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You Only Love Twice
The Blue Blood Conspiracy, Book Three
With the clock ticking down, the Company of Rogues must find a deadly killer and stop them from assassinating the Queen… before London burns.
First rule of espionage: don't ever fall in love with your target.
Five years ago, Gemma Townsend learned the hard way what happens when you break this rule. She lost everything. Her mentor's trust. The man she loved. And almost her life. Love is a weakness she can never afford again.
When offered a chance at redemption, the seductive spy is determined to complete her assigned task: to track down a dangerous assassin known as the Chameleon, a mysterious killer sent after the queen, whose identity seems to constantly change.
But as her investigation leads Gemma into a trap, she's rescued by a shadowy figure she thought was dead—the double agent who once stole her heart.
A man with few memories, all Obsidian knows is Gemma betrayed him, and he wants revenge. But one kiss ignites the unextinguished passion between them, and he can't bring himself to kill her.
Can Obsidian ever trust her again? Or is history doomed to repeat itself? Because it soon becomes clear the Chameleon might be closer than either of them realized… and this time Gemma is in the line of fire.
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Eyes narrowing, Obsidian swung the gate shut behind him. “Where is it?”
“Where is what?”
Hands caught her waist and spun her around. Gemma's hands slapped against the rough stone of the walls as he forced them there.
“Don't move,” he growled.
“Or you'll what? Slam me on a table again?” Her voice grew rough. “I think if you wanted to hurt me, you'd have done it downstairs. You couldn't do it, could you? You couldn't bring yourself to harm me. No matter how cold the mask you wear, I know he's still there inside you somewhere.”
“He?” His hands slid down the curve of her hips, and then up across her abdomen, searching for weapons, she presumed.
“The man I fell in love with in Saint Petersburg.”
“That man never existed.”
“Liar.”
“Consider him buried, Miss Townsend.”
Gemma's heart gave a twisting clench in her chest. Seeing him alive had been a slap to the face. She'd buried him in her heart all those years ago when he'd shot her. Told herself a million times that what she'd felt for him was nothing more than a myth. He'd betrayed her. Lied to her. Pretended to be something he wasn't, which was somewhat of a mockery, for she'd been trying to do the same thing.
Trying.
She'd conjured something between them, only to discover it a lie, and the truth had shattered her.
And then he'd died when the Winter Palace exploded, and Gemma had known true agony, for despite his betrayal, knowing he was dead tore her wretched heart out of her chest all over again.
“Not buried, Dmitri. Just never real.”
His hands paused on her waist. “Obsidian.”
Fine. “Obsidian.”
Perhaps it was better this way. Dmitri and Hollis and the lie between them could die a painful death. She'd forged herself anew when it ended, taking on the mantle of Gemma Townsend.
And Gemma, flirtatious, calculating Gemma, knew no heartbreak.
“And you're right.” Obsidian's hands began to take a leisurely path up her body, sweeping beneath her arms, his fingers brushing ever so faintly against the sides of her breasts. “None of it was real.”
She did not feel that faint twinge in her heart.
It didn't exist.
Gemma steeled herself as his hands began to slide lower, firm over her hips. She had the truth. He'd never loved her.
Now she needed to escape.
“Why sir,” she protested in a mocking voice, “how dare you take such liberties when we've barely been reacquainted.”
He paused, his hand caressing the rounded curve of her bottom. “I seem to recall you had no compunctions about allowing me such liberties in the past.”
Gemma sucked in a sharp breath as his hand slid lower. Seductress or not, she hadn't been prepared for the feelings his touch awoke in her. They weren't a lie. Those leather-clad fingers stroked along the crevice of her bottom, shockingly intimate and yet strangely distant. No heat there. Not yet. Kicking her feet apart until her heeled boots were spread, he caressed his way up her body.
“If you're searching for a weapon,” she whispered, “you're looking in the wrong place. Those are my breasts.”
“Noted.” Fingers patted her down, sliding along her arms, her sides, her waist.
He even slid a leather-gloved hand through her hair, and Gemma had to contain a gasp as his fist clenched there momentarily.
A flush of heat swept through her.
Oh, dear.
Don't you dare, she told herself sharply, but her nipples disobeyed the directive. And suddenly she was in the past again, on her hands and knees, with Dm— Obsidian buried to the hilt within her, his fist in her hair wrenching her head back.
“I know you have it upon you somewhere.”
“What would you be referring to?” Her voice came out a little lower than expected.
“Don't make me strip you naked,” he threatened. “You have a lock pick.”
“I told you. It was magic.”
“Can you never utter a single word of the truth?”
Not if I can help it.
Because the truth hurt.
He resumed his search, kneeling behind her. Hands slid up under her skirts, stroking the backs of her calves. His touch had been impersonal until now.
But it slowed as he reached her thighs, a vague hint of unease evident in his hesitation.
The combination of danger and action left her feeling a little light-headed.
He wasn't the only one frozen.
“Nothing between my thighs,” she whispered, “but you're quite welcome to check. As I recall, you did wonderful things with those fingers.”
“Shut up.”
“Though your mouth was better,” Gemma mused, and then bit her lip when his thumb dug into the back of her thigh in warning. She was getting to him. She knew it.
His hands retreated down the back of her legs, and he yanked her off-balance as he lifted her foot.
A swift tug on her laces, and he tugged her left boot off. Then the right.
“Nothing in there either,” Gemma pointed out.
Obsidian straightened. “Are you enjoying this?”
“Should I not be?”
