Oh, I love romance. Love. It. But I’m a sucker for suspense and mystery and whodunits as well. My books are as full of danger as they are of romance, and IN BED WITH A SPY is no different. It’s the story of the spy known as Angel and his search for the assassins that killed his past love. He believes he’s found one in the lovely Lilias Fairchild when he discovers she carries an assassin’s medallion. She’s also Angel’s equal in every way.
“You’re very good, my dear. I almost believed you. But it’s not a kiss that will bring you to my townhouse.” Angel bared his teeth in a semblance of a grin. “It’s murder.”
Lilias’s eyes went wide. Her lips fell open on a puff of air. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do.” He captured her wrists. With one swift jerk he turned her around and twisted her arms behind her.
“Stop it. Let me free.” She bucked, but he held her wrists tight.
He pressed forward, crowding her, so that his chest touched her back. The vulnerable nape of her neck was in front of him, and though the need to taste her skin was an intense craving, he denied himself the pleasure. In seconds he’d pulled a fine, tightly woven cord from beneath his coat—an easy item to conceal if one knew how. In another few seconds, she was satisfactorily bound.
He spun her around. With her arms bound behind her, a pair of ripe breasts were pushed forward. That gorgeous flesh swelled high and proud above her gown. Damn if he didn’t want her. Still.
“We have some business to attend to this evening.” He reached into his pocket, then lifted his cupped palm. The medallion lay in the center.
Her lashes swept up toward his face, then down to his palm again.
He knew he had her.
“Where did you find it?” She surged forward, stumbled, righted herself. “Let me go.”
“No. I was quite taken in by your charms the other night, my dear. But then I found the medallion and suddenly your charms were not quite as appealing.” He dropped the medallion back into his pocket. Her eyes followed the movement. “I’ve already arranged for a message to be delivered to your family that you’ve been taken ill and returned to Fairchild House—”
He didn’t expect her foot to hit his bollocks full force.
He fell to his knees, then propped himself on one shaking arm. “Son of a—” He coughed. Swallowed. Incapacitated by the crushing ache, he struggled against the urge to retch. His arm gave way and he hit the floor shoulder first. A groan erupted from his throat.
Then she was on the floor beside him, twisting, wriggling that erotic body over him. Her bound hands fluttered around his sides, found his pockets. Fingers groped for the medallion, limited in their movements by the cord, but no less crafty.
He should have seen that tactic coming. Instead, he was lying on the carpet and trying desperately not to vomit. Fighting nausea, he rolled away and onto his hands and knees. He was still faster than a bound assassin, thank the fates.
“Bloody hell, woman.” He was lucky she hadn’t found his knife.
“Give me the medallion.” She scrabbled away from him, hampered by her skirts and bound hands. With a clumsy lurch she rose to her knees.
She isn’t running, his mind whispered. She’s fighting.
He expected nothing less of an assassin.
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