Chastity Flame

If she only scorches, you're
lucky . . .

Chastity Flame works for a
nameless organization. You won't hear about the work she does
either. But if you run into her, you won't be able to resist trying
your luck. Maybe it's her amber eyes, or maybe it's her dangerous
curves. Whatever it is, you'll be in for a memorable night — as
long as you're not on her "to-do" list.

Chastity Flame loves her job
as a secret government operative. She foils criminal masterminds,
travels the world, and finds new lovers in every city. When she
meets art historian Damien Michelet in front of one of her favorite
paintings, she discovers there's more to life than just lust
(although there's plenty of that, too).

But Chastity doesn't have
time to think about what this sexy distraction. Her job is amusing
herself with various lovers across the continent in an effort to
try and uncover a vast computer virus scheme that will destabilize
European currency.

Saving the world is hard
work -- it can be lonely, too. Before Chastity can make a decision
about what to do about Damien, she takes part in a daring rescue of
a geek genius, only to discover the fellow operative lending
assistance is none other than Damien! On the plus side, now she
won't have to explain her job -- but what to do about her rule . .
. no romance between agents? Will she risk the security of her
country for some really wild sex . . . and the possibility of
love?

CHASTITY FLAME

K.A. Laity

Published by Tirgearr
Publishing

Smashwords Edition

Author Copyright 2012 K.A. Laity K.A.
Laity (http://www.kalaity.com)

Covert Art: S.L. Johnson
(http://sljohnsonimages.com)

Editor: Christine McPherson
(http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com)

Proofreader: Kemberlee Shortland
(http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com)

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Thank you for respecting the hard work
of this author.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DEDICATION

For the man in the blue
shirt

CHASTITY FLAME

K.A. Laity

Chapter
One

Chastity Flame stood in
front of
Les Grandes
Baigneuses
, waiting for her contract to
arrive. The National Gallery was nearly empty. Of course, it was a
beautiful day. It figured that Monitor would send her here for the
contact. She looked at the bathers and envied their frolic. It
would feel marvelous to strip and relax with a few friends on the
beach.

Except, her line of work guaranteed
that she had no friends to speak of anymore. No one knew her real
name, no one even knew her favorite drink. Chastity lived in a
building with corporate owners. Monitor took care of the
bills—rent, discreet dry cleaning and regular hampers of food from
Harrods whenever she was in town.

She could almost hear the laughter of
the women in the painting. They were probably discussing their
lovers.

Chastity sighed. Maybe that was all
she needed. It had been days. The last one had been a quickie on
the flight back from Kiev, a young Ukrainian with laughing blue
eyes and golden curls like a pop star. When his hand brushed her
thigh, Chastity had been quick to respond. Work always left her
with an itch. While the flight crew were busy handing out
breakfasts, they had slipped into the tiny toilet at the back of
the plane, where the eager young man had pushed her skirt up around
her waist, ripped down her knickers and lifted Chastity onto his
swollen prick with such enthusiasm that she had come almost at
once, despite the pressure of the spigot in her back as he thrust
up into her. She had had to cover his mouth with her hand to muffle
his ecstatic groans. Nonetheless, a few of the other travelers
smirked as they tried to slip unobtrusively out of the toilet and
headed back to their seats. She had the painful imprint of that
spigot on her spine for the rest of the flight. Mental note: next
time, use the handicapped stall, Chastity reminded herself, there
was more room to maneuver.

"Cezanne is so sensual," a deep voice
murmured beside her. Chastity turned to see a tall young man with
mocha skin of velvety softness that made her at once long to touch
his cheek. His warm smile matched well with his deep brown eyes. He
wore a green linen shirt that looked casually elegant under his
grey jacket.

"Or else, he just liked to paint naked
women," Chastity responded, guessing this was her contact, more was
the pity. He was definitely a fine looking guy. She would
definitely like to explore that torso for an afternoon or
evening.

"Oh, look at the way he shapes those
bottoms," he insisted, chuckling at her remark. "He's caressing
them with the colors."

"I prefer Van Gogh's bold ambition,"
Chastity said, hoping to bring the conversation to a close rather
than prolong her sense of disappointment. Contacts, after all, were
off limits. But he failed to respond to the contact
script.

