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  But instead of leading me over to the bed with its black silk sheets, Owen took my hand once more and pulled me into the next room, the master bath. I eyed the gray marble and granite that made up the enormous room. The shower was large enough for four people and even came complete with its own seats, each one surrounded by several jets of water. A place to relax and let the scalding streams pound into your muscles, if you so wished. All around me, the smooth stones whispered of water, heat, relaxation.

  Owen Grayson didn’t say a word as he reached into the shower and turned on the water. I started to take off my blood-crusted vest, but he stepped in front of me.

  “Let me,” he said.

  He slowly unzipped the silverstone vest and gently dropped it on the floor. His strong, capable hands pulled my black turtleneck up out of my jeans, and I obediently raised my arms over my head so he could get it off me. My boots and socks were next, followed by my jeans. Owen did all the work, wrestling with the buttons and peeling the stiff, sticky, blood-soaked fabric away from my skin. I stared at him the whole time he stripped me. Owen’s violet eyes burned brighter with every piece of clothing he removed. The desire in his gaze matched my own.

  Finally, I stood there in my black bra and panties. Owen stared at me for several seconds, then removed those too, his hands gliding down my blood-flecked skin in a way that made me shiver. When I was naked, he took my hand again, guided me over to the steamy shower, and directed me to stand under a stream of water. Pink rivulets ran down my body and swirled away down the drain as the water sluiced the blood from my skin.

  Behind me, I heard the wisp of more clothing and the hiss of a zipper. I smiled and reached for a bar of soap in a recess built into a wall. A few seconds later, Owen stepped into the shower behind me.

  “Let me,” he said again.

  I turned, and he stood there naked in front of me, the distinctive foil packet of a condom in his hand. Of course, I took my little white pills so there wouldn’t be any unwanted consequences. Still, nothing wrong with extra protection.

  My eyes drifted over his tall frame, toned biceps, solid chest with its dark hair that ran all the way down his stomach to his cock. Even without his designer suits, Owen radiated strength and confidence. Mmm.

  Owen put the condom in the spot where the soap had been. Then he took the ivory bar from me and lathered it up between his hands. Our eyes locked and held for a moment before he stepped forward and began to wash me. My face, chest, stomach. Owen slowly scrubbed the blood from my skin and hair the way someone might wash dirt off a child. But a fire began building between my thighs at his gentle ministrations. A fire that I knew was finally going to be quenched today.

  When Owen finished washing me, I stepped under the hot spray of water, rinsed the soap from my skin, and finger-combed my wet hair. He stood there in the rising steam, just watching me with his violet eyes, the grin on his face telling me how much he liked what he saw. I tugged the bar of soap from his hand and smiled.

  “My turn.”

  I washed him much the same way he’d washed me. Slowly, carefully, gently, showing him the same respect that he’d shown me. The same care and tenderness. When I finished, he stepped in a spray of water, watching the soap bubbles foam up and swirl down the drain.

  “Now that we’re both clean,” I said in a sly tone. “Why don’t we do something dirty?”

  Another smile tugged at Owen’s lips, softening the slashing scar on his chin. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  We moved toward each other and met in the middle of the shower. I threaded my hands in his slick hair and pulled his mouth down to mine. Our lips met in a kiss that was as gentle as the water cascading over our bodies—and that quickly turned into one of white-hot passion, desire, and need.

  Owen growled low in his throat and backed me up against the shower wall. His hands were everywhere. My neck, breasts, stomach, hips, back. Kneading, caressing, teasing. Just like mine were all over him. Neck, chest, stomach, ass. Kneading, caressing, teasing. We couldn’t get enough of each other, couldn’t explore each other’s bodies quickly enough to satisfy this hunger, this need that flared between us.

  The slow burn between my thighs turned into a steady, building throb. Our movements became even quicker, more frantic. Our hands and caresses harder, longer, more intense. Owen’s tongue drove into my mouth, only to retreat when I was breathless. I happily returned the favor. He buried his head against my shoulder, nibbling at the delicate skin of my throat. I nipped his earlobe with my teeth. Owen’s hot lips slid lower, closing over first one nipple, then the other, as he sucked and scraped them with his teasing teeth. I moaned at the hot sensations pumping through my body and hiked my leg up, drawing him closer and settling his cock against me.

