Page 6 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
Frankly, he was an affront to decency.
Callahan straightened, a faint wince the only acknowledgement of the wound on his side. His scowl promised retribution. Ah. Not gratitude, then. Hardly a shock. The man would probably spurn divine intervention if it arrived without the proper paperwork.
“Now that we’re alone, I’ll ask again. What the hell are you doing in Athens?”
She shrugged. “Some sightseeing. Taking in the local colour. Some of us can travel without turning it into an international incident.”
“Right,” he said flatly. “Because you’re so sodding circumspect.”
“I’m the verysoulof discretion.”
Callahan looked like he’d tasted something unspeakable. “You’re the soul of chaos.”
“Why, Agent, it’s almost as if you aren’t overjoyed by my timely assistance. Such ingratitude for the woman who spared you a messy gutting. You’re welcome, by the by.”
She crossed her arms, absently noting her sleeve was now smudged with dirt and . . . was that rotten fruit? Lovely. Yet another thing sacrificed on the altar of Ronan Callahan’s calamities.
“I assume you have a good reason for attracting the violent attention of what appeared to be half the criminals in the Plaka?”
His scowl deepened. “I had it handled.”
“Yes, clearly. That’s why a pack of cutthroats was baying for your blood.”
“It’s nothing I can’t deal with. You didn’t need to get involved.”
For God’s sake. Callahan would drag himself bloody and broken from the underworld itself before admitting he needed aid, let alone from her.
“I’m sure you’d have figured something out,” she said. “Probably around the time they’d carved that lovely body into a more portable parcel.”
He shot her a baleful glare that she ignored in favour of examining the alarming crimson stain seeping through his tattered shirt. Her smile slipped.
“That’s a lot of blood.”
“It’s barely a scratch. A flesh wound at most.”
She arched a brow. He’d probably describe a knife to the kidney as aminor inconvenience. “Your ‘barely a scratch’ is starting to drip onto my boots.”
“They’ll survive.” But he glanced down at the injury. “It’s nothing.”
Isabel debated the wisdom of her next words, but in for a penny, in for the whole bloody pound. She’d already involved herself in this mess. Might as well see it through.
With a sigh, she said, “Remove those rags before you collapse and undo my efforts to haul your troublesome arse out of danger. Let me look.”
He gave her a wicked smile that kindled some warm and reckless emotion in her chest. “If you wanted me undressed, darling, all you had to do was ask.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Agent.”
But she’d be lying if she claimed some part of her didn’t sit up and take notice as he stripped off the shirt.
Nom de Dieu, the man was a masterpiece. Lean muscle, tanned skin from time spent outdoors. Even more scars and bruises across his torso. The inadvisable urge to follow those lines with fingertips and lips washed over her.
Not now.
Swallowing hard, Isabel dug through her skirts for the little tin she kept stocked with unguents and salves. Callahan tracked her every movement. She was keenly aware of his size and sheer physical presence.
“Be a love and hold still,” she muttered. The scent of medicinal herbs cut through the wisteria’s sweetness. “This will probably sting.”
She scooped some of the salve onto her fingertips and reached for him, smoothing it over his injury with a touch far gentler than his wretched ingratitude warranted.
