Page 79 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
Callahan turned slowly. He fixed the interloper with a gaze that had quelled charging brigands. The man’s babbling cut off, and he swallowed audibly.
“Ah. I see you’re otherwise engaged. Terribly rude of me to intrude. I’ll just . . . go and . . . that is to say— Right! Cheerio!”
The man departed with such haste that he nearly bumped into a servant bearing a tray of champagne.
“Making friends, I see.” Isabel’s voice shook with laughter.
“I don’t have friends here,” Callahan said, clamping his fingers around her elbow. “I have you.”
With that, he tugged Isabel across the room and into a shadowed alcove. The velvet drapes swished shut, concealing them from view.
Callahan crowded her against the wall, slanting his mouth over hers in a kiss that was all heat and hunger. He still couldn’t get enough. He pressed his thigh between hers, gratified by the hitch in her breath. The way her eyes went soft and hazy with want.
“Well,” she breathed, “hello to you, too.”
“How’s your arse today, little thief?”
“Sore,” she said, even as her hips met his in a slow grind.
He chuckled. “Good. I want you to feel the ache of me for days. Every time you sit, every time you move. A reminder of what I can do to this beautiful body.”
She snorted. “Degenerate.”
“You like it. Now, tell me: any luck extracting intelligence from our esteemed Viscount Harrington? Or was he too busy staring at your tits to string two words together?”
She made a face. “I might as well be a decorative piece of furniture. He considers my intellect roughly on par with a concussed badger.”
“So you didn’t manage to extract anything relevant? Nothing about his work or what Ramsgate wanted from him?”
“He’s proving a surprisingly tough nut, loath as I am to admit it,” she said. Her lips pursed in irritation. “While I excel at subterfuge, you may protest my usual methods of extracting information.”
“Rob the blighter blind?”
“Getting him drunk and seducing him while lending a sympathetic ear. Ale and climaxes are truth serums to the over-indulged and under-cautious, and I excel at telling men exactly what they want to hear.”
Callahan’s hand tightened on her waist. “Isabel—”
“I was strictly professional with Harrington,” she reassured him. “Not even a hint of flirtation. My fake husband is the jealous sort, you see.”
“Yes, he is. He’s very jealous, and he doesn’t share.” He dipped his head, lips ghosting over her neck. “I have an idea. One that removes the viscount from the influence of polite society. Men speak more freely over drink and cards. I’ll invite him out tonight.”
“And what am I meant to do in the meantime?”
“Keep an eye on Ramsgate. Be your charming self. Dazzle the masses with your wit and beauty. Perhaps liberate a few possessions for old times’ sake.”
She heaved a sigh. “Fine. Go on, then. Work your masculine wiles on Viscount Harrington. I’m sure he’ll be helpless to resist your charm.”
“Your faith in me is truly touching, Mrs Ashford,” he said, dipping his fingers beneath the neckline of her gown to graze the swell of her breasts.
She gave a soft groan. “You need to go before we scandalise the symposium, Mr Ashford.”
“What’s the concern, little thief? That I’ll fuck you behind this curtain where everyone can hear?” he asked, his teeth scraping over her pulse point. “Or that you don’t think you can be quiet if I do?”
“Ronan.”
“Saying my name in that breathy voice of yours isn’t helping the situation.”
She put a hand on his chest. “Business first. Go deal with Harrington.”
