Page 32 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
“Don’t pretend you’re the only shark here, Agent.” She traced a fingertip over his chest, and his heartbeat spiked beneath her touch. “How many nights have you lain awake aching for the chance to have me? Bending me over and putting me on my knees as much as you want.” She brushed her lips over his jaw. “You want me to be yourgood girl? Or do you just want to fuck me again without worrying I’ll pick your pockets after?”
When he spoke, his voice was low and rough. “You have an inflated sense of your own appeal. And a filthy mouth.”
“That wasn’t a denial. I’ll tell you what I think of your offer – I’ve had enough of men claiming their chains are for my protection. Men who’d put me on my back and call it salvation, who’d shove a knife in my fist and tell me it’s a mercy. Your precious Home Office is no different from the Syndicate. The Crown sees our kind as disposable. How does that feel? To have the Home Office’s collar so tight around your throat, you can barely breathe? Knowing they’ll use this pretty body up until it gives out?” She moved closer. “What does that make you, Agent? Go on, tell me. Nothing wrong with being a whore, but call it what it is.”
She saw the instant her words hit their mark. He stiffened, going rigid as if she’d slid her knife between his ribs.
His hands shot out, clamping around her biceps in a bruising grip. “You think you’ve got it all figured out. The poor little street rat with the tragic past. Always lashing out, always on the run. Too busy feeling sorry for yourself to see a rope when it’s thrown at your feet.”
It would be so easy to yield. But she couldn’t. Her failures, her inadequacies, had nearly cost Emma her life. She had to keep this man as far away from her as possible. Had to make him despise her, revile her, because the alternative—
It was unthinkable.
“Let me speak plain,” she said, very softly. “I’ve already sold my body for survival. I don’t want a keeper, and certainly not one chained to the Office. You were a pleasant diversion in Hong Kong. A nice big cock to ride and a purse to lighten. But your utility, like your charm, has reached its limit.”
He flinched. She saw it the moment before his expression smoothed out, and his hands fell away.
She wanted them back. She wanted to erase those words and tell him she was sorry. That if she had any softness left in her, he’d been the one to tease it out in Hong Kong, in Athens, in New York. And that was why she could never keep him.
Softness got people killed.
“Right,” he said flatly. “Right then. Suppose that clears things up quite concisely.”
He straightened his shoulders. Rebuilt his ramparts and bulwarks and all his impenetrable barricades. When he spoke again, he might have been carved from marble for all the emotion he betrayed.
“If the lady declines the offer of assistance, who am I to press the matter? Consider this my sincere apology for wasting your valuable time, Mademoiselle Dumont. It won’t happen again. Enjoy the rest of your evening. I’m sure you have places to be. People to rob. Throats to slit. Good evening.”
Isabel watched him go, that earlier stabbing pain spreading through her body. Tears scalded her eyes, but she blinked them back.
This was for the best. The kindest cruelty.
Sentiment is a noose, Favreau had told her once.Give someone a piece of your heart, and they’ll always betray you.
The only way to survive was to cut those vulnerable parts out. To pack the wounds with ice until nothing could touch her.
Nothing and no one.
10
Isabel paced the lanes of Belgravia while keeping an eye on the townhouse.
Callahan hadn’t come back. She wondered if he’d watched her at all from the shadows. If he even wanted to bother.
He’d probably washed his hands of her. Decided she wasn’t worth the trouble. What good was a thief who let herself get tracked down, anyway? Who became exhausted enough to let her skills atrophy?
She’d tried to start a new life after Hong Kong. She went back to Paris to leave that note for Emma and tie up any loose ends. It had seemed so easy to convince herself that she’d wiped her trail clean when she’d left. New name. New face. Not a fugitive, not a traitor, but just another unremarkable urchin scuttling amid London’s faceless masses.
Such a sweet, comforting lie.
Those lies were for marks.
She’d spent too long conning herself. Her face was known, thanks to Favreau’s singular talent for description and the money lubricating his every demand. There’d be no sanctuary for Spectre on either side of the Channel.
“Stop it,” she snarled at herself, picking up her pace.
A shadow moved at the mouth of the alley.
Isabel reached for the sheath at her thigh, but not fast enough. Someone sprang out of the darkness. Arms clamped hard around her middle.