"Van Gogh is wonderful, but you
shouldn't overlook the nuances of Cezanne's brush. Look at the flow
of the blue skies. He wants you to fall into the scene and share
the warmth." He gestured to the sky, the smile still on his face,
and Chastity realized he was not the contact. So it was all right
to enjoy him. Well, well, the day was improving.

Chastity considered the painting more
seriously. "I can see the warmth, all right. A bunch of girls
talking about their lovers, complaining about or praising
them."

"The sacred female space," her
companion said with another warm chuckle. "The safety of that
privacy, the comfort of that familiarity."

"I envy them," Chastity said
simply.

"You need more female friends." It
wasn't a question.

"My job keeps me moving." She
shrugged.

"It's good to stay connected." He
looked at her with frank interest, judging her receptiveness.
Apparently he liked what he saw.

"I like connecting," Chastity said,
looking him in the eye. "What do you do?"

"I'm an historian. Damien Michelet."
He stuck out his hand.

Chastity took his hand in hers and
enjoyed its warmth. Definite possibilities here, she thought. But
before she could offer him one of her many pseudonyms, another hand
reached for her arm.

"There you are!" The contact was a
pale bureaucrat with damp hands and an adenoidal whine. "You've got
to see the Gaugins, they're quite exciting."

"I prefer Van Gogh's bold ambition,"
Chastity said dryly, feeling her irritation rise
swiftly.

"Gaugin is really the master of bold
color, though," the contact remarked with a flat tone of
irritation. He looked like a man with a lot of errands to run,
impatient that she was slowing him down. She could almost hear the
list being ticked off in his thoughts. His head inclined toward the
exit, as if to push her along.

"Excuse me a moment," Chastity said to
Damien, who was looking a bit nonplussed by the abrupt exchange.
She steered the contact toward the stairwell, continuing their
stilted conversation with the remark, "Gaugin knew when to fuck off
when he wasn’t needed, too."

"You have a job to do," the contact
hissed as quietly as he could as they climbed down the white
marbled stairs. "Monitor is concerned. There's been a breach of
some documents on-line and we need to know how extensive the leak
has been." They moved along toward the ArtStart room, blending into
the gaggle of chatting espresso drinkers. He handed her a business
card, palming a compact syringe along with it. "This one needs
correcting, but we need to know how much he knows, where he is in
the chain, before you do so."

Chastity nodded. Her mind, however,
still lingered on Damien Michelet and whether he might like to get
some espresso or, better yet, a drink. The job was old hat. Damien
was something new and interesting.

"Top priority," the contact reminded
her, as if he sensed her drifting thoughts.

"Yes, I see," she snapped and turned
on her heel. Officious little prick! She climbed back up the
stairs. Looking around the room at the top, she didn't immediately
see the dishy Damien. Damn it! She looked at the card in her palm,
tucked it and the syringe into her pocket, waited a tick and then
walked through to the next room. Only a few minutes and then I'll
give it up, Chastity thought. It's not a big deal.

She found him by a Degas. He was
leaning in as if to catch a scent of the paint itself. Chastity
couldn't help a smile and not just because the posture showed off
his great ass. "Are you going to tell me about Degas' employment of
color now?"

Damien returned her grin. "I'm always
amazed at his controlled use of reds." The pleasure in his eyes was
apparent.

"Are you a painter as well as an
historian?" Chastity asked with genuine curiosity.

He laughed. "No, I appreciate it all,
but I can't even draw, let alone paint. If I could, I know a
brilliant subject I'd try." Damien let his eyes drift
appreciatively down her frame. He definitely liked what he saw and
she warmed to his scrutiny.

Chastity was charmed by his frankness.
She didn't have time for slow movers or shy boys. "I've got a
really boring meeting to attend that my colleague reminded me
about, but I wonder if we might get together for drinks later?" If
he was put off by blunt women, it was time to find out.

"That would be wonderful. Do you know
the Greenman on St. Martin's Lane?"

They made plans to meet at five and
Chastity turned to head toward the Trafalgar Square exit, her
attention now focused intently on the man in chinos and a black
jumper who had been following her since the contact. Damn! There
was no hope but that she would have to deal with this. Best to get
away from the crowds, but where?

Chastity pushed open the glass doors,
pausing to leave a donation in the collection box outside, so she
could cast her eyes back to check out the man tailing her. He was
trying to blend in with the crowd of mums and kids, but his furtive
glance in her direction only cemented her suspicions. She took the
set of stairs down with