The idea made my stomach twist, but I kept my face smooth and expressionless. I hadn’t survived this long by wearing my heart on my sleeve. I didn’t plan on doing it now. Not even for him.

Finally, Donovan held out his hand. I took it. His fingers felt hard, strong, capable against my own, and the heat from him warmed my whole body. Donovan dropped my hand like it burned him. Maybe it did, to want me so much, the woman who’d killed his partner.

I’d heard the detective say once that you didn’t fuck your partner’s murderer. But he’d done it—twice—and enjoyed it. And he still hated himself for it.

“Take care, Gin.”

“You too, detective. You too.”

Donovan Caine nodded at me a final time. Then the detective turned on his heel and walked out the door, leaving my gin joint and heart a little emptier and colder than they had been before.

3

3

Barely a minute passed before the front door opened once more, making the bell chime. I looked up, wondering if the detective had changed his mind about, well, anything.

Everything.

But the man who strode into the Pork Pit wasn’t Donovan Caine or another cop. His suit was much too nice for that. The black fabric draped off his shoulders, highlighting a frame that was compact, sturdy, strong. Given his body structure, I would have thought him a dwarf.

But at six foot one, he was much too tall for that. He had a thick head of hair that was a glossy blue-black, while his eyes were a light violet. A white, thin scar slashed diagonally across his chin. It offset the crooked tilt of his nose.

Those were the only two flaws in his chiseled features, which somehow added even more character to his face, rather than detracting from his good looks.

He cut an impressive figure. Striking, confident, aggressive, forceful. Someone who demanded attention.

Someone worth watching. Especially since he looked vaguely familiar to me.

I half-expected a couple of giant guards to follow the man into the Pork Pit. Most of the rich folks in Ashland employed at least a couple, and this guy was definitely wealthy, judging by his swanky suit and confident demeanor.

But the man entered alone. His light eyes swept over the interior of the restaurant, pausing at the blood spatters on the floor. After a moment, his gaze moved on and settled on the two girls, who were packing up their books to leave.

“Eva,” he said in a voice that rumbled like thunder.

“Are you all right?”

Eva zipped up her backpack. “I’m fine, Owen.”

The man moved to stand beside her. He walked stiffly but with purpose, like a bulldozer plowing through dandelions.

“Tell me what happened.”