Page 7 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
He hissed in a sharp breath, the muscles of his abdomen tensing. “Bloody hell.”
“Don’t be a baby.”
“Has anyone told you that your bedside manner is shite?”
“Has anyone ever told you it’s rude to bleed all over the person who just saved your worthless backside?”
A surprised laugh left him. “My apologies. How can I make amends?”
“Don’t get stabbed.”
She fished a roll of linen from her pocket. Her fingers trembled slightly as she wound the bandage around his torso. Everything about Callahan addled her wits.
“Why did you do it?” he asked quietly.
She glanced up and immediately regretted it. The look he slanted her was pure Callahan – intense and incisive, as if he could flay all her secrets bare if he pressed hard enough.
She added a last unnecessary fold to his bandage to buy herself a moment. “Do what?”
“Help me back there. Don’t get me wrong – having a beautiful woman patch me up in a hidden garden is a fantasy come true. But it makes me curious.”
He thought she was beautiful? If the heat and sun hadn’t already reddened her skin, he might have noticed her blush. Because one compliment from Ronan Callahan made her forget all the reasons why she shouldn’t be alone with him.
“Does everything need to have an ulterior motive?”
“With a thief like you?” He caught her wrist before she could draw away. “Yes.”
He turned her captured hand over, thumb dragging across her palm. Isabel’s breath stuttered as he stroked a callus born of lock picks and balanced blades.
“Perhaps I have a soft spot for hard-headed spies with more courage than sense.” Her voice was husky.
“And here I thought I was special.” He tugged gently, reeling her in with the barest pressure until she swayed into him. “To be singled out for rescue by the elusive Spectre herself. What alias have you decided on here in Athens?”
His eyes. God. This close, they weren’t just grey. They had so many shades. The colours of storm clouds. Smoke. Steel.
And that little freckle at the corner of his mouth . . . She bit her lower lip at the sudden urge to taste him. Tobite.
“Allison Marks,” she said, switching from her usual, slightly Parisian accent to an American one. “Tourist from Boston.”
“Well, Allison Marks, tourist from Boston.” He said her fake name like he was tasting it. Testing it. “What’s your price for helping me?”
“A future favour, maybe,” she said. “Having one of Her Majesty’s best in my debt could prove useful. A marker to be called in someday.”
“So I’m to be a gem in your crown, little thief?”
She twisted her wrist, breaking his hold with a move she’d practised a thousand times.
But she didn’t pull away.
Instead, her hand slid up his chest. Warm skin. Hard muscle. Her fingertips traced ridges and hollows and scars. She memorised him through touch, climbing higher – shoulder, neck, until her fingers tangled in his dark hair and—
Tugged.
Just hard enough to pull his head back. Isabel felt more than heard his sharp inhale, the shudder that chased through him.
“What are you doing?” he asked, voice rough.
“Thinking that maybe I’d rather have you in my bed than be a gem in my crown,” she murmured, just to see how he’d respond. “I’ve been told I have deviant tastes and an abnormal appetite for pretty men. Tell me, how hard do you fuck, Agent?”
