The Spider

12

The death of Cesar Vaughn was big news in Ashland.

Bigger than I’d thought it would be, actually. Coverage consumed the newspapers and airwaves for the next few days, as story after story recapped all the grisly facts about the murder and then speculated about who had done it and why.

Of course, the most obvious thought was that one of the family members of the terrace collapse victims had decided to take matters into his own hands. The cops dutifully investigated each and every person who might have a grudge against Vaughn because of the tragedy, but they came up empty. Another reason that I’d decided to do the job on a Tuesday night: there was less chance of one of the victims’ loved ones not having an alibi. People tended to wait until the weekend to get up to no good.

That was also why I’d done the job at Vaughn’s office and had been so careful not to leave any evidence behind, so it would look exactly like the contracted hit that it was. I might be an assassin, but I didn’t frame people for the crimes I committed. That was another part of Fletcher’s code and one that I wholeheartedly agreed with. The people who’d lost their loved ones at that restaurant had already suffered enough. They didn’t deserve to get blamed for Vaughn’s murder too, even if one of them might have been behind the hit. Another reason that I’d used a knife on the job. That sort of stabbing attack was brutal, vicious, and, above all, up close and personal. Anyone could point a gun and pull the trigger from a distance, but not everyone could twist a knife into a man’s heart, face-to-face, and watch the light leak out of his eyes.

Still, the cops investigated, and they got nowhere, like I knew they would. Fletcher had a couple of sources in the police department, so he was able to keep track of the investigation. But I wasn’t worried. He had trained me too well, and no one had seen my attack on Vaughn.

The next day, I went about my regular routines as though nothing had happened. Waited tables at the Pork Pit, schlepped home to Fletcher’s for a few hours, then schlepped back over to the community college for my usual classes.

Going to college was another part of my cover, since that’s what most people my age did, and it was something that the old man had insisted on. Apparently, he thought that it would make me more well-rounded or something. You know, in case the whole assassin thing didn’t work out.

But I didn’t mind too much, especially when it came to the literature classes. Fletcher would read the same books that I was assigned, and then we’d talk about them during lulls at the restaurant. I loved our discussions, since it was another way that I could be close to him that Finn couldn’t—or wouldn’t.

Once my evening classes were done, I went back home for the night. And then I repeated the whole cycle again and again, just as I would until the next assignment came along.

The only thing I did that was out of the ordinary was read all of the articles about Sebastian Vaughn.

He appeared in story after story, both in the newspaper and on TV. And in every story, in every interview and sound bite, he was quite vocal about the piss-poor job he thought that the cops were doing in their so-far-unsuccessful attempt to find his father’s killer—me. Sebastian even vowed to hire his own team of investigators to track down the culprit, but I wasn’t worried. He’d never connect the waitress he’d flirted with once upon a time with the assassin who’d so coldly killed his father.

Still, I couldn’t help but watch interview after interview with him on TV, and I read every single newspaper article that so much as mentioned his name. Sometimes two or three or even four times over, searching for any hint in his words about how he was doing, how he was feeling, now that his father was gone. I’d felt such an intense spark, such an immediate connection with Sebastian. I supposed that I wanted to keep feeling it, even though I’d never see him again.

One photo that ran over and over again in the newspapers was of Sebastian leaving his father’s office the morning after the murder, a briefcase clutched in one hand. His mouth was set in a hard line, his dark eyes fixed on something outside the frame. He had his free arm around Charlotte’s shoulder, holding her close, as though he could somehow protect her from the hurt, shock, and bewilderment that the camera had captured in her young, heartbroken face.

I wasn’t exactly sure what prompted me to cut out that photo and tuck it in between the pages of the latest book I was reading, Murder for Christmas by Agatha Christie, for my detective fiction class. But the book and the photo stayed on my nightstand. Every night, I would read another chapter or two, before using the photo as a bookmark. Sebastian’s handsome, determined face was the last thing I saw before I shut the book.

Maybe it was crazy, but I wanted to reach out and help Sebastian, even though I didn’t dare to—and even though I was the one who’d caused him so much pain in the first place. Oh, I didn’t regret killing his father, not really, not when he’d been hurting his own daughter. But my heart still ached for the shock and suffering that I’d inflicted on Charlotte and Sebastian. So I kept tabs on him as best I could, hoping that his grief would slowly fade over time and knowing that he and especially Charlotte were better off without their father.

So life went on for me, Sebastian, Charlotte, and everyone else—except Cesar Vaughn.

Four days after the job, Saturday, I was alone in the Pork Pit and closing down the restaurant for the night when the bell over the front door chimed. I sighed, wishing that I’d thought to lock the door already, but I finished wiping down the counter, fixed a polite smile on my face, and turned around.

“Sorry, but we’re already closed—”

A bolt of shock zinged through me. My lips parted, but no words came out, because the very last person I’d expected had just walked through the door.

