Spy Fall by Diana Quincy
Book #1 in the Regency Spymasters series
When a fiery French parachutist lands on a drunken Lord Cosmo Dunsmore, he surmises she’s an angel sent from above. But is she a spy after something far more sinister than his debauched soul?
A fearless parachutist is out of her depth …
Mari Lamarre is gaining fame for her daring aeronautic endeavors, but her riskiest adventure begins when she collides with the darkly charismatic son of the Marquess of Aldridge. If her mission succeeds, Cosmo’s father will be ruined.
A rakehell falls for a dangerous woman …
Surrendering to a fierce passion, the two embark on a torrid affair, even as Cosmo vows to protect his family at all costs. But in doing so, will he risk losing the captivating beauty who’s swept into his life and made off with his heart?
They reached the hot air balloon, where a stable groom stood waiting to assist her. She stooped to untie one of the thick cables tethering the contraption to the ground.
“What I have in mind will give you great pleasure,” she said quietly.
His inky eyes went alert. “Is that so?”
“Release that cable, if you please,” she called to the groom.
He tipped his cap. “Yes, miss.” And proceeded to do just that.
Gesturing toward the other cable, she said to Cosmo. “Untie that, will you?”
“Whatever for?” He glanced at it before frowning back in her direction. “If you completely untether it, the balloon will fly away, as you well know.”
“Exactly.” She leapt into the wicker boat. “Allons. Let us go.”
“Go where? You want me to go up in that?” He took a step back. “I most certainly will not.”
She leaned over the edge of the gondola. “Pour le plaisir, remember?”
Shaking his head, he backed away. Switching to French so the groom wouldn’t understand, he said, “This is most assuredly not the sort of pleasure I meant.”
“You can show me what you do have in mind,” she said in the same language, as she bent over to retrieve and throw sand-filled ballasts out of the gondola.
“Come away from there and I gladly will.”
“I prefer that you come in here.” She offered him the most wickedly sensual smile in her feminine arsenal.
He blinked. Then swallowed. “Angel, you will be the death of me.”
“Perhaps just a little death.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. La petite mort was the French term for the peak of sensual pleasure. “Is that a naughty French reference? Or are you teasing me?”
She laughed aloud, exhilarated at the thought of soaring into the clouds with him. “You shall have to fly with me to find out.”