Page 5 of To Catch A Rogue

Charlie watched her with glittering eyes. "Why the hell are you breaking into the house of a Russian diplomat? I thought Blade taught you better than that."

He had.

When the Devil of Whitechapel had taken her in as a young girl, he'd taught her everything she needed to know to survive the cutthroat world of the London East End. She'd started out as a dipper under Blade's supervision, until he was assured she wouldn't mistakenly pick the pocket of the wrong gull. When it became clear she had a gift for tumbling locks, he'd moved her up to housebreaking, and soon she'd become the best cracksman in the gang.

The secret of success was to always pick the right mark. You didn't take from those as couldn't afford it. And you had to be careful with the aristocrats.

Blue blood lords dripped gold and farted perfume, but you couldn't forget they weren't human. Meddling with the Echelon was dangerous, and Blade always warned against it.

Rich merchants and bankers were easier pickings.

Not as many guards as an aristocrat, and less likely to tear your throat out and drink your blood.

But Golorukov had been practically irresistible to her the second she overheard someone speaking of him.

"Call it a whim," Lark finally replied, dragging the pins out of her coiffure. Her scalp ached, and she raked her nails through her hair, scattering it and easing the pain. It tumbled down her back in heavy waves.

Charlie's gaze followed it. "Messing with the cream is dangerous."

Lark gasped. "Are you certain? I had no idea."

The smallest of muscles in his jaw pulsed.

"Oh, this is rich," she said. “You, lecturingmeabout leaping headfirst into danger. Do you think I didn't plan this? I weighed all the risks before I made this attempt. I've spent most of the week surveying the bloody house and working out the best way to get in and out. I deemed the risk acceptable and took precautions. Some of us like to think before we take action."

And if it wasn't for that cursed squirrel the job would have been flawless, but how could you account for that?

Frustration poured off him. "Any chance we can skip the usual pleasantries?"

"Any chance you can vanish into the night so I can pretend we never saw each other?"

Charlie's head half-turned.

"Oh, that's right. You're the one—"

"Lark!" He drove toward her, and out of the corner of her eye she saw a pistol muzzle flash with fire.

Lark's back slammed into the tiles of the roof, Charlie's entire weight crashing down upon her, and then they were sliding.

She twisted like a cat as they hit the edge of the roof. Lark snatched out, catching hold of the gutter as she went over it.

Not enough to haul herself back up, but she caught a glimpse of the window ledge below the gable, and swung herself onto it.

Charlie was two seconds behind her, one of his boots landing clumsily between hers.

There wasn't enough ledge for the both of them. She had to grab his collar and haul him closer, which left her with her nose buried in his shirt.

A mistake, in hindsight, for every inch of her was pressed against every inch of him. Hard thighs indented her own, and she was suddenly, desperately aware it had been over three years since he'd touched her.

He'd been still on the verge of boyhood then, tall and gangly.

He wasn't a boy now. Not at all.

And all the old, complicated feelings rose in her chest until she feared she'd choke on them. How was she supposed to pretend she wanted nothing to do with him when she desperately wanted to stroke her hands up the hard planes of his chest and discover just what else had changed in all those years? Breathing became dangerous. Even the ragged thrust of her heartbeat pressed her far too precariously against him.

"I only saw one," Charlie whispered, pressing her against the window as he peered up.

She was clearly the only one stunned by the press of flesh against flesh. Lark mentally punched herself in the face.