Page 13 of A Lady’s Handbook of Espionage

“His sister’s maid, as far as I know. But I can’t say I make a habit of poking my nose into an aristo’s romantic entanglements. Too much drama, too little profit.”

“Spoken like a true pragmatist.”

Another beat of silence, another drag on her cigarette. The slow curl of smoke in her lungs fortified her.

“Is there a reason you’re worried his intentions towards your sister might be less than honourable?” Callahan asked.

Of course, he’d caught that. He might look like a pretty ornament, but Callahan’s mind proved inconveniently sharp.

“Pretty promises from a nobleman’s lips always turn to ash,” she said shortly.

The last thing she wanted was to discuss her background with him.

“But my larger concern is the state of his brother’s defences.

That terrace might as well be an invitation for any halfway competent thief, and the servant’s entrance is a jest.”

“You’ve an eye for weakness.”

“Of course I do.” She gave a bitter chuckle, dropping her cigarette to the ground. She crushed it with a boot. “Favreau trained me to find the cracks in every fortress.”

The memories of his brutal training never faded with time. She still recalled the punishments. The realisation that he liked the way blood looked on her skin.

Like paint on a canvas. Do try not to fail so often that I’m forced to sully it.

Callahan went quiet, considering. When he finally spoke, the words were careful.

Measured. “I have a proposition for you. A job.” At her sharp look, he explained, “Under my supervision, you could put those skills to work. What was it you called it? A government purse and a license to kill to fund your frivolities?”

A sharp pain spread through her. Was that what he wanted? To have the Spectre under the government’s boot?

“A generous offer,” she said. Her tone conveyed precisely how much she detested it. “And you’re proposing this out of the goodness of your heart, I’m sure.”

“I’m proposing it because we both know that Syndicate bastard in the mews won’t be Favreau’s first attempt at using your sister as leverage. He’ll twist the knife in any soft place he can find.”

“Is that it, then? You’d make me your collared hound to point at whichever target the Crown deems a threat?” She stepped closer, right up into his space. “Or is it because you’re hoping to scratch that itch you’ve been nursing since Hong Kong?”

He went very still. “You should be careful taunting sharks, little thief.”

“Don’t pretend you’re the only shark here, Agent.

” She traced a fingertip over his chest, and his heartbeat spiked beneath her touch.

“How many nights have you lain awake aching for the chance to have me? Bending me over and putting me on my knees as much as you want.” She brushed her lips over his jaw.

“You want me to be your good girl ? Or do you just want to fuck me again without worrying I’ll pick your pockets after? ”

When he spoke, his voice was low and rough. “You have an inflated sense of your own appeal. And a filthy mouth.”

“That wasn’t a denial. I’ll tell you what I think of your offer – I’ve had enough of men claiming their chains are for my protection.

Men who’d put me on my back and call it salvation, who’d shove a knife in my fist and tell me it’s a mercy.

Your precious Home Office is no different from the Syndicate.

The Crown sees our kind as disposable. How does that feel?

To have the Home Office’s collar so tight around your throat, you can barely breathe?

Knowing they’ll use this pretty body up until it gives out?

” She moved closer. “What does that make you, Agent? Go on, tell me. Nothing wrong with being a whore, but call it what it is.”

She saw the instant her words hit their mark. He stiffened, going rigid as if she’d slid her knife between his ribs.

His hands shot out, clamping around her biceps in a bruising grip. “You think you’ve got it all figured out. The poor little street rat with the tragic past. Always lashing out, always on the run. Too busy feeling sorry for yourself to see a rope when it’s thrown at your feet.”

It would be so easy to yield. But she couldn’t. Her failures, her inadequacies, had nearly cost Emma her life. She had to keep this man as far away from her as possible. Had to make him despise her, revile her, because the alternative—

It was unthinkable.

“Let me speak plain,” she said, very softly.

“I’ve already sold my body for survival.

I don’t want a keeper, and certainly not one chained to the Office.

You were a pleasant diversion in Hong Kong.

A nice big cock to ride and a purse to lighten.

But your utility, like your charm, has reached its limit. ”

He flinched. She saw it the moment before his expression smoothed out, and his hands fell away.

She wanted them back. She wanted to erase those words and tell him she was sorry. That if she had any softness left in her, he’d been the one to tease it out in Hong Kong, in Athens, in New York. And that was why she could never keep him.

Softness got people killed.

“Right,” he said flatly. “Right then. Suppose that clears things up quite concisely.”

He straightened his shoulders. Rebuilt his ramparts and bulwarks and all his impenetrable barricades. When he spoke again, he might have been carved from marble for all the emotion he betrayed.

“If the lady declines the offer of assistance, who am I to press the matter? Consider this my sincere apology for wasting your valuable time, Mademoiselle Dumont. It won’t happen again. Enjoy the rest of your evening. I’m sure you have places to be. People to rob. Throats to slit. Good evening.”

Isabel watched him go, that earlier stabbing pain spreading through her body. Tears scalded her eyes, but she blinked them back.

This was for the best. The kindest cruelty.

Sentiment is a noose , Favreau had told her once. Give someone a piece of your heart, and they’ll always betray you.

The only way to survive was to cut those vulnerable parts out. To pack the wounds with ice until nothing could touch her.

Nothing and no one.