Page 8 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
His eyes darkened. Something shifted in his expression – hungry and angry and wanting. Ah, good. Let him feel what it was like to be the one off-balance for once.
“I’m not a man you get to play with, Trouble.”
“Trouble?” She raised an eyebrow. “We’re using familiar names now?”
“If it fits. And you? You’re nothing if not an ocean of trouble.”
Isabel almost smiled. That meant he’d never forget her. She hoped he thought of New York as often as she had. Fantasies of his body against hers during that dance had kept her steady under Favreau’s hands. Kept her sane. On more fanciful nights, she’d wondered what would have happened if she’d kissed him.
His attention dropped to her lips. Did she imagine it, or did he lean closer?
“You’re a walking apocalypse, in fact,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t be surprised you have deviant tastes and a vulgar mouth.”
She smiled. “Afraid I’ll corrupt you, Agent?”
“Are you eager to try?”
Yes. But then, above the courtyard walls, she noticed the museum’s roof. The coin she needed to steal. The man waiting in France and looking for any excuse to hurt her.
She couldn’t afford distractions.
“Not today,” she said reluctantly, releasing his hair. “But it’s been lovely seeing you again. Now I havetouringto do.”
Callahan’s brows snapped together. “You really expect me to let you walk out of here?”
She blinked at him. “Whyever not? I did just save your life.”
“And as you admitted, it wasn’t out of the kindness of your heart. You wouldn’t know benevolence if it bit you on the arse.”
“You’ve been contemplating my arse? I’m flattered,” she said. “And most men would be grateful to have a beautiful lady save them from being murdered.”
“Most men are idiots, and you’re not a lady.”
“And thank the good Lord for that. It sounds dreadfully dull.” She started walking towards the wisteria curtain. “Next time I’m liberating something shiny, I’ll think of you while I’m fencing it,” she called over her shoulder with a wave.
She didn’t look back as the flowers swayed shut behind her, though she felt his stare.
Because as much as she wanted to stay and amuse herself with Ronan Callahan, her circumstances allowed no dalliances. No emotions. No weaknesses. Favreau’s possessiveness ran bone deep. To him, Isabel was a belonging. A precious bit of chattel that he’d invested years in collecting.
And Favreau did not share his toys.
3
Hong Kong, 1871
The stench of the Sheung Wan gaming hell clung to Callahan. He hated places like this. They set him on edge, made his fingers itch for the familiar weight of a pistol. But he was here to gather intelligence, and like every other job, he sublimated discomforts in favour of cold practicality.
Callahan moved through the press of bodies. He dodged drunkards and overeager gamblers and servers. The din was an overwhelming cacophony of shouts, the clatter of mahjong tiles—
He froze.
Across the smoky hall, a woman leaned over a gaming table.
Spectre.
Figures she’d be here. An unpredictable variable tossed into the equation of his already complicated evening. No matter how many months or miles stretched between each encounter – a year since Athens, two since New York – he could never seem to brace himself for impact. He studied her, cataloguing details: the blonde hair twisted into a demure coiffure, the low dip of her black silk bodice, the elegant arch of her neck.
For a moment, Callahan considered retreating – but then Spectre’s gaze snapped to his. He grinned as her lips mouthed a curse.
