Grayson took the stool next to me and ordered another scotch. His violet eyes cut to his sister Eva, who was once again grooving with the rest of the folks on the dance floor. After he'd made sure she was okay, Owen turned his gaze to me.
"You know, Gin," he said. "You never did answer my question."
Owen Grayson was persistent, if nothing else. I thought of the way he'd been ready to back me up against Elliot Slater-and how he'd caught Roslyn after the giant had shoved her away.
"All right," I said. "I'll have dinner with you, Owen."
A smile stretched across his face, softening the hard cut of his features. "Excellent. One night this week?"
I shrugged. "Sure. I'll call you."
"Try not to sound too enthusiastic," he replied in a dry tone. "Or I won't be able to contain myself. My ego might get inflated or something."
I grinned at his sardonic humor. My eyes drifted over his broad shoulders and strong body again. I remembered the way Owen had held my hand-and the surprising warmth it had stirred in me. I finished the rest of my gin and got to my feet.
Then I leaned over and put my mouth close to Owen's ear. "Actually, I prefer to save my enthusiasm for more worthwhile pursuits-like those in bed."
"Can I get that in writing?" he murmured.
Owen turned his head so that his lips were an inch away from mine. I stared into his violet eyes, and his scent washed over me-a rich, earthy aroma that made me think of metal. I leaned forward and brushed my lips over his. It was a light, brief contact, and nothing like the frenzied, tongue-driving kisses I'd shared with Donovan Caine. Still, more sparks sizzled to life in the pit of my stomach at the feel of Owen's mouth on mine, at the warmth of his body mingling with my own. Mmm. Maybe having dinner with Owen would be more fun than I'd imagined. Maybe so would a lot of other things.
I pulled back. Desire brightened Owen's eyes so that they almost glowed, but I found myself looking for other emotions in his gaze. For the guilt and grief and tinge of fear that had always swirled in Donovan Caine's eyes whenever he looked at me. But I didn't find them. Only desire and determination.
"If that's a taste of what's to come, I can hardly wait for dinner," Owen murmured.
"Try not to sound too enthusiastic," I quipped. "Or I won't be able to contain myself."
He grinned. "Can I get that in writing too?"
I laughed. Owen joined in with his own throaty chuckle. Feeling strangely lighter than I had in a long time, I winked at him and strolled away.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Finn drove up a long, snaking driveway that wound up one of the many steep ridges of the Appalachian Mountains that cut through Ashland like rows of sharks' teeth. We hadn't spoken since we'd left Northern Aggression. Finn realized I was royally pissed at him for snookering me into going to the club in the first place. He had the good sense not to try to weasel his way out of it. Tonight, at least.
The driveway opened up into a small clearing on top of the ridge, and Finn stopped his Aston Martin in the gravel outside Fletcher Lane's house.
In addition to leaving me the Pork Pit and a fat chunk of change in his last will and testament, the old man had also bequeathed me his house, a three-story, clapboard structure that had been built before the Civil War. Over the years, the home's various owners had added on to the original structure in a variety of styles. In addition to its white boards, the house was a mishmash of gray stone, brown brick, and red clay. A tin roof covered the entire structure, along with black shutters and blue eaves. The whole thing resembled a ragged doll's house that had been constructed with leftover pieces. But it was home to me. Always had been, always would be.
Finn sighed in the darkness. "Gin, I-"
"We'll talk about it tomorrow," I said, turning to look at him. "When Xavier and Roslyn come to the restaurant for lunch."
Finn blinked. "They're coming to the Pork Pit?"
"At two. Be there."
He hesitated, then nodded. "Thank you, Gin."
"Don't thank me yet. I haven't done anything."
"But you will," Finn replied. "And that's all that matters."
He reached over and squeezed my hand. Despite the fact I was still angry at him, after a moment I squeezed back. Like it or not, Finn was like a brother to me-and in the end, that was all that really mattered.
Chapter Six
Finn promised to be at the Pork Pit tomorrow when Roslyn and Xavier showed up; then he drove back to his apartment in the city. But instead of immediately heading toward the house, I stood in the driveway, listening to the gravel underneath my feet to see if I'd had any unexpected visitors today. I might not be the assassin the Spider anymore, but there were still plenty of people who'd like to get their hands on me, including Jonah McAllister.
But there were no sounds in the small, loose stones that shouldn't be there. No shrieks of danger, no notes of worry, no trills of anxiety. Just the gentle creak of the trees, the light tread of squirrels, chipmunks, and rabbits, the whistle of the wind around the ridge. Soft, soothing murmurs. But the comforting whispers still didn't stop me from checking the black granite that framed and composed the front door to see if anyone might be lurking inside Fletcher Lane's house.
I spread my fingers over the cool stone that made up the main entrance. The granite's hum was low and muted, just like always. No one had been near the sprawling house all day. Good. Even if someone had come up to the house, she would have had a hell of a time getting in through the front door, thanks to its sturdy dead bolts and solid construction. As added protection, thin veins of silverstone ran through the black granite door, and silverstone bars covered all the windows. Silverstone could absorb any kind of elemental magic-Air, Fire, Ice, or Stone-as well as power by folks gifted in other elemental areas, like metal, water, electricity, or even acid. Someone with enough magic could eventually overcome the silverstone and granite door and force her way inside the house, but she'd lose a lot of juice doing it. Which would make her that much easier to dispatch with one of my knives.
I unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Since so many additions had been tacked on to the house over the years, the interior layout was a bit of a labyrinth. Square rooms, oval ones, even an area shaped like a pentagon, all connected by twisting hallways that curved around, doubled back on each other, and often led to the other side of the house entirely. Another advantage, as far as I was concerned. Even if someone could break through the granite around the front door, she'd have a hard time finding me before I slipped out through one of the many secret passages-or came around behind her. All the elemental magic in Ashland wouldn't save you from a silverstone knife in the back. Win-win for me, either way.