Page 4 of A Lady’s Handbook of Espionage

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.

With a derisive snort, she tore her attention away, focusing on an older gentleman with a thin moustache and eyes glazed from drink.

No doubt she’d selected him for maximum malleability.

Get the poor sod drunk, take him for every quid in his pockets, then scarper quick as a blink before he even realised he’d been had.

Callahan walked over and leaned in. “Fancy meeting you here,” he whispered in her ear. “Bit far from your usual hunting grounds, isn’t it?”

A tremor rippled through her, slight enough that he might’ve imagined it. “I’d tell you to go to the devil,” she said, “but I imagine you’d interpret it as an invitation.”

“More a challenge, really. I’m fond of insurmountable odds.”

“What are you doing here, Agent?”

“Reconnaissance. You?”

“Winning.” She glanced at her mark, who remained happily oblivious to their exchange. “Or I was until you came blundering in.”

Callahan had seen that expression on cornered informants and spies who’d found themselves on the wrong end of a pistol: a feral gleam that heralded unwise decisions.

“From where I’m standing, you look to be treading a very fine line, Trouble.”

Her fan flicked closed with an agitated snap. “I suppose that would depend entirely on one’s point of view. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a game to finish.”

Callahan’s hand clasped her elbow. “I need a word.”

Spectre set her jaw, but she allowed him to guide her to a dark alcove.

He braced a palm on the wall above her head. This close, he could count the freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose, see the darker flecks of emerald in her irises.

“What kind of shite have you stepped into?”

Spectre bristled. “You think that’s the only reason I’m here?”

“Please. You belong in ballrooms with stolen diamonds dripping from your neck and rich idiots fighting for your attention. So, yes.”

“Stop talking like you know me,” she snapped. There it was – that flash of something in her eyes. Fear. She glanced toward the door. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of a government purse and a licence to kill to fund our frivolities. You’ve never had to—”

“Fuck men old enough to be my father, just to keep my body stitched together for one more day?” He gave her a grim smile, taking a certain vicious pleasure in her flinch.

“You’ve no idea the depths I’ve plumbed to survive, little thief.

The things these hands have had to do. So tell me why you’re in an opium den in Hong Kong trying to rob drunks. ”

Her lips thinned. “Change of scenery. Coin for the lifestyle to which I’ve grown accustomed. Not that it’s any of your business.”

He tipped her face up, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“Here’s what I think,” he said, very softly.

“Judging by the way you’re trembling, you’re in a bit over your head, and someone with deep pockets and a distinct lack of humour has put a price on you.

So you’re trying to rustle up whatever money you can before they catch up, and that old bastard you’re with” – he jerked his chin at her mark – “is tonight’s lucky target. How am I doing so far?”

She sighed. “Must you always assume the worst?”

“You’re an unrepentant thief. Been at it since you could toddle, I’d wager.

Your first word was probably ‘mine’. Your first complete sentence was probably instructions for a con.

In the years since we’ve met, you’ve swindled, burgled, and bamboozled your way across half of Europe.

At last count, you’ve got authorities in five countries searching for you.

Six, if the Spaniards ever figure out what happened to some of their royal collection.

So you’ll forgive me if assuming the worst is just common sense. ”

She scowled. “If you’re going to stand here listing my sins all night, I’m leaving.”

“No. Come with me.”

Spectre froze, blinking up at him. “Why in God’s name would I do something as daft as that?”

“You want the whole list alphabetically?”

“I can’t just—”

“I know a hunted creature when I see one,” he said. “And you, darling, are running on nerves and instinct right now. How long since you’ve slept? Or had a proper meal?”

“That’s immaterial.”

“The fuck it is. When you’re glancing at every shadow crosswise, that’s when you make mistakes.

” He squeezed her shoulder, ducking to hold her gaze.

“You’ve got two choices here, Trouble. You can keep hoping that gent over there will be too pissed to notice when you take a runner with his coin purse and anything else that isn’t nailed down, or you can come to my hotel, sleep in a bed for the night, and figure out your next move in the morning. No strings, no expectations.”

Spectre’s lips parted. He could see her turning it over – where was the catch? What trap lay beneath his offer?

Because in a thief’s world, kindness always came with strings.

Finally, her shoulders drooped in resignation. “I’d call you ten types of bastard if I thought it would do any good,” she muttered.

Callahan’s mouth twitched. “Oh, it does wonders for my self-importance, I assure you.”

“You’re a pox.”

“I endeavour to please.”

He guided her from the crowded gambling hall.

It was slower going than he’d like, having to weave through the nighttime crowds of Sheung Wan.

They stepped onto the Praya, the broad stone quay that swept the circumference of Victoria Harbour.

The night breeze off the water was a welcome reprieve from the stench of the alleys, carrying the briny sea scent.

At the far end stood the Hongkong Hotel.

Spectre followed him into the building and upstairs to his suite. The sitting room was sumptuous, full of green brocade and mahogany, complete with a pianoforte in the corner. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a sweeping view of the harbour.

“Goodness,” Spectre said. “Her Majesty certainly knows how to cosset her pets. Is that actual Aubusson carpet?”

Callahan slipped off his coat and tossed it over the back of a bergère. “Even we lowly civil servants appreciate a bit of luxury on occasion. I’ll be sure to pass along your compliments to the Crown representative who secured these lodgings. He does so love decor feedback from wanted criminals.”

Spectre glared at him but continued her circuit, trailing her gloved fingers along the carved marble mantelpiece.

“There’s a spare dressing robe in the washroom if you want to get out of that gown before it squeezes the life out of you,” he said.

Christ, he sounded like a surly innkeeper dismissing an undesirable tenant, not . . . whatever they were to each other now. Adversaries still, to be sure. But adversaries didn’t save each other from assassins in Athens, pluck each other out of Hong Kong opium dens, or offer their beds as sanctuary.

Spectre paused before the wide bay window, stripping off her gloves. Each slow tug was an act of ritual disarmament. Once finished, she reached up to unclasp the heavy garnet pendant nestled at the hollow of her throat, tucking it away into some hidden pocket within the folds of her skirts.

Shedding pieces of her armour.

“I can feel you boring holes into my back with that stare,” she said without turning around. “One might think you’ve never seen a woman before.”

“Just appreciating this novel display of civility between us. Makes for quite the refreshing change, you and me playing nice.”

And it did. There was something profoundly intimate about seeing her like this. Something tantalising about how the lamplight gilded her skin and picked out glints of gold in her blonde hair. She seemed almost . . . approachable.

“Careful, Agent.” The corner of her mouth curved up as she glanced at him. “That almost sounded like sentiment.”

“Don’t get the wrong impression.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Since we’re being so friendly, would you mind helping me with my buttons?”

Bloody hell. She’d likely meant it to sound coy, a bit of light needling. So why did it feel like a gauntlet thrown at his feet?

He crossed the room, fingers finding the row of pearl buttons between her shoulder blades. It should’ve been an easy enough task, but once he realised she wasn’t wearing anything under the gown, easy became exquisite torture .

He fumbled with the last fastening, his knuckle grazing the dip just above the flare of her hips.

“There,” he said, scarcely recognising his own voice. “Unwrapped.”

She turned, and the movement made her bodice gape. A silvery scar carved a path over the rise of one breast. She had others on her back. A cartographer’s dream of puckered knots and slashes – mementoes of her bloody trade.

“Thank you,” she breathed.

Then the dress slithered to the floor as she sauntered into the washroom, giving him an eyeful of creamy skin and gentle curves before the door clicked shut.