Sebastian.

He wore a somber black suit—a funeral suit—over a white shirt and a shiny black tie, and his wing tips were as glossy as the floor that I’d just mopped. His black hair was slicked back, and lines of exhaustion were etched into his face, like faint cracks in a smooth marble bust, making him seem older than he really was. Still, despite my shock and unease about why he was here, I thought that he’d never looked more handsome—even though I was the cause of his grief. Maybe that was a little twisted of me.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi, yourself.” I hesitated. “What are you doing here?”

Sebastian grinned, although his expression was more sad than happy. “I know I’m a little late, but I was wondering if we might have that date after all.”

I stared at him, my mouth still hanging open, not sure what to do, what to say, and especially what to make of the sudden hope that surged through my heart. My attraction to him was crazy, stupid, and utterly foolish, especially given what I’d done to his father. But it was there all the same, and I didn’t know how to deny it.

Or maybe I just didn’t want to.

“I’m sorry,” Sebastian said in a hoarse, ragged whisper. “For not calling or sending you a note. I know that I stood you up last night.”

Last night, Friday, had been the night of our date. I might have been secretly disappointed, but I hadn’t been surprised when he hadn’t shown up. I was absolutely floored that he was here now.

I stood frozen in place, my attraction to him warring with all of my training, not to mention my own common sense. I could almost hear Fletcher’s voice in my head, urgently whispering to me to get rid of Sebastian. Part of me wholeheartedly agreed with that plan. But there was another voice—my voice—that wondered what the harm of hearing him out would be.

Sebastian grinned again, although it seemed to be much more of an effort this time. “But I had a good excuse. You see, my father—”

“Is dead,” I finished so he wouldn’t have to. “I saw the news. I’m sorry for your loss, Sebastian.”

And I truly was, even though I was responsible for it.

He nodded, accepting my condolences. Then he grinned again. “You know, I think that’s the first time you’ve ever said my name.”

I looked at him, not sure what to say. He walked over to where I stood in front of the counter, a wet rag still clutched in my hand. Sebastian stared at me, a hungry look flaring in his eyes. Anticipation and attraction surged through me at his nearness, silencing Fletcher’s voice.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I should have called or sent a note, at the very least. But with everything that’s been going on . . .” He shrugged, then winced, as if that simple motion caused him as much pain as his grief did.

I reached out and gently placed my hand on his arm. “I understand. Again, I’m so sorry. I know how hard it is to lose someone you love. Especially so violently and unexpectedly.”

“You do?”

My lips opened, ready to tell him how my family had been murdered by a Fire elemental, ready to share my own private pain with him, ready to let him see that my broken heart wasn’t as black as my deeds were.

But suddenly, Finn’s voice echoed in my mind. And no matter what, you should never, ever tell someone all of your secrets.

I might be able to shut out Fletcher’s voice and warnings, Finn’s too, but I’d kept my family’s death to myself for so long that it was second nature for me to hide it. I opened my mouth again, but no words came out, and I realized that I couldn’t go through with my heartfelt confession. Not even for him. Maybe not for anyone ever.

“Gin?”

“What I meant was that it seems like violence is a way of life in Ashland,” I finished lamely.

He shrugged again.

“Sit down, and let me fix you something to eat,” I said, shifting the focus of the conversation back to him. “You can tell me everything that’s been going on the last few days. If you want to, that is.”

Sebastian let me guide him over to one of the stools close to the cash register. He put his elbows on the counter, then slumped down over it, as though all of the strength had suddenly seeped out of his bones.

“I feel like this has been the longest week of my life,” he said. “The funeral was today. Charlotte cried through the whole thing. I’ve spent the last two hours at our mansion, dealing with the mourners. Finally, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I had to get out of there, at least for a little while. So I left Charlotte with one of the giant drivers she likes, and I left. Does that make me a horrible person?”

“No,” I said in a soft voice. “It just makes you human.”

Sebastian drew in a breath and started talking. About the funeral, the words the minister had said, everyone who’d shown up at the service. While he talked, I turned a few of the appliances back on, rustled around in the refrigerators, and fixed him the best, most comforting meal that I knew how to make: a cheeseburger with all the fixings; hot, sizzling steak-cut fries; and a thick, rich, decadent triple chocolate milkshake.

Sebastian wound down about the time I finished cooking. I put all the food on a plate, then slid everything across the counter to him. He hesitated, then reached out and grabbed the burger, as if he was suddenly hungrier than he’d thought. He took a big bite of the layers of grilled beef, fresh veggies, and melted cheddar cheese. His eyes rolled up in his head in pleasure, and a sigh of contentment escaped his lips.

That’s when I knew that I was doing the right thing. Maybe it was crazy, maybe it was foolish, maybe it was just plain wrong, talking to the son of the man I’d killed, but I couldn’t send Sebastian away.

I just couldn’t.

