Owen shook his head. "It wasn't just that. I came back the next day, hoping to thank you. But instead of you, an older guy was there, drinking coffee and waiting in the alley. He said he knew about my situation and that he also knew someone who needed a good, strong apprentice. A dwarven blacksmith who lived up in the mountains. He drove Eva and me up there that day. The dwarf took a liking to me, and I worked hard for him. And now, well, we have all this." Owen gestured at the office with its fine furnishings.
Fletcher. He was talking about Fletcher Lane. The old man had helped Owen just the way he'd aided me so long ago. I wondered why. It was one thing to take a single stray in off the street after she'd saved your life, like I'd once done for Fletcher. But helping others? Every time I thought I had a handle on who and what Fletcher Lane had been, I found out something else unexpected or met someone like Owen who told me another story of the old man's kindness.
"Well, you're right," I said. "That was me. I gave you the food. But you don't owe me anything for it. Hell, I didn't even do it for you. I did it for me. Because I'd once been in that alley digging for garbage to eat."
Owen nodded. "I thought it might be something like that."
His thumb stroked soft and slow over the scar on my palm. A pleasant warmth spread through my stomach, then moved lower, as I thought about other places where Owen could touch me. But I didn't want him like this. Didn't want him to feel that he needed to pay me back-for anything. I wanted him to want me, Gin Blanco, as I was now. Cold heart, bloody hands, iron will. Not because of some soft sentiment he felt for a girl who didn't even exist anymore.
"So that's what this is all about?" I asked. "You asking me out, you wanting to get to know me better. You actually think you owe me something for some random act of kindness years ago?"
"I owe you everything, Gin."
I shook my head. "No, you don't. Sure, I gave you the food and the jacket. But the job with the blacksmith? That was all the old man. Fletcher Lane. He owned the Pork Pit before me."
Owen frowned. "Lane? As in Finnegan Lane?"
I nodded. "Finn's father. He was the one who got you that job, Owen. Not me. I didn't have anything to do with it. Fletcher never said a word to me about it."
"I see."
"So you don't owe me anything. Not one damn thing," I said, letting him off the hook and ignoring the bitterness that filled my mouth-and heart. "Because I would have done the same thing for anyone who'd been in that alley looking the way you and Eva did that night. So whatever debt you think you've accrued with me over the years, cancel it. I certainly have. Just keep your mouth shut about Elliot Slater and what I told you tonight, and we'll be more than square."
I started to pull my hand out of his, but Owen tightened his grip, the strength of his fingers pressing against mine. His eyes burned with violet fire.
"You think that I just want you now because of something that happened back then? That I'm coming on to you to pimp myself out to pay off some debt?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Not a big leap to make, given our conversation tonight."
Owen shook his head. "You're wrong, Gin. Dead wrong."
"Really? Would you still be holding my hand if I were old, toothless, and had a face like a piece of leather?"
He had the good grace to wince.
"That's what I thought," I said. "Besides, I've been down this road before. In case you haven't been listening, let me recap. I'm an assassin, Owen. A very, very good one. I've spent my entire adult life killing people for money, a lot of money, and after I leave here tonight, I'm going to go plot how I can slit Elliot Slater's throat and get away with it. Do you really want to be with a woman who sleeps with a silverstone knife under her pillow? And would use it on you at any time if she thought you were a threat to her? Because that's me, in a nutshell."
Instead of answering my question, Owen regarded me with another thoughtful stare. "Donovan Caine really did a number on your self-confidence, didn't he?"
He had, but I'd be damned if I was going to let Owen know how badly the detective had wounded me when he'd left. So I shrugged.
"The detective and I came from two different worlds. The twain met, and one of them decided that he couldn't handle it. I don't want to waste my time going over the same old ground with someone new. Assassins aren't known for their exceptionally long life spans. Even retired ones like me."
Owen stared at me another moment, then pointed toward the wall of weapons. "Do you see that axe to the left?"
"Yes," I replied, not sure where he was going with the sudden change in conversation.
"I chopped off a man's fingers with that," Owen said in a calm voice. "Because he was Eva's first-grade teacher, and he touched her the wrong way. And then, when he was screaming at me to stop, I took his head off with it. I used that mace over there to smash a guy's kneecaps to splinters because he wanted me to pay him protection money when I started my own blacksmith shop. I have other stories I could tell you. The point is that I haven't gotten to where I am today by being kind and gentle. I did what I had to in order to survive and protect my sister. I imagine you've done the same."
I didn't say anything.
"I don't judge you for what you've done, Gin. Why are you judging me for another man's mistakes? Because Donovan Caine did make a mistake," Owen said in a soft voice. "Letting someone like you go."
"Someone like me?"
Owen got to his feet and moved until he was standing in front of me. "Someone strong and tough and smart and sassy and sexy as hell. That's why I'm interested, Gin. Because you're all of those things and more. Not because of a small kindness that you showed to me in the part of my past I'd like to forget."
Owen's words made my heart ache. Because these-these were the words that I'd longed to hear from Donovan Caine. I'd wanted the detective to understand me, to accept my actions and be able to look past them toward the future we could have together.
But Donovan was gone, and he wasn't ever coming back. Instead, Owen Grayson stood before me, a silent but clear offer burning in his violet eyes. Once more, my gaze drifted over his broad shoulders, his solid frame, his strong, capable hands. And I made up my mind. I'd take what I could have tonight and damn the consequences and feelings I might wake up with tomorrow.
I scooted off the desk and stood so that I was directly in front of Owen. We stared at each other, gray eyes on violet ones. The seconds ticked by. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty-five... Owen opened his mouth to say something. What, I didn't know, and I didn't care.