Page 59 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
“Would we be here if he were running a charity?”
Ripon levelled him with a withering stare. “Let me be abundantly clear. You may look. You may listen. You may even speak to the man. But if I find one drop of blood on my carpets or one piece of furniture where it doesn’t belong, I’ll personally deliver you to Wentworth with several new holes in your body.”
“We’ll be discreet,” Isabel promised, all sweetness.
Ripon must have been the only man alive immune to that little performance, because he just scowled at her.
“See that you are. The staff knows to accommodate you within reason. Guests arrive tomorrow. Try not to embarrass me.”
The door closed behind him.
Callahan exhaled, feeling the emergence of a spectacular headache. “I need a whiskey.”
Isabel snorted, still inspecting the priceless baubles around the room. If she stole anything, he’d never hear the end of it from Wentworth. Hell, Ripon would probably shoot them.
“Want to tell me about that fetching accent you put on downstairs?” she asked. “Are we American Ashfords?”
“Unfortunately.” Callahan yanked the file from his satchel and spread the papers on the table. Americans. Of all the bloody covers Wentworth could have chosen. “Courier delivered this while you were still drooling on your pillow this morning. Our identities and the schedule. There’s a formal opening tomorrow. I figure we mingle, try not to commit any felonies and murder each other in the process. Think we can manage that?”
“I’ve already managed to endure one night in your bed. I’m sure I’ll find the fortitude to withstand a few more.”
“So kind of you,” he said. “And can you be a fawning newlywed? Or is that too much of a stretch?”
“Please.” She slanted him a look. “I once convinced the Archduchess of Austria that I was a long-lost Romanov cousin. I think I can play a besotted bride.”
“Of course you did.” He shook his head. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Because I’m just that good. Now, I intend to take advantage of these fancy accommodations and get more comfortable.”
She reached back and slipped the first tiny button of her bodice free.
Everything inside Callahan stilled. The room. His breath. Time itself. For one disorienting moment, he was back in that Hong Kong hotel room thinking of each button as a piece of armour being peeled away.
They were professionals with a job to do. He meant to tell her as much. Truly. Opened his mouth to say in no uncertain terms that whatever this was between them had to be shelved, boxed up, and shoved into some dusty corner of his psyche.
What emerged instead was, “Do you need help?”
Isabel froze. Her stare locked with his, and she cleared her throat. “Yes, please.”
He closed the distance between them. He didn’t touch her – not yet – just reached for the fastening behind her neck, listening to her breath snag.
The buttons were tiny, so delicate. He worked them slowly, one after another, revealing the smooth skin of her back. Skin he’d tasted. Skin he’d marked.
By the time he finished, he could hear the shallow, quick rhythm of her breathing.
“There,” he said.
She slipped it off, then began unhooking her bustle and front-fastening corset to reveal her thin linen combination. He swallowed, hypnotised by the shift of muscle beneath pale skin as she plucked the pins from her hair until it spilled over her shoulders.
God, he wanted to devour her.
He cleared his throat and turned away, listening to the rustle of fabric as she donned her nightdress. Then, as if she hadn’t just reduced him to a speechless idiot, she sprawled on the counterpane and opened the dossier.
“Well?” she said. “Are you going to come over here and review these with me?”
He stripped down to his smalls and settled beside her, trying and failing to find a comfortable position.
She tossed some papers onto his chest. “Take these.”