Finn and Fletcher would have been cold and calculating about things, would have seen this as an opportunity to subtly pump Sebastian for any information that he might have about the investigation into his father’s death. Maybe I saw things that way too. But I also hoped that it was a chance to soothe his heartache, in whatever small way that I could.

I just hoped that Sebastian never found out what kind of man his father had truly been and how he’d hurt Charlotte again and again. That sort of cruel knowledge would cause him even more pain.

“How is Charlotte?” I asked, after Sebastian had eaten about half of his food.

He sighed and pushed his burger away, as though he’d lost his appetite. “As well as can be expected, I suppose. She’s devastated by our father’s death. She’s been hiding in her room for most of the week. I’ve tried to be there for her as much as I can, but given all the funeral arrangements and the business deals that my father had going on . . .” His voice trailed off.

The helpless expression on his face made me reach across the counter and put my hand on top of his. “I’m sure she understands. It’s hard when you lose someone . . . the way that you did. There are so many details to see to. She’ll realize that you’re doing the best that you can, for her and your father too, given the situation.”

“I hope so.”

I squeezed his hand. “Well, I know so.”

He looked at me. “You’re amazing, do you know that?”

“What do you mean?”

He gestured at his food. “I mean, the guy who stood you up shows up on your doorstep out of the blue, and you end up fixing him the best damn burger he’s ever had. Are you sure that your name is Gin? Maybe it should be something else, something like . . . like . . . Genevieve.” He snapped his fingers together. “There’s a Saint Genevieve, you know.”

My breath caught in my throat in surprise and wonderment. If only he knew that Genevieve was my real name. If only he knew who I really was, a girl who’d lost her family. If only he knew how much I could relate to his pain.

If only he knew that I’d killed his father.

That last thought squashed the yearning in my chest. “I’m no saint,” I muttered. “More like a sinner.”

Understatement of the century.

But Sebastian didn’t seem to notice the dark murmur in my voice. He stood up, his hand still on mine. He hesitated, then drew his hand away and walked around the counter, coming to a stop beside the cash register so that we were standing face-to-face. He was several inches taller than I was, so I had to tip my head back to meet his gaze, my heart pounding in my chest in a way that it never had before. He stared back at me, his eyes smoldering like hot coals in his face, his features tight, and his body tense with need, want, guilt, grief, and desire.

Sebastian hesitated a moment longer, then pulled me into his arms and lowered his lips to mine.

The kiss was everything that I’d thought it would be, everything that I’d secretly dreamed it would be—soft, sweet, and utterly breathtaking. Sebastian Vaughn might be a rich guy who could have his pick of girls, but he was surprisingly gentle with me. His lips skimmed mine, his tongue slowly delving into my mouth before retreating. His fingers trailed down my arms before his hands settled on my waist, pulling me a little closer, but that was as far as he went.

His kiss and touch might have been sweet, but hot, liquid desire thrummed through my body in response, more electric than any I’d ever felt before. Sebastian was hurting because of me, and I wanted to do whatever I could to ease that hurt, to take away that pain, if only for a few moments.

But more than that, I wanted him.

Oh, I’d tried to deny it, tried to ignore and forget about it, about him, but the truth was that I was desperately attracted to Sebastian. His wit, his charm, his smile, the easy way he teased me, but most important, the way he actually seemed to respond to me. For some reason, it seemed like Sebastian could see the real me, the real Gin Blanco, lurking beneath all the many masks that I presented to the world. I’d never had that sort of intense, immediate connection with someone before.

Finally, the kiss ended, although my heart continued to pound, its quick tempo matching the emotions surging through me. Desire. Attraction. Hope. Longing.

Sebastian dropped his hands from my waist. “I’m sorry,” he said, running a hand through his hair and mussing the smooth locks, making him look even sexier. “I had no right to do that. It’s just . . . the way you were looking at me . . . I couldn’t help but kiss you.”

“Don’t worry about it. What girl wouldn’t want to be kissed by a gorgeous guy?”

He smiled. “So I’m gorgeous again, huh?”

“After that kiss? Definitely.”

We stared at each other. Sebastian’s face clouded over, as if he was going to apologize again, but I cut him off by moving forward, standing on my tiptoes, and lightly pressing my lips to his again. He hesitated, then kissed me back.

I didn’t want to, but this time, I broke it off. Because if I didn’t, I knew that I was in danger of leading him into the back of the restaurant and making out with him until the sun came up, along with other, more intimate things—things that would rock me far more than a few lip-locks had.

I smoothed down his tie, hoping that he wouldn’t notice my trembling fingers and all of the emotions that he stirred in me. Finally, I raised my eyes to his again.

“Come on, now,” I said, making my voice light and teasing once more. “Your food’s getting cold. Go sit down and finish the rest of your burger.”

Sebastian grinned, then gave me a mock salute with his hand. “Yes, ma’am.”