Page 94 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
Their gazes settled on Isabel. Of course. Who better to comment on the movements of a madman than the woman who’d once been his most prized possession?
She took a steadying breath. “The symposium’s closing ball is tomorrow. And no one knows Ramsgate is dead yet. Favreau wants me. He’ll make his move there and threaten me openly. He wants me to feel trapped, to see returning to him as my only choice. This entire situation – Ramsgate, the weapon, all of it – was orchestrated to bring me back to London. Back to him.”
“Are you suggesting we use my guests as bait, Miss Dumont?” Ripon asked.
“I’m the bait,” she replied. “Your guests are potential collateral damage.”
“That’s a cold way of looking at things.”
“I spent seven years at Favreau’s side. I watched him torture men for sport. I helped him destabilise governments.” Her nails dug crescents into her palms. “Cold is all I know. But I’ll go with him willingly if I see no other option.”
“No.” Callahan caught Isabel’s elbow. “We’re not dangling you in front of Favreau.”
“I’m not asking for your permission, Agent.” The formality was a shield between them, something to keep her from falling apart. She faced Ripon again. “The ball preparations need to continue as planned. No one can suspect anything’s wrong.”
26
Isabel fumbled with the buttons at the small of her back. Each one was a battle she was ill-equipped to win after the long day behind her.
The door swung open, and Callahan entered the room wearing his evening attire. No man had a right to look that beautiful while she stood there still half-dressed and frustrated. She took her time looking at him. The width of his shoulders, the perfect fit across his chest, the way his hands hung relaxed at his sides. Everything about him was precise. Deadly.
“Don’t just stand there,” she said, turning to show him her back. “Make yourself useful.”
He closed the distance between them without a word. His fingers were warm against her skin as they worked each button. When he reached the middle of her back, he paused.
“Here . . .” His touch lingered over the bandages he’d re-wrapped that morning. “Does it pain you?”
“No more than the rest.”
She’d had worse. She’d survived worse.
Callahan’s arms slid around her waist from behind, drawing her against his chest. She stiffened instinctively, braced for . . . something.
But he only held her more firmly and rested his chin on her shoulder.
“Nervous?”
“Cautious,” she corrected. Nervous was what normal women felt before balls. Cautious was what kept you alive when someone wanted to carve into you. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there? Given what happened with Favreau—”
“Don’t.” She made her face blank, wiped away every trace of emotion like she’d been taught. Like she’d taught herself. “We have work to do. Nothing else signifies. My feelings are irrelevant.”
Callahan said nothing. His palm glided over her shoulder. Those fingers grazed down, down, catching on the edge of her bodice. He pushed the fabric aside, exposing the bandage covering his initials carved into her skin.
“Your feelings are never irrelevant,” Callahan said softly. “Not to me.”
Something broke inside her chest. It felt like hunger, like thirst – like wanting something so badly it made you stupid. She’d spent years running from this feeling, this need to belong to someone who might throw her away. It was the oldest hurt, this wanting.
She’d built her walls so high, and somehow he kept finding ways over them, under them, through them. The gravity between them terrified her. It was like standing at the precipice of a cliff with the wind at her back.
She could see the bottom. Could see exactly how far she’d fall if she let herself love this man.
How much it would destroy her when it all went wrong.
“There are perhaps a dozen highly trained operatives in this building,” he continued. “All of them are dedicated to keeping you safe. More to the point, I would cut down a hundred men before I let them lay a finger on you.”
Isabel squeezed her eyes shut, allowing herself a final, selfish instant of weakness. She let herself imagine, just for a moment, what it might feel like to let his hands peel away the thorns and armour. To be held and cherished and remade into some soft new shape.
