Page 65 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
“I didn’t have anything that was mine back then. Everything was for Favreau. Where I went. What I stole. Who I . . .”
She didn’t finish, didn’t need to. Callahan’s jaw clenched, thinking about Favreau’s hands on her.
“But you were different,” she continued. “My secret. The one thing he didn’t control. I’d get sent to a city, and beneath all the plans and schemes, I’d think maybe you’d find me. Time with you was the only thing I ever stole for myself. I couldn’t just leave you there bleeding out in Athens.”
An emotion constricted in his chest. “And I couldn’t arrest you. Not even when Wentworth was breathing down my neck about it.”
They lapsed into comfortable silence, the earlier tension all but dissipated.
“Agent,” she said. “Will you—” She shut her mouth. “Never mind.”
“Tell me. I promise not to judge.”
She swallowed. “I have nightmares every night. Unavoidable. Except for Hong Kong and last night – because I woke up to your arms around me.”
He cupped her cheek. “Are you asking your fake husband to hold you?”
He felt the slight tremor that ran through her, the way she leaned almost imperceptibly into his touch. Then a nod. Small. Uncertain. As if she wasn’t used to asking for anything, especially comfort. Like she was surrendering. This woman, with all her barbs and thorns, was trusting him with this one thing.
“Come here, fake wife,” he said tenderly, gathering her in his arms.
“Just until I fall asleep,” she murmured.
“Whatever you need, Trouble.”
18
Isabel stood in front of the mirror. The gown the Home Office had procured was blue silk with delicate Chantilly lace with a neckline that offered a tantalising glimpse of décolletage.
The sort of ensemble that would have men eating out of her palm.
“I don’t suppose,” she murmured to the maid fussing with the fall of her skirts, “you have any creative ideas for concealing a small arsenal beneath all this? A pistol or two? Perhaps a nice stiletto?”
The girl looked up with wide, startled eyes. “I beg your pardon, ma’am?”
“Nothing, darling. Just idle musings of a deranged mind. I’m sure I’ll muddle through.”
She dismissed the girl and turned back to her reflection, allowing herself one last assessing glance.
Every part the lethal ornament, ma petite. What fine jewellery you make.
Isabel banished Favreau’s memory with a violent shake of her head. Then she drew a deep breath, held it until her lungs burned, and strode into the private sitting room.
Callahan was already waiting, his broad shoulders cutting a fine figure in stark black and white. He glanced up at the soft susurrus of Isabel’s skirts.
And went still.
He stared. Drinking her in with a heat that sent sparks skittering across her skin.
“Well?” Her voice emerged huskier than she’d intended. “Will I pass muster? Or shall I go change into sackcloth?”
“You look,” he rasped, “like the most dangerous thing in the room. Like a fever dream.”
Isabel swallowed hard. “Yours or mine?”
“Everyone’s. You’ll be the scandal of the symposium. There won’t be a man there who won’t imagine peeling you out of that dress and seeing if you taste as good as you look.”
“Is that what you imagine? How I might taste?”
