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.”