Page 100 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
Rationally, he knew Wentworth was wrong. Knew it with the same fierce, unshakable certainty that the sun would rise in the east. But some small, twisted part of himself – the part that had always whispered he’d never be good enough, never be clean enough to deserve softness, or kindness, or love – shuddered in old fears. Ones that festered since Hong Kong.
After all, what was the Spectre but an actress? A performer?
Ale and climaxes are truth serums to the over-indulged and under-cautious, and I excel at telling men exactly what they want to hear.
But—no. She couldn’t fake what happened after Favreau murdered Harrington. Couldn’tfakebegging Callahan to carve his initials into her.
The only man’s name I want to wear on my skin is yours.
“No,” he said with certainty now. “She wouldn’t do that.”
“Is that so?” Wentworth’s gaze sharpened. “I know what the woman means to you, Agent. More than is strictly wise for men in our profession. It’s little wonder she saw an opportunity to exploit that connection for her own gain. Love is a liability in our line of work. It makes you weak. Clouds your judgment. Causes you to overlook things you shouldn’t.”
“I know who and what Isabel Dumont is, Wentworth.” He’d traced the fucking scars on her body. “If you trust my judgment, then know that I wouldn’t lay my life down for this woman if I weren’t certain, with every bone in my body, that she loved me back.”
Wentworth rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Fine. My men are searching for Favreau as we speak, and when they find him and Spectre, I’ll use my not-inconsiderable clout to re-release her into your custody. I just hope she doesn’t destroy you.”
28
The building loomed before her. No windows broke the expanse of soot-darkened brick, just a door set flush with the pitted wall.
The portal to her own personal hell.
She’d memorised the address Favreau had given her. He always did love his games. His pageantry. All part and parcel of the monster’s modus operandi – wound them up and watch them dance.
Until she’d gnawed off her own limbs to escape.
This time, she wouldn’t be fleeing. She wouldn’t be submitting. This time, she would be biding her time, and she wasn’t going to leave until Favreau was dead.
Her fingers trembled as she pushed at the door. There were about a dozen of Favreau’s men sitting on the furniture scattered throughout the bottom antechamber of the building. A few were sitting and playing chess, and a few others were drinking.
“Lads,” she said with a smile. “I assume you’re here to greet me.”
Wordlessly, one of them came forwards to pat her down, divesting her of every single knife she had hidden on her person. So much for this being an easy kill.
Then he jerked his chin to the stairs. “He’s waiting for you. Fifth-floor flat.”
She turned and climbed to the top flat. The door was already ajar, the monster confident in the return of his prized pet. The interior was a jarring contrast to its plain external walls, full of gilt furniture and paintings pilfered across the finest private galleries. Favreau had a taste for opulence; his boltholes from London to Greece were furnished to his exacting standards.
He was sitting in the bedchamber, sprawled in a throne-like armchair by the fireplace, idly swirling a snifter of brandy. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows. A fallen angel in repose.
God, she hated him.
“Welcome home,ma chérie. Temporary accommodations, you understand, until I can secure our travel.”
“And where might we be headed? Paris? Oslo?”
“So inquisitive. Some things never change.” He sighed and set the glass aside with a muted clink, the known precursor to violence. “Regrettably, I’m afraid the specifics of our destination must remain a surprise. You know how I adore my little mysteries.”
Isabel gave a slow perusal of their surroundings. “Well. You always did have a way with interior decorating. So garish and overwrought. We’re in London, darling, not Versailles.”
The blow caught her off guard. A bright starburst of pain exploded across her cheek. She staggered back a step, but his hand lashed out to seize her jaw. Fingers digging in.
“Still so spirited. So very brave, even now. But I was remiss, wasn’t I, in our time apart? I let you forget your place. An oversight I intend to remedy.”
She held herself pliant in his grip, willing stone into her limbs, into the frantic thrum of her heart.
Deny him his pleasure. Conceal your fear. Give no ground. Wait.
