Page 11 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
He paced the room twice, then stopped cold when the washroom door creaked open.
Spectre’s hands fidgeted with the tie of her –his– dressing gown. “I don’t suppose you have a spare blanket for the settee? That would be adequate for my needs.”
“I’ll be taking the settee,” he said. “You’re in the bed.”
A little crease appeared between her brows. The one he’d noticed in Athens when she was concentrating on bandaging his wound. “Don’t be absurd. A big lad like you won’t get a wink of sleep on that thing. You’ll be knots from nape to knee come morning.”
“I’ve slept on worse.” Whitechapel alleys. Prison cells. Places a child shouldn’t have had to call home. “The bed’s yours. I insist.”
“How noble, but there’s more than enough room for us both.” She drifted closer. “Unless you fear for your virtue.”
He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Sweetheart, my virtue is buried in an unmarked grave.”
“Well then. What are you waiting for, Agent?”
He blew out a long, slow breath. God, he was going to regret this. He knew it in his bones.
“Get in the bed, Trouble. Before I toss you in it.”
Her smile sharpened as she settled on the mattress. “Coming?”
Jesus wept.
As he undressed, Spectre studied him, lingering on the scars and bruises that mapped his history across his skin.
“You’ve a collection of new scars since Athens,” she observed. “Exactly how many people try to kill you in any given year, Agent?”
“Enough that an attempted stabbing is what I’d call a normal Tuesday. You’re looking at thirty-two years of rough living, little thief.”
“Thirty-two?” Her cheek dimpled. “Practically ancient.”
Callahan shot her a dirty look. As if he needed to be reminded that she was probably more than a decade younger.
Wearing nothing but his smallclothes, he slid under the blankets beside her.
Stripped of her mask and usual armour, it was tempting to believe the illusion – that Callahan knew this woman. That the dangerous yearning inside him was more than a passing madness.
The oldest lie whispered in the devil’s voice.
“This is a terrible idea,” he said.
“Oh, undoubtedly,” Isabel agreed. “But aren’t those always the most fun?”
Callahan snorted. “Your definition of fun and mine differ.”
“Come now, Agent. Where’s your spirit of adventure?”
“I left it in England. Along with my common sense and self-preservation instincts, apparently.”
The bedsheets rustled. She turned to face him, one arm tucked beneath her head. “I have questions.”
“Christ.” Callahan fixed his gaze on the ceiling’s scrollwork. “Course you do. Fine. Ask.”
She chewed her lip. “Did you follow me here?”
“To Hong Kong?” He barked a laugh. “God save me. Contrary to what your inflated notion of self-importance might lead you to believe, my existence doesn’t revolve around chasing your thieving arse across the globe like a lovelorn suitor.”
“Hmm. And what business brings the esteemed Agent Callahan to the Pearl of the Orient, then?”
