Page 57 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
A narrow, sorry excuse for a bed that couldn’t fit two adults unless they slept practically on top of each other. Her throat went dry. Images flashed through her mind – his weight pressing her down, him inside her, kissing her neck—
Callahan, the wretched beast, merely smirked. “Lose your nerve?”
“You should know by now that I never do.”
“That’s a lie.” He stepped into her space, forcing her to tilt her chin up to maintain eye contact. “Do you know, I’ve been imagining our reunion since the moment you flounced away from me.”
“I didn’t flounce,” she argued. “You kissed me, dumped me with Portia, and then never returned.”
His smirk widened into a smile. “That your way of saying you missed me?”
“You have a habit of blundering into my life. It was an expectation.”
“Thatsoundslike you missed me.” He touched her, a gentle swipe of palm down her arm. “You know what I’ve been thinking about? How to make you pay for avoiding me after our little encounter on the steamer. After I gave such devoted attention to that sweet cunt of yours.”
Isabel sputtered. He was unbelievable, honestly. Deranged, half-mad, and too attractive by far. Just the memory of him between her thighs sent heat pooling through her core.
“You shackled me to a bed and tried to force me to apologise,” she managed.
“I deserved the apology. You earned the restraints. And just think, if you had given me those two words instead oflosing your nerve, you little liar, I would have fucked you for days. Instead, you’ve spent months alone and wanting.”
“Who says I’ve been wanting? Boston is full of handsome men.”
“Oh, Trouble,” he said with a sigh. “Let’s not start this fake marriage with lies. I think we both know I’m the only man who can satisfy you.”
She seized his wrist, squeezing hard. “Are we going to be able to pull this off?” she asked softly. “Or will we slaughter each other before the week is out?”
“I imagine you and I will find some measure of agreement. Whether through our mutual performance or the fact that we can’t exist in the same room without wanting each other.”
“A handful of days, and I’ll be strangling you. Mark my words.”
“Not if I throttle you first.” He tugged his hand out of her grasp. “I’m going to sleep. It’s been a damnably long day, and I’m knackered. I’m sure you’d like a rest after the steamer.”
He didn’t wait for a response, just bent to work at his bootlaces. She shucked her own boots, stripped to her combination, and stretched out on the bed. The mattress dipped as he snuffed out the light and lay beside her.
“Just so you know,” Callahan murmured into the darkness, “if you’re plotting my murder, strangulation’s a bore. Poison’s more your style. Tasteless. Effective. One drop in my morning tea and I’d never see it coming.”
Isabel bit back a grin. “I’ve always favoured an ice pick. Clean, elegant. And if you position it properly, nearly painless.”
“Christ, Dumont. Are you seducing me with murder tactics?”
“Would it work if I were?”
Their breathing synced in the quiet room. He reached out, knuckles grazing her cheek.
“I missed you,” he whispered.
The confession knocked the air from her lungs. Three words that shouldn’t have mattered but somehow cracked her open and made her confess what she’d been too much of a coward to say earlier.
“I waited,” she admitted. “Every day in Boston, I thought you might show up.”
He didn’t pull away. Didn’t build up walls or go cold. His smile softened, and he tapped her nose. “Next time, don’t wait. Just ask for what you want.”
Before she could respond, his arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her against him. His heart thumped steadily in a rhythm she could have picked out blindfolded from a thousand others.
17
Basil House was the kind of place Callahan would have robbed in his youth.
