Page 5 of A Lady’s Handbook of Espionage

Callahan muttered a strangled curse and waited for his pulse to slow. For sanity to return. He was clearly losing his mind to even contemplate whatever fool notion his cock was entertaining.

Bloody disaster, this. Nothing but trouble ahead.

He paced the room twice, then stopped cold when the washroom door creaked open.

Spectre’s hands fidgeted with the tie of her – his – dressing gown. “I don’t suppose you have a spare blanket for the settee? That would be adequate for my needs.”

“I’ll be taking the settee,” he said. “You’re in the bed.”

A little crease appeared between her brows. The one he’d noticed in Athens when she was concentrating on bandaging his wound. “Don’t be absurd. A big lad like you won’t get a wink of sleep on that thing. You’ll be knots from nape to knee come morning.”

“I’ve slept on worse.” Whitechapel alleys. Prison cells. Places a child shouldn’t have had to call home. “The bed’s yours. I insist.”

“How noble, but there’s more than enough room for us both.” She drifted closer. “Unless you fear for your virtue.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Sweetheart, my virtue is buried in an unmarked grave.”

“Well then. What are you waiting for, Agent?”

He blew out a long, slow breath. God, he was going to regret this. He knew it in his bones.

“Get in the bed, Trouble. Before I toss you in it.”

Her smile sharpened as she settled on the mattress. “Coming?”

Jesus wept.

As he undressed, Spectre studied him, lingering on the scars and bruises that mapped his history across his skin.

“You’ve a collection of new scars since Athens,” she observed. “Exactly how many people try to kill you in any given year, Agent?”

“Enough that an attempted stabbing is what I’d call a normal Tuesday. You’re looking at thirty-two years of rough living, little thief.”

“Thirty-two?” Her cheek dimpled. “Practically ancient.”

Callahan shot her a dirty look. As if he needed to be reminded that she was probably more than a decade younger.

Wearing nothing but his smallclothes, he slid under the blankets beside her.

Stripped of her mask and usual armour, it was tempting to believe the illusion – that Callahan knew this woman. That the dangerous yearning inside him was more than a passing madness.

The oldest lie whispered in the devil’s voice.

“This is a terrible idea,” he said.

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Isabel agreed. “But aren’t those always the most fun?”

Callahan snorted. “Your definition of fun and mine differ.”

“Come now, Agent. Where’s your spirit of adventure?”

“I left it in England. Along with my common sense and self-preservation instincts, apparently.”

The bedsheets rustled. She turned to face him, one arm tucked beneath her head. “I have questions.”

“Christ.” Callahan fixed his gaze on the ceiling’s scrollwork. “Course you do. Fine. Ask.”

She chewed her lip. “Did you follow me here?”

“To Hong Kong?” He barked a laugh. “God save me. Contrary to what your inflated notion of self-importance might lead you to believe, my existence doesn’t revolve around chasing your thieving arse across the globe like a lovelorn suitor.”

“Hmm. And what business brings the esteemed Agent Callahan to the Pearl of the Orient, then?”

“Nothing that concerns you.” When she continued to watch him expectantly, he sighed. “You’re not the only one with pressing affairs that demand attention. Even errand boys must eat.”

“Don’t you ever tire of it? Being the government’s weapon? Risking your life for people who would cross the street to avoid you?”

The question hit too close. Callahan had asked himself the same thing on countless nights.

He’d spent his early years in Dublin, grown up as an orphan in Whitechapel.

A street rat despised by the very society he now worked for.

His old friends – Nick Thorne and Leo O’Sullivan – were currently building their own empire in the slums they’d survived.

They’d nearly disowned him when he’d taken Wentworth’s offer to join the Home Office.

“It puts food on my table,” he said. “What’s it to you? Does the Queen of Thieves morally object to how others earn their keep now?”

“Not at all. But I envy you the choice to leave your cage whenever you want. I’d be remiss if I didn’t encourage you to take advantage of that freedom during our temporary armistice.”

Something was off in her voice. Callahan studied her – the shadows under her eyes, the wariness in her expression. What had driven the infamous Spectre to a Hong Kong gambling den, trying to fleece marks for quick quid? Who was she running from?

“Want to talk about it?” he asked gently.

Spectre blinked. “Why do you care?”

“You saved my life in Athens. I owe you a debt.”

“Ah. What happens tomorrow, I wonder? After this interlude expires? There must be a substantial bounty on me by now.”

“Last I heard, a thousand pounds.”

