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“Ah.” Already Ian was smirking at her predicament. “Not the type, eh?”

“It does not appear so. I asked Stafford to send someone else, and he refused.”

This time Ian laughed out loud. “Of course he did! You’re his particular favorite, love. He doesn’t trust the rest of us half as much as he trusts you.”

“Be serious, Ian,” she snapped. “I do not like this job.”

“Well, who would? He never sends us out to have a fair good time.” Ian cocked his head and squinted at her. “What’s upsetting about this one? Is the American chap that bad?”

Angelique smoothed her skirt. Stafford’s private charge to her was not to be mentioned to anyone, not even to Ian. Ian knew that she did things like this from time to time, but he never asked specifically and she never told him. Not because Ian would hold it against her; he himself had had a hand in some “disappearances” at Stafford’s request. But Stafford turned to her when he didn’t want anyone to suspect his involvement. He turned to Ian when he didn’t care who knew.

“He is a rash fellow,” she said in response to Ian’s question about Mr. Avery. “I do not think he trusts me any more than I trust him. He will not subject his will to mine, even if he knows nothing.”

He thought about that, then shrugged, his face relaxing. “Well, it’s not much different to usual, is it? Stafford orders, we obey. Some matter of British security or similar excuse from the lawyers up in Whitehall.”

She hadn’t expected him to say that. It was true, but Ian appeared not to care that it bothered her this time. Angelique, who had a healthy respect for her own intuitions, was annoyed by his indifference to them. “It is different. He wants me to go alone with this American.”

“He sent Brandon off alone last time,” Ian pointed out at once. “Then sent us after him to tidy things up. I’ll be expecting the old fox’s note in a fortnight, sending me after you, eh?” He grinned.

“He sent Alec home,” she retorted. “Alec could hardly go back to his family with a string of people in tow, even if his family hadn’t thought him dead for five years.”

Ian swiped a trail of water from the side of his face and pushed back his still-wet red hair. “So you don’t like the American. You hardly need to rely on him.”

“Of course not,” she snapped. “He is an amateur.”

“Everyone must seem so, love, after you’ve worked with me.” He gave her an outrageous wink.

Angelique hesitated. Here was the last line she had never crossed with Ian. They had worked together for a few years, and she liked him a great deal. He was a smart agent, tough and efficient, and there was no one she’d rather have at her back in a tight spot. He was also a flirt of the highest order, constantly making innuendo and suggestive comments. Angelique knew she was hardly the only one he flirted with, and that while he hadn’t actually attempted to seduce her, he hadn’t hesitated with a whole host of other women. If she’d had to choose a man to propose to, Ian was hardly the perfect candidate.

But he alone knew her for what she was—a spy, an imposter, a thief, a hired assassin. With him alone she could be herself and not be forced to lie and pretend to a decent, honorable past she didn’t possess. Ian’s soul might be as dark and blemished as hers, but it made them equals. She would never live in fear of him discovering what she had done because he already knew. And if she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life alone, Ian might be her only choice.

But it wasn’t an easy question to ask. She gathered her composure, not wanting to seem too eager. “I was thinking of retiring,” she said a low voice. “I have been at this too long.”

“Retire? You?” He seemed amused. “What would you do with yourself—decapitate the daisies while your harpy of a maid gets fat and lazy?”

“Perhaps.” She tilted her head back and watched him through her eyelashes. “Or perhaps I shall find myself a husband and spend my days making love to him.”

“Don’t forget the nights,” he said with his usual rakish leer.

She smiled. “Never. He shall make love to me at nights. We must be equals, you see.”

Ian cast his eyes upward, clapping one hand to his heart. “You’re a terrible tease, Angelique. Breaking my heart, you are, talking about this lucky fellow. A pox on him, whoever he is.”

Angelique smiled, disgusted to realize her pulse was racing. “Perhaps he will be someone you know. Perhaps it will be you.”

For the merest moment he froze. If she hadn’t known him so well, she would have missed it. Instead she saw it, and the message it sent. He was shocked, horrified, and looking for a way out. Then he threw back his head and burst out laughing. “Oh, bloody hell. What a corker! I deserve that. Should have known you were just having some fun.” He finally grabbed a shirt from the back of his chair and pulled it over his head. “You’re twisting my tail about Staff, too. He’s a crafty old fox to be sure, but this doesn’t sound unlike his usual sneaking and lying.”

“You think I should take the job.” Her heart still thudded hard, but slower now; betrayed.

Ian shrugged, his attention on buttoning the cuffs of his sleeves. “Why not? You know you’d find it more satisfying than marriage.”

Why not. She let out her breath carefully, not wanting him to hear it. Ian saw nothing wrong with Stafford’s request, nothing in her instinctive reluctance, and nothing in her hints that they might suit each other—at least, nothing that interested him. Unexpected humiliation fizzed in her veins for a moment, and she held herself very tightly together to hide it.

“Yes,” she said, when she could speak coolly again. “Why not?”

“Of course, if you don’t want to do it, tell him to go bugger himself,” Ian added quickly. He might have even sounded relieved. “Although if you do, let me come along. I’d pay ten quid to see his face then.”

“No, no.” She tugged at her glove, ignoring his jokes. “As you say, there is no reason not to accept.”