“Sorry,” he said. “What were you saying?”
Owen shrugged out of his suit jacket, the muscles in his arms and chest bulging with the motion. Suddenly, I was interested in playing something besides a war game. Something that would be far more entertaining and pleasurable—for both of us. Not to mention keep him firmly in the here and now with me. I didn’t like playing second fiddle any more than the next woman did, especially when I didn’t know exactly what was going on with my lover.
Owen started to loosen his tie, but I put the paintball gun down on the desk and strolled over to him. He stopped what he was doing to watch me, and I put an extra shimmy into my hips. Heat sparked in Owen’s gaze— heat that matched the warmth that was flaring up inside me as well.
“Allow me,” I said.
Owen watched with dark, hooded eyes as I unknotted his tie and let it fall to the floor. Then I ran my hands across his chest, marveling at the warm muscles there, before reaching up and undoing the top two buttons of his shirt. I pushed the fabric aside, leaned forward, and pressed a soft kiss to the hollow of his throat. Owen’s arms snaked around me, pulling me close, and his fingers began pressing into my back, urging me on. I definitely had his full attention now.
“Why don’t I help you get out of that ruined suit?” I murmured. “In addition to killing people, this assassin also happens to be exceptionally good at cleanup.”
A sexy grin spread across Owen’s rugged face, softening the scar that slashed underneath his chin. “Really? That’s something I’d be very interested in seeing.”
I led him into the bathroom. The door didn’t even shut behind us before my lips were on his and I forgot about everything but the pleasure we could give each other. There would be time enough to figure out what had Owen so worried—later.
Much, much later.
3
Our war games finished, it was time for me to collect my prize—dinner at Underwood’s.
The next night, Owen and I took his car over to the restaurant, which was located in a classy, older building in the city’s financial district. Owen pulled up to the sidewalk where a crimson awning bore the restaurant’s name, and we got out of the car. While he handed the keys off to a valet, I stood on the sidewalk and reached out with my Stone magic, curious about what I might hear. The brick of the building whispered of money, power, and plots, mixed with lighter notes of dishes and silverware tinkling together. Not unpleasant sounds, but ones that told me just how many dark, deadly schemes had been hatched here over dinner, dessert, and a nice bottle of wine.
Owen took my arm, and we went inside and rode the elevator up to the third and top floor, where the maitre d’ escorted us to a corner table. Crimson linens covered the table, which had been set with fine white china, delicate wineglasses, and silverware that had a more highly polished luster than some diamond rings. Three crimson tapers shaped like forks burned in a crystal candelabra in the center of the table. The fork was the restaurant’s rune, representing all the good meals that could be had there, and the symbol was etched into the plates and silverware, as well as being stitched into the linens in gold thread.
Underwood’s prided itself on its excellent food, service, and luxurious trappings, but what I appreciated most was the view. The brick had been stripped from the walls and replaced with floor-to-ceiling windows, letting diners look out over the Aneirin River, which wound through this part of downtown. The shops and lights along the river made the surface of the water glimmer like a silver ribbon unspooling into the black velvet embrace of the night. In the distance, I could just make out the white gleam of the
A waiter took our drink orders—whiskey for Owen, gin and tonic for me—and handed us each a leather- bound menu. No prices were listed on the creamy white pages. Underwood’s was Ashland’s fanciest and most expensive restaurant, the kind of highfalutin place that charged you an exorbitant amount just for drinking tap water—and even more if you wanted a refill. But Finn was paying tonight, so I had no qualms about ordering whatever I wanted and enjoying every single sip of it.
“Too bad Finn and Bria couldn’t make it,” Owen said.
I snorted. “Please. Finn could have put off his meeting if he’d really wanted to. He just didn’t want to sit through dinner and listen to me gloat about how I’d won our contest
“Well, then, I suppose you’ll just have to make do with my company tonight,” Owen teased.
I reached over and threaded my fingers through his, enjoying the warmth of his skin against mine. “Oh, I think I can manage.”
We talked and laughed all through dinner. The food was excellent—black-pepper-crusted steaks, along with soft, sweet sourdough rolls, perfectly grilled vegetables, and mashed sweet potatoes generously slathered with honey butter and sprinkled with cinnamon. Our waiter was attentive without intruding, and none of the other patrons paid us much attention. Even though crime bosses like Ron Donaldson and Lorelei Parker were also eating here, they merely glanced in our direction and went back to their meals and dinner companions, content to leave well enough alone—at least for tonight.
Owen and I were having a lovely evening. Until Jonah McAllister walked into the restaurant.
Among those in the underworld, McAllister was probably the person who hated me the most—with good reason. Last year, I’d killed his son, Jake, for trying to rob the Pork Pit and then wanting to rape and murder me. Plus Jonah used to be Mab’s lawyer, so I’d cut off his meal ticket and a good deal of his power and influence as well when I’d taken her out.
Rumor had it that McAllister was at loose ends these days, looking for a new crime lord or lady to serve, but he was also gunning for me. A few weeks ago, he’d sicced a sadistic vampire named Randall Dekes on me, but I’d managed to put the vamp in the ground instead.
Needless to say, Jonah was at the top of my to-kill list now. All that was left was for me to decide when and where to take him out—and just how much I wanted to make it
The maitre d’ led him to a table about fifteen feet away from ours. Despite my hatred of him, I had to admit that the lawyer cut a trim, confident, impressive figure in his impeccable black suit. Plus, his thick, perfectly styled coif of silver hair gleamed luxuriously underneath the restaurant’s muted lights. Nobody in Ashland—male or female—had better hair.
McAllister sat down and glanced around, checking out who else was there. He tipped his head at Donaldson and Parker, who both politely nodded back at him, even though their smiles were nothing more than mocking sneers. Not too long ago, McAllister had tried to have me and the two of them killed at Mab’s funeral. At least, I was convinced he was the one behind that sneak attack, even if nothing had ever been proven. I was mildly surprised that neither boss had retaliated against McAllister yet. Perhaps they didn’t realize that he was probably behind it. Or perhaps they simply thought he was beneath their notice these days. Either way, the lawyer was still breathing when he shouldn’t have been.
Finally, he spotted Owen and me. He stiffened in his chair, and his mouth puckered downward the faintest bit in displeasure, but the rest of his features didn’t move with his lips. Despite the fact that he was in his sixties, McAllister’s face was smoother than mine was at thirty, given his regimen of Air elemental facials. Vanity, thy name was Jonah McAllister.
“Well, well, well,” I murmured. “Look who’s here. I’m glad we had dinner already, or I would have lost my appetite.”
“Ignore him,” Owen said. “Just pretend he’s not sitting there. I don’t want him to ruin our night. I don’t want to give him that satisfaction, and I know you don’t either.”
“Of course not. We both know he’s not worth it.”
So we focused on our menus and ordered dessert—a classic New York cheesecake with strawberry topping
