Page 40 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
That night, he gave her the first of what would eventually become a collection of scars.
She stood at the ship’s railing with England fading into the distance. Her cigarette rested between her fingers, the smoke curling in the air. The waves rose and fell in a ceaseless flow, hissing and roaring with each swell before crashing against the hull.
She’d stopped dreaming of the sea years ago. Now, it just reminded her of knives. Of blood and constant running.
Find a distraction, she thought to herself.
She liked to find lovers on her travels. Ships were good for that, for confined spaces and temporary men with no names and no histories. Men who thought they were claiming her when she was actually using them. She’d spend a few days forgetting, letting herself understand that a cock could feel good and make her body sing. The more she fucked, the less Favreau owned her.
But there was only one distraction on this ship worth pursuing.
Tell me one real thing. Just one, and I’ll call you whatever you want.
Let Ronan hate her. He didn’t have to like her to bed her.
She ground out her cigarette and descended below deck, removing the pins from her hair as she reached Callahan’s door. The lock yielded so easily.
Isabel slipped inside.
Callahan surged up from where he rested on his bunk, snatching his pistol from the bedside table and pointing it right at her chest.
“If this is a new interrogation tactic, it needs work,” Isabel drawled. “What kind of agent lets a thief sneak up on him?”
“The kind who was expecting a knock.”
Her gaze lingered on his muscular torso, at the bandage from where she’d stabbed him in the shoulder. This was the first time she’d seen him without clothes since Hong Kong, and somehow, he was even more beautiful. More devastating.
“I’m requesting an audience,” she said, shaking herself. “I assume we can dispense with the formalities?”
She wasn’t sure what reaction she’d expected – annoyance, maybe. Or wary resignation. She hadn’t expected the way Ronan’s stare swept over her in a slow, heated drag, as tactile as a physical touch.
Yes. He might detest her, butthatlook was hungry.
“Is this the part where you tell me you’re here to complain?” Callahan asked. “Take issue with the thread count, perhaps? Or are the sightlines from your quarters not murderous enough?”
“Now that you mention it, I do have a bone to pick.” She moved to the edge of his bed. “Something about a truly unfortunate alias I suspect may be your doing.”
After unpacking the dresses he’d managed to procure for her on short notice, she’d opened the envelope with her travel papers to find his petty revenge staring her right in the face.
“Sweetheart, the bureaucratic wrangling required to pull those identities together would astonish you. And this is the thanks I get? I’m wounded.”
“Oh, I haven’t begun to wound you yet. Do I look like aFelicity Snodgrassto you? It sounds like someone who faints at the sight of ankles.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“So I’ve been told. Often and with great enthusiasm.”
The pistol lowered, but not before he dragged the cold barrel down her throat. She shivered despite herself.
“Why the hell are you really here?” He pressed the muzzle between her breasts, not gentle, not careful. “Got an itch that needs scratching, Trouble?”
She bit her lip. “If I said I did?”
His lips curved into a wicked smile. He set the pistol aside on the small table next to his bunk, then leaned back against the wall, his broad shoulders flexing as he slowly, deliberately, pulled down the sheet covering his lower half. Her throat went dry when it finally slipped past his hips. He was hard. Thick. Ready.
Waiting.
His hand wrapped around his cock, and he began to stroke, slow and taunting. “Go on, then.Scratch.”
