Page 3 of A Lady’s Handbook of Espionage
Nom de Dieu , the man was a masterpiece. Lean muscle, tanned skin from time spent outdoors. Even more scars and bruises across his torso. The inadvisable urge to follow those lines with fingertips and lips washed over her.
Not now.
Swallowing hard, Isabel dug through her skirts for the little tin she kept stocked with unguents and salves. Callahan tracked her every movement. She was keenly aware of his size and sheer physical presence.
“Be a love and hold still,” she muttered. The scent of medicinal herbs cut through the wisteria’s sweetness. “This will probably sting.”
She scooped some of the salve onto her fingertips and reached for him, smoothing it over his injury with a touch far gentler than his wretched ingratitude warranted.
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. To bite .
“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?”
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 have touring to 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.