Page 12 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
“Nothing that concerns you.” When she continued to watch him expectantly, he sighed. “You’re not the only one with pressing affairs that demand attention. Even errand boys must eat.”
“Don’t you ever tire of it? Being the government’s weapon? Risking your life for people who would cross the street to avoid you?”
The question hit too close. Callahan had asked himself the same thing on countless nights. He’d spent his early years in Dublin, grown up as an orphan in Whitechapel. A street rat despised by the very society he now worked for. His old friends – Nick Thorne and Leo O’Sullivan – were currently building their own empire in the slums they’d survived. They’d nearly disowned him when he’d taken Wentworth’s offer to join the Home Office.
“It puts food on my table,” he said. “What’s it to you? Does the Queen of Thieves morally object to how others earn their keep now?”
“Not at all. But I envy you the choice to leave your cage whenever you want. I’d be remiss if I didn’t encourage you to take advantage of that freedom during our temporary armistice.”
Something was off in her voice. Callahan studied her – the shadows under her eyes, the wariness in her expression. What had driven the infamous Spectre to a Hong Kong gambling den, trying to fleece marks for quick quid? Who was she running from?
“Want to talk about it?” he asked gently.
Spectre blinked. “Why do you care?”
“You saved my life in Athens. I owe you a debt.”
“Ah. What happens tomorrow, I wonder? After this interlude expires? There must be a substantial bounty on me by now.”
“Last I heard, a thousand pounds.”
Her brows shot up. “That much? I’m flattered.” She paused, considering. “Well, here we are. Your most wanted thief caught at last. Are you going to haul me in for Her Majesty’s justice?”
“Not tonight,” he said.
“And tomorrow?”
“I make no promises about tomorrow.”
Before he could think better of it, he reached out, knuckles skimming along her throat. Her pulse raced beneath his fingertips. She wasn’t as calm as she appeared.
“Do you want to kiss me, Agent?” she whispered.
No. That’s what he’d say if he were thinking clearly. But sense had gone right out the window. His chest felt tight. And when her teeth caught her lower lip, his mind went blank.
I want to bite that lip, he thought. Then panicked at how much he meant it.
“Would you let me kiss you?”
Her breath hitched. “Yes.”
Warnings blared through his head, ethics and regulations and boundaries crossed – but when his lips touched hers, his thoughts went quiet. Clear. The kiss was soft, questioning rather than demanding. He gave her room to pull away.
She didn’t.
Instead, she opened to him, kissing him back with a hunger that matched his own. No performance, no calculation. Just raw need and a yearning so intense it hurt.
Callahan had kissed many women over the years. But none of them had tasted like danger and promise and something he couldn’t name but wanted desperately to keep.
It was the first honest exchange they’d ever had.
His hand slid up to sink into her hair. God, he wanted her. Had since New York. Since she’d aimed that knife at his throat with steady hands and confident eyes. Since Athens, when she’d patched his wounds and saved his life. He wanted her every damn time he saw the name Spectre in the broadsheet.
This woman was going to ruin him.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he murmured against her mouth. “We should stop.”
But his hands told a different story, one palm sliding up her neck, the other still gripping her hair like he’d die if he let go.
