The woman’s lips had been softer than he’d expected them to be. Her scent more intoxicating. And had it been his imagination or had she tasted like elderberries dusted with confectioner’s sugar? “Idiot,” he murmured.

“Excuse me?” said a passing waitress. She was a pretty, little thing, wearing a dark skirt that accentuated the curves of her hips, and a lacey, plunging white blouse that was part of a uniform meant to open her male customer’s coin pouches. “Can I get you something? Some supper perhaps?”

“I’m certain you can,” Ludo said. “But I’m not hungry, only thirsty. A mug of your strongest ale. Make that two, it will save you a trip.” He winked and flashed a smile, fighting off that familiar feeling of self-loathing.

“Coming right up,” she said with her own beaming smile. He knew it wasn’t for him but for his coin, but he let it wash over him just the same.

The feeling vanished when he saw the assassin woman descend the staircase, narrowed, assessing eyes scanning the room until they fell upon his position in the corner. “Go somewhere else,” he muttered, a sort of quiet prayer to whatever gods might be listening and care enough to do him this small favor.

As usual, his prayers fell on deaf ears, for she wound her way toward him wearing the expression a shark might assume when confronting another shark hunting in her waters. As she approached, she deftly grabbed the chair opposite him, spun it around, and slid into it, all in one smooth motion. “I’ve never had a complaint from a lover before,” she said.

“You’re still hung up on that? Don’t take it personally. I’ve kissed many sets of lips, so my bar is quite high. Now, if you please, I prefer to dine alone.”

“Dine? Or drink?”

“Both.” He inwardly cursed himself for failing to order any food. He’d have to correct that when the smiley serving woman returned. Or not. What did he care what this woman—and an assassin at that—thought of him?

“I think you should slow down. As highly as you regard your own abilities, you tasted like a tavern floor. And it was more like being eaten than kissed, a hog in his trough.”

He smiled. “Unlike you, I can take an insult on the chin without getting my knickers in a knot. Let’s call it even, Miss Crimson Dagger.”

“Keep your voice down,” she hissed, casting her eyes from side to side as if she expected a competing band of assassins to already be descending on her position like vultures on a rotting carcass.