Page 5 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
Because her master was never far from her mind.
The white marble face of the Central Museum loomed ahead. She just had to slip in—
“Stop! Thief!”
Isabel whipped around towards the source of the commotion – and felt the ground drop out from beneath her.
Through the parting throng of shoppers charged a half-naked man. Bronzed skin glistened in the harsh Grecian sun, muscles flexing. Dark hair, storm-grey eyes, striking features – he could have been Ares in the flesh, stepped down from his plinth to unleash chaos.
Ronan Callahan.
Because of course it was.
He vaulted over an upturned barrow and kept running. Feathers rained as squawking chickens exploded from their toppled cages. Baskets overturned, sending fruit rolling underfoot. Curses in a dozen dialects chased his heels. And he ran on, shirt torn halfway off and blood streaking his ribs – and still outrageously gorgeous.
If the deities of Olympus had conspired to pluck the most exasperating temptation from her past and plant him square in her path, they could not have set the scene more perfectly. Only Ronan Callahan could transform her simple smash-and-grab into a drama of epic proportions.
Isabel’s mind bellowed at her to leave. To turn her back on this maelstrom masquerading as a man and salvage what she could of the day’s agenda. That’s what any rational woman would do.
Then she saw who was after him: six brawny men armed with blades. Callahan’s odds looked grimmer by the instant.
Strangely, that decided her.
Isabel swore and lunged for the alley where she prayed Callahan was headed. If she timed it right – if she gauged his trajectory without being spotted by his pursuers . . .
She skidded around the corner just as Callahan’s grey eyes locked onto hers. They widened, a single thought written across his face.
You.
“This way!” she hissed, snatching his wrist.
She yanked him into the shadowed backstreets.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Callahan demanded.
“Shut up and run!”
An order he obeyed without argument. They scrambled over crumbling walls and careened around corners. Isabel rifled through her hard-won mental map of the city, the boltholes and dead-end alleys. They needed to catch their breath and hide—
There.
A courtyard tucked between decrepit buildings and concealed by a curtain of wisteria. Isabel hauled Callahan into the tiny refuge.
The space barely qualified as a courtyard, truthfully. More a forgotten corner slumbering behind its veil of flowers, the stone walls bearing scars of past skirmishes long since lost to memory. But it would serve for now.
Isabel stepped back to assess her companion – and the inadvisability of the last fifteen minutes crashed over her.
What possessed her to intervene in Ronan Callahan’s disasterdu jour? Why had she risked herself? One glimpse of his stupid, beautiful face and all her instincts for self-preservation scattered.
She was many things, most disreputable, but she’d never fancied herself an idiot.
Until now.
Callahan braced his hands on his knees, chest heaving as he caught his breath.
Despite him being sweaty, bloody, and exhausted, Isabel couldn’t help but stare. In New York, she had decided Ronan Callahan was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. His black hair fell over his forehead and begged to be pushed back. When he opened his eyes, they were a grey so pale that they resembled quicksilver.
The few sorry scraps of shirt still clinging to his shoulders exposed far too much bronzed skin. Too many flexing muscles and old scars, each mark telling a story Isabel itched to unravel. He looked like Ares the moment before battle lust consumed him. Magnificent. Dangerous.
