Page 38

He’s ready.

He’s not going to break.

And fuck that’s sexy.

He murmurs an Italian promise far beyond my comprehension of the language. Then he kisses me like it’s the last time.

When he finally pulls away, I’m breathless.

I need him. And that’s all that matters. And none of it is pretend.

He’s gentle with me as he helps me back into my clothes. There’s a tenderness to it. Like he’s just as concerned with helping me dress as he is with helping me undress.

It was always that way with him. He wanted my body and my heart and my soul.

Even from the beginning. Even when I tried to distract him with low cut tops and short skirts.

He saw through me. He still does.

He holds me for a long time, softly. The lover I left all those years ago.

Then he shifts into someone harder. The man I know now.

He runs his lips over my neck. “The haircut suits you.” He kisses the space where my neck meets my chin. “Brings out your true nature.”

“Thanks,” I reply, even though he doesn’t mean it as a compliment.

One last kiss on my neck then he brings his lips to my hear and whispers, “buona notte, mi diavloessa. You’ll be the death of me.”

And I will.

I owe him that much.

Chapter

Nine

MATTEO

Back in London, I find a source to crack the code she’s given me and a way to use him.

Jamie dismisses my first plan.

Jamie: Absolutely not. I’m not making a woman a victim. That is so cliché.

Matteo: Cliches work.

Jamie: You’re more creative than that.

Not at work, no. And not without her.

She brought out a side of me no one else did. Sure, on my own, I enjoyed reading fiction and watching films and riffing off someone’s else’s dry wit.

But I didn’t read lines from plays or talk about story structure or invent scenarios.

Back then, I didn’t even go undercover. I worked people, sure, but only as myself.

Real spies—people like Jamie, who carry on years long missions of deception—are far rarer than they are on TV.