Web of Lies (Page 6)

My path had first crossed Caine’s several months ago when I’d assassinated Cliff Ingles, his corrupt partner. In addition to forcing money and sexual freebies out of vampire hookers while he was on duty, Ingles had viciously raped and beaten one of the prostitutes’ teenage daughters.

Even among the scum in Ashland, Cliff Ingles had been a real prince, and I’d done him pro bono. My own sort of public service.

Donovan Caine hadn’t known how dirty his partner was and became obsessed with catching Cliff Ingles’s killer – me. Of course, the trail had gone cold, since I was nothing if not professional, but that hadn’t kept Caine from keeping the case alive and digging for information every few weeks.

Then our paths had crossed again – and in person – two months ago when I’d been framed for the murder of a corporate whistle-blower named Gordon Giles.

Some nasty people thought the detective had information that could implicate them in the subsequent scheme and cover-up, and they’d been beating it out of him when I’d shown up and taken them out. After that, Donovan Caine had reluctantly joined forces with me to find the real killer.

During the course of our investigation, we’d had a hot one-night stand – well, more like a hot one-hour stand – a couple months ago, but nothing since. The detective’s Boy Scout mentality was a sticking point between us. I found his morals admirable, if impractical, in a city as dirty, violent, and corrupt as Ashland. He found my lack of said morals and zero remorse for all the bloody things I’d done in my former profession disturbing, to say the least.

Still, the attraction between us had been intense, and the hurried sex we’d had in a supply closet had been fantastic.

I’d only seen the detective once since then, at my mentor, Fletcher Lane’s, funeral. Caine had come to offer his condolences and check up on me. I’d kissed him right there in the cemetery. Afterward, he’d bounded away from me like a scared rabbit.

I hadn’t seen or spoken to the detective since then. I thought about him a lot, though. More than I wanted to.

And now here he was in my gin joint, in my little corner of the city.

Donovan Caine sensed my gaze and raised his head.

Our eyes locked, gold on gray. My chest tightened, and the familiar heat flooded my veins, pooling in my stomach before sinking lower. I eyed the detective’s navy coat.

The wool fabric draped over his shoulders and hinted at his lean, hard body beneath. I remembered the feel of that hard body. His mouth pressed against mine, our tongues crashing together. Hands clawing at each other’s clothes.

The crisp, clean scent of him filling my nose. The way he’d murmured my name over and over like a curse – or the answer to a prayer – as he’d thrust into me, quick and hard and deep. Mmm.

The short cop saw me staring at the detective. He walked over, murmured something to Caine, and jerked his head in my direction. Probably pointing me out as the owner and prime witness. Most women, most left-behind lovers, would have stalked forward and demanded to know what Donovan Caine was doing here.

Why he hadn’t so much as called. Instead, I leaned one elbow against the counter and remained nonchalant, even though my stomach clenched at the sight of him.

Patience was one of my virtues. Always had been. The detective would come to me soon enough.

Less than a minute later, Caine finished his quiet conversation with the other cop and walked in my direction.

He stopped about a foot away, his golden eyes taking in my grease-stained blue apron, worn jeans, and longsleeved T-shirt. Two scarlet tomatoes decorated the top of the black cotton.

"Gin."

"Detective."

We stood there staring at each other. An invisible electric current hummed between us, firing off sparks of hot desire in every direction. I breathed in. The detective’s clean, soapy scent filled my nose, overpowering the cumin, red pepper, and other spices in the air. Donovan looked away and cleared his throat.

He jerked his head, and I followed him to the far side of the restaurant, out of earshot of everyone else.

"You want to tell me what happened?" he asked in a low voice.

"You want to tell me why you’re here?" I countered.

"Detectives don’t usually come out for Southtown robberies, especially those that are thwarted."

Donovan stared at me. "All right. I asked dispatch to let me know if there were any incidents at the Pork Pit."

"Why? Afraid I might take to killing people in my own place of business? You must not have gotten the memo, but I’ve retired, detective."

His black eyebrows drew together in surprise. "Retired?"

I nodded. "Retired. Now I spend my days here at the Pork Pit serving up the best barbecue, cole slaw, and blackberry iced tea in Ashland."

Some emotion flared in his amber eyes. It might have been relief or even hope, but it was gone before I could decipher it. "Well, good for you, I suppose."

I shrugged. My quitting the assassin business wasn’t good or bad. Fletcher Lane had been after me to retire for months before his murder. After his death, I’d decided to honor the old man’s final wish. Nothing more, nothing less. But as my eyes slid down Donovan Caine’s body, I couldn’t help but wonder if my revelation would be enough to get the detective back into my bed. Certainly couldn’t hurt.

Donovan dug a pen and notepad out of his hip pocket.

"So tell me about it."

I recapped the events of the last hour. After I finished, Caine stilled, his pen frozen on his notepad, turning over something in his mind. Then he raised his golden eyes to me.

"Why didn’t you kill them?" he asked in a soft voice.

"We both know you could have."

"Easily," I agreed. "But one of the girls was on the floor next to me."

"And you didn’t want her to see you do it?"

I shrugged. "Witnesses are bad, detective. I’ve told you that before."

He snorted. "And here I thought you were developing a heart."

Disappointment tinged his words. I ignored the longing the sound stirred in me.

"Oh, I’ve always had a heart, detective," I replied in a breezy tone. "I just don’t let it keep me from doing what needs to be done. That would be weak, and I’m not weak. Haven’t been in a long time."

"No, weak is one thing you’re definitely not." Donovan eyed me. "You may be retired, but you really haven’t changed at all, have you, Gin?"

"That depends on your definition of change. Am I suddenly going to morph into a soccer mom or a bleeding heart who lets people walk all over her? No, and I don’t want to. But I’ve reevaluated my life, my priorities, and I’ve decided to change them accordingly. That being said, if somebody pushes me, comes at me like those two clowns did, I’m going to push back – three times as hard. Being an assassin has been my way of life since I was thirteen, detective. I’m not going to forget what I did for the last seventeen years just because I’m not doing it anymore."