Her brows shot up. “That much? I’m flattered.” She paused, considering. “Well, here we are. Your most wanted thief caught at last. Are you going to haul me in for Her Majesty’s justice?”

“Not tonight,” he said.

“And tomorrow?”

“I make no promises about tomorrow.”

Before he could think better of it, he reached out, knuckles skimming along her throat. Her pulse raced beneath his fingertips. She wasn’t as calm as she appeared.

“Do you want to kiss me, Agent?” she whispered.

No . That’s what he’d say if he were thinking clearly. But sense had gone right out the window. His chest felt tight. And when her teeth caught her lower lip, his mind went blank.

I want to bite that lip , he thought. Then panicked at how much he meant it.

“Would you let me kiss you?”

Her breath hitched. “Yes.”

Warnings blared through his head, ethics and regulations and boundaries crossed – but when his lips touched hers, his thoughts went quiet. Clear. The kiss was soft, questioning rather than demanding. He gave her room to pull away.

She didn’t.

Instead, she opened to him, kissing him back with a hunger that matched his own. No performance, no calculation. Just raw need and a yearning so intense it hurt.

Callahan had kissed many women over the years. But none of them had tasted like danger and promise and something he couldn’t name but wanted desperately to keep.

It was the first honest exchange they’d ever had.

His hand slid up to sink into her hair. God, he wanted her. Had since New York. Since she’d aimed that knife at his throat with steady hands and confident eyes. Since Athens, when she’d patched his wounds and saved his life. He wanted her every damn time he saw the name Spectre in the broadsheet.

This woman was going to ruin him.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he murmured against her mouth. “We should stop.”

But his hands told a different story, one palm sliding up her neck, the other still gripping her hair like he’d die if he let go.

“You’re the one with morals, Agent. So why aren’t you stopping?”

Callahan groaned. “God, I don’t fucking know.”

And he didn’t. He only knew he couldn’t get enough of her taste. That he’d imagined this for longer than he cared to admit. His mouth found her neck, hot and hungry. Her skin was soft beneath his lips. He sucked hard at the tender spot beneath her jaw, deliberately marking her.

She gasped, gripping his arms. Not pushing him away. Pulling him closer. A savage satisfaction coursed through him at the thought that she might want his marks on her. His bites.

Tonight, she was his.

And he was going to hell for this.

He tugged at the sash of her borrowed dressing gown. The silk parted. She was beautifully shaped. Strong and lithe like one of the Imperial Ballet dancers he’d seen in St Petersburg. Small, perfect breasts, flat stomach, long legs.

But he wondered who dared to mar all that perfection. Her pale skin was marked by a constellation of scars, some old, faded to silver. Others newer. One slash was still red and puckered along her ribs.

Questions rose. Who did this to you? Who am I going to have to kill for it? But the warning in her eyes silenced them.

Not tonight.

So he pulled back to strip off his smallclothes. When he was finally naked before her, he paused. The sight of her spread out on his bed made his chest ache with want.

“You’re staring,” she whispered. Something almost vulnerable flickered across her face as she began to draw her knees together.

Callahan caught her thighs before she could close them. “Don’t. I like looking at you.”

He dragged his hands higher, watching goosebumps rise across her pale skin. She was so damn soft. Made him think of silk sheets in rich men’s houses he’d broken into as a lad.

Things he wasn’t supposed to touch.

“Just thinking you have the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen,” he whispered.

There it was – a blush. Not the practised coyness she used when playing a mark. All that fire and fight and careful calculation was gone.

This was something real.

“Filthy words, Agent.”

“I save my fancy words for people who matter less.” Callahan settled his weight between her thighs, savouring how her breath caught. “Poetry is for toffs and politicians. All I’ve got is the truth – you’re the most infuriating, impossible woman I’ve ever met. And I can’t get you out of my head.”

Her smile was soft. Warm. Genuine. “Why would you want to? This is so much more entertaining.”

“Which part?” He positioned himself against her, one hand sliding beneath her knee to lift it higher. “The part where we pretend to be civilised?” He pushed inside just enough to make her gasp. “Or the part where I fuck you until we both forget why we’re supposed to stay away from each other?”

When he finally thrust deep, she cried out. “Oh, God—”

“That’s what I want to hear, little thief.”

She was perfect – tight and wet. He pulled back slowly, watching the pleasure ripple across her face before shoving in harder. The headboard slammed against the wall as he found a rhythm. Fuck hotel neighbours. Fuck everyone in Hong Kong. Nothing mattered outside this room.