  I slid my hand down between Owen’s legs, stroking the hard length of him, lightly circling my nails over his rigid tip. He rocked his hips against me, ratcheting my desire up that much more.

  “There you go again,” I rasped. “Being a tease.”

  Owen laughed. “Why should I stop when teasing you is so much fun?”

  One of his hands caressed my breast. The other dipped lower, his wet fingers trailing down my stomach and then into the very center of me, going in and out in a quick, elegant dance.

  “Enough teasing,” I muttered. “Get over here.”

  I grabbed the condom out of the wall recess, ripped it open with my teeth, and pushed Owen down onto his back on the shower floor. Once he put the condom where it belonged, I climbed on top of him, ready to get on with things. But Owen pulled me down and rolled me over so that I was on the bottom.

  I arched an eyebrow. “I prefer to be on top, remember?”

  “Next time,” he whispered, parting my thighs and sliding deep into me.

  I groaned at the sensation of him filling me. I wrapped my legs around his waist, and Owen started that steady, age-old rhythm.

  We bucked and thrashed against each other, each one trying to bring as much pleasure, as much feeling, as possible to the other. Our rhythm built and built until we reached that ultimate peak, our hoarse cries drowned out by the steady hiss of the hot water around us.

  31

  After we finished in the shower, we wrapped ourselves in thick, terrycloth robes and headed into the kitchen. I made Owen sit while I cooked us an enormous breakfast. Spicy southwestern omelets, light-as-air blueberry pancakes, thick slabs of Canadian bacon, a sweet, mango-strawberry-kiwi fruit punch. Everything was done to perfection and tasted even better than it looked.

  “And you cook too,” Owen murmured, staring at the platters on the table. “Is there anything you don’t do, Gin?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied in a teasing tone. “Ask me, and we’ll see.”

  His violet eyes darkened with heat.

  We sat there in companionable silence for several minutes eating breakfast and enjoying each other’s company. After we finished our first round of food, Owen looked at me.

  “You want to tell me about it?” he asked in a quiet tone. “I’ve already seen the version on the early morning news. Quite a display you put on up there on the mountaintop.”

  “That’s me,” I said in a wry voice. “A real showwoman.”

  I told him everything. The problems Roslyn Phillips had been having with Elliot Slater, the giant threatening to kill Roslyn’s family unless she came to him, my rush to save her. The only thing I changed was the ending, taking credit for killing Slater instead of laying that at Roslyn’s feet. The vamp had been through enough already.

  Owen sat there, chewing his pancakes, and listening to my bloody tale. “So is it over then?” he asked. “Are you back to being retired now?”

  I looked at Owen, with his rumpled black hair and solid chest peeking out of the gap in his white robe. It would be so easy to lie to him. To say of course it was over now. That I was going to spend the rest of my days slinging barbecue down at the Pork Pit. But my lie wouldn’t last long. Owen had his own sources of informati
on, just like Finn did. The next time I took out someone in Mab’s organization and left my spider rune calling card, Owen would hear about it sooner or later. But more important than that was the simple fact that I didn’t want there to be any lies between us.

  “No,” I said. “It’s not over. It’s just getting started. I’m going after Mab. Her whole organization, all her flunkies, all the officials and cops she’s got in her pocket. And when I’ve chipped away enough of her protective shell, then I’m going after her.”

  Owen stared at me. “And why do you want to do all that, Gin? Why would you risk yourself like that? What did Mab do to you?”

  I drew in a deep breath. “The bitch murdered my family. Among other things.”

  I didn’t say anything else. Didn’t give Owen the details of my family’s murder or who I really was or the fact that Mab had her sights set on killing Bria for magic that she didn’t even have. I just wasn’t ready to reveal that much of myself to him. Not now, maybe not ever. If Owen even gave me that kind of chance. If he even gave us that kind of chance.

  I drew in another breath and readied myself for the rest of my speech. Because as enjoyable as our time together in the shower had been, great sex wasn’t enough for me to put Owen in danger—not the kind of danger that Mab Monroe presented.

  “This morning was wonderful,” I said. “But given what I did last night, given what I plan to do in the coming weeks, if you don’t want things to go any further between us, I’ll understand, Owen. Going after Mab and her organization will be dangerous, not only for me but for the people I care about as well. Because if Mab finds out who I am before I want her to, she’ll come after everyone I know with everything she’s got. I know you have Eva to think about. Believe me, I know how important sisters can be, how important Eva is to you. I’ll understand if you don’t want to take the risk.”

  Owen stared at me for several seconds, his eyes dark in his strong face. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m a big boy, Gin. I can take care of myself. Eva too. I’ve been doing it most of my adult life. Besides,” his mouth twisted. “Your family isn’t the only one that Mab killed.”

  A pain I was all too familiar with filled his face. I reached over and put my hand on top of his. “Oh, Owen. I’m so sorry. How did it happen?”

  He shrugged. “My father was a gambler. He got in too deep to a bookie who worked for Mab. My father was a big, strong guy. The bookie was scared of him, so he called in Mab for reinforcement. She torched our house with the four of us in it to send a message to the bookie’s other customers to pay up—or else. Eva and I got out. Our parents didn’t.”

  Owen lapsed into silence, lost in his fiery memories of the past. We just sat there, my hand on top of Owen’s larger one. We didn’t say anything for almost a minute.

  “So whatever you want to do, however you want to fight Mab Monroe, I’m with you,” Owen finally said in a low voice. “Because the bitch killed my parents too. But mainly because I’m falling for you, Gin. I know what you do, what kind of violence you’re capable of. But also, I know what kind of woman you are.”

  His words startled me more than anything had in a long time. “And what kind of woman would that be?”

  Owen stared at me. “Someone who’s passionate and full of life. Someone who’s funny and smart. But mostly, someone who’ll do whatever the fuck it takes to protect the people she cares about. That’s what I like about you, Gin. That’s what I admire about you. That’s what draws me to you.” His mouth quirked up in a smile. “Well, that and the knives. Did I ever mention that I think weapons are sexy?”

  A warm, soft feeling blossomed in my chest, a little tingle of possibilities, of what could be between Owen and me—something far greater than I’d ever dreamed of.

  At his suggestive tone, I arched an eyebrow, got up, and sat down in his lap. “Weapons are sexy, huh?” I whispered, my lips just touching his. “Care to frisk me to see if I’m carrying any right now?”

  Owen’s eyes glittered with violet desire. “I’d love to.”

  A minute later, Eva Grayson walked into the kitchen in her flannel pajamas to find Owen and me still kissing—among other more prurient things. She immediately clapped her hand over her eyes and started backing out of the kitchen.

  “Oops! Owen, sorry, I didn’t realize that you had an overnight guest—” Eva peered through her fingers at me. “Wait a minute. Gin? Is that you?”

  I pulled my robe closed. “In the flesh.”

  Eva’s eyes narrowed, and she looked from me to her brother and back again. “A sleepover. Cozy.” Her gaze flicked to the food on the table. “I take it you’re staying through breakfast then?”

  I stared at Owen. “Yeah,” I said. “I think I’ll be here awhile.”

  Three days later, just after eleven, I was back at the Pork Pit, sitting behind the cash register reading the morning edition of the Ashland Trumpet. The headline across the front page read Police still searching for vigilante. The story was yet another follow-up piece about the events that had transpired at Elliot Slater’s mountain mansion.

  “Well, at least they’re not calling you an assassin,” Finnegan Lane said, reading the headline upside down.

  Finn was taking a break from his banking to have an early lunch at the Pork Pit before the usual noontime crowd hit. Sophia Deveraux had already poured Finn his second cup of chicory coffee and was brewing him another pot to take back to the bank.

  I shrugged. “It’s only a matter of time before it spins the other way and I’m back to being a cold-blooded killer.”

  “We’ll see,” Finn replied. “It might take longer than you think.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I’ve had my ear on the underground buzz,” Finn replied, taking a sip of his coffee. “Word is that Mab Monroe is looking high and low for you and that she’s got all her boys and girls on red alert. But there are also a lot of other people who are interested in seeing if you can pull it off. If you can actually take down Mab and her organization. Obviously, the other power players in town are extremely interested in the outcome. Phillip Kincaid being the most vocal of those. But there are lots of little folks talking too, moms and pops that have felt Mab’s heat over the years. You’ve got the beginnings of a major fan base out there.”

  “Great,” I replied in a wry tone. “Just what I need. Celebrity.”

  “It can have its uses,” Finn replied.

  The bell over the front door chimed, and my first real customer of the day strolled in—Roslyn Phillips. Today the vamp wore an elegant lavender sweater over a pair of slim-fitting, gray wool pants. A bit of matching lipstick brightened her beautiful face, and her silver glasses flashed in the morning sunlight. You’d never know by looking at her that Roslyn had almost been beaten to death. Thanks to Jo-Jo Deveraux’s healing skills, the vamp had completely recovered from her ordeal at the hands of Elliot Slater. On the outside, at least.

  I knew that Roslyn would always bear the scars on the inside—raw, bloody wounds that would scab over but perhaps never fully heal. My heart still ached for the vampire and everything that she had been through because of me, and I knew that it always would. If I could have, I would have killed Elliot Slater for her all over again. And again. And again.

  But Roslyn seemed to be holding her own. And Finn had told me that Sophia, of all people, had talked at length to the vamp about what had happened to her. Finn didn’t know any of the details, but he said that whatever Sophia had told Roslyn, it had seemed to help the other woman. The vamp certainly looked more like her old, confident, sophisticated self today than she had the last time I’d seen her—bloody in the back of a police car while everyone gawked at her.

  Whether she realized it herself or not, Roslyn Phillips was one of the strongest people that I’d ever had the pleasure to know. And one day, I hoped she would do me the honor of calling me her friend, despite the hell that I was partially responsible for inflicting on her. I hoped Roslyn could forgive me for it someda
y—even though I knew that I’d never forgive myself.

  Roslyn came over to the counter, sat down next to Finn, and smiled at the two of us. “Gin, Finn.” The vampire leaned forward and waved her hand at Sophia.

  “Hmph.” Sophia returned Roslyn’s greeting with her usual grunt, but the Goth dwarf flashed the vampire a tiny smile before turning back to the coffeepot.

  “Roslyn,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’m just here to meet Xavier for lunch.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Couldn’t resist my cooking?”

  Another small smile tugged her lips, though it didn’t quite banish the dark shadows in her eyes. “Something like that.”

  We sat and chatted about nothing of consequence. We all knew that it was too soon to talk about anything else, and I didn’t want to do or say anything to upset Roslyn.

  So Roslyn told us that her sister Lisa and her niece Catherine had finally returned from their beach vacation now that Elliot Slater was dead and the coast was clear, so to speak. She promised to bring them by sometime. I told the vamp that any meal with her family at the Pork Pit was on the house.

  About five minutes after Roslyn arrived, the bell over the front door chimed again, and Xavier walked inside. The giant headed straight for Roslyn, and the two of them smiled at each other, their feelings shining in their eyes for everyone to see.

  “Excuse us,” Roslyn said, following Xavier over to one of the booths by the windows.

  I watched the two of them. Xavier was careful with Roslyn, not getting too close to her, putting his hand next to hers on top of the table, but not actually touching her. For her part, Roslyn made an effort, looking straight at the giant, not taking her hand off the table when he edged his a little closer to hers. It was still a work in progress, but somehow I thought they would be okay, despite the last few horrible days the two of them had been through.

  Xavier hadn’t come to the restaurant by himself. About two minutes later, Detective Bria Coolidge walked through the front door of the Pork Pit. My sister wore her usual long navy coat over a sweater, jeans, and boots. Her gold detective’s badge glinted on the waistband of her jeans. Bria waved at Xavier and Roslyn, then sat in a booth by herself in the back of the restaurant to give the couple their privacy. Bria picked up the menu on the tabletop and began to read it.