eager to start up something new with someone else.
Even assassins needed time to lick their wounds.
But Owen Grayson stared at me very much the way I had looked at Donovan Caine. With pure, focused interest-and the determination to get what he wanted. Me. Despite my doubts about him, it was... nice to be looked at that way. Instead of with the cold suspicion that the detective had almost always shown me.
Owen reached over and slipped his hand in mine. His palm was pleasantly cool against my skin, and I felt a little surge of magic brush against the spider rune scar embedded in my palm. Grayson's eyes brightened, as though someone had struck a match in his violet gaze. In addition to being a successful businessman, Owen Grayson also had an elemental talent for metal. To be considered a true elemental, you had to be gifted in one of the four major areas-Air, Fire, Ice, or Stone. But lots of folks were magically skilled in offshoots of the four elements, like electricity or water. In Owen's case, his talent for metal, a branch of Stone magic, let him sense all kinds of metal and ore, control them, and even forge them into whatever he wanted.
"The silverstone's still in there," I said in a wry tone. "If that's what you were looking for."
Owen shook his head. "I'll admit I'm curious as to exactly how you could get so much of the metal melted into your skin like that-especially shaped like a spider rune. And why you carry so many silverstone knives on you all the time. Curiosity is a trait of mine, I'm afraid. But I was much more interested in just holding your hand."
"What are you? Twelve?"
Grayson flashed me another smile. "Sometimes the most sensual pleasures are the simplest ones."
I looked at him a moment. Then I threw back my head and laughed. "Wow. That was lame. Do you try that line out on all the ladies? Or just me?"
Instead of being insulted, Grayson's smile deepened, and his violet eyes glowed with warmth. "Just you, Gin. You're the only one who's ever called me on it."
Owen made me laugh, I'd give him that. So I sat there and let him hold my hand instead of telling him to get lost.
Grayson's thumb traced over the circle embedded in my palm, the center of the spider rune that marked my skin. A little tingle of interest sparked to life in the pit of my stomach. A small sizzle of awareness, of potential, of possibilities. I regarded Owen a little more closely, letting my eyes drift over his powerful shoulders, thick arms, solid chest. The warm tingle spread out, rippled through my stomach, and drifted even lower. Hmm. Maybe I should take Owen Grayson up on his offer of sex. Maybe that would help me purge these lingering feelings I had for Donovan Caine and get the detective out of my system once and for all.
"I've asked you before, and I'll ask you again," Grayson said. "Go out with me, Gin. Dinner, dancing, a movie. Whatever you want. On me. All I ask is the pleasure of your company."
I took another sip of my bitter drink. "And what if I'm not good company?"
He shrugged. "Then we'll chalk it up to a failed experiment. What do you say?"
I opened my mouth to say... something, I wasn't quite sure what, when a woman stopped in front of our booth.
"Owen! What a pleasure to see you here tonight," the woman said.
I recognized her. Roslyn Phillips. The vampire madam and owner of Northern Aggression. Roslyn was a gorgeous woman from head to toe. Full, perky br**sts, tight thighs, curved hips, and an ass that looked like it had been sculpted by Michelangelo. With a figure like that, it was no wonder Roslyn used sex to power up, along with blood.
Some vamps were like that, especially the ones who worked in the Ashland flesh trade. All vamps needed blood, of course, drinking it down the way humans might swallow a daily dose of vitamins. But many vamps also got a similar high off sex-or feeding off the emotions of others. Those who charged for their sexual services experienced the buzz and got paid for their time and expertise. Win-win for them. Which is why a large majority of the hookers in Ashland were vampires. Well, that and the fact they lived so long. Hooking was a skill that would always be in demand, despite the changing times. Always good to have a plan B to fall back on, in case of recession or lousy stock investments.
Roslyn Phillips was dressed for a night at the club, and the vamp's silver miniskirt and matching suit jacket showed off all her glorious assets to their ultimate perfection. Now I didn't look too shabby tonight in my own form-fitting black pants, blue silk shirt, and designer boots. But next to Roslyn's knockout beauty, I might as well have been a piece of poor white trash wearing a holey potato sack. And the vamp's face was just as attractive as the rest of her. Eyes and skin the color of dark, melted toffee. Cropped, feathered black hair that just brushed the edge of her jaw. A small, pointed nose. Blindingly white teeth capped off by two perfectly pointed fangs.
Owen got to his feet and kissed the vamp on her cheek. "Roslyn. Good to see you too. Let me introduce you to my companion. Roslyn, this is-"
"Gin," the vamp said in a neutral tone.
Owen frowned. "The two of you know each other?"
I smiled. "Oh, Roslyn and I are old friends. Aren't we, Roslyn?"
"Of course," she murmured. "Of course."
Owen sat back down next to me, but Roslyn stood where she was. She regarded me with her toffee eyes. After a moment, she sank her teeth into her lower lip. Thinking about something.
Roslyn Phillips and I didn't have the best relationship in the world. Once upon a time, I'd killed Roslyn's abusive brother-in-law to stop him from beating the vamp's sister and young niece. I'd done the job on the down low, but Roslyn had still figured out it was me. She'd whispered about my particular brand of services to one of her girls. That information had reached the wrong ears, which had eventually resulted in Fletcher Lane being murdered inside the Pork Pit. At the old man's funeral, I'd told Roslyn point-blank that she owed me big-time for her loose lips, that anything I wanted or needed, she was going to give to me-or she was going to get dead.
Roslyn had taken our heart-to-heart seriously. When I'd come calling a few weeks ago, she'd given me everything I'd needed to masquerade as one of her hookers and sneak into Mab Monroe's exclusive party so I could get close to Tobias Dawson-and she'd held up when Elliot Slater and his men had come to question her after the fact. I figured we were pretty much square now, but I wasn't about to tell Roslyn that. Especially when she was staring at me like she was considering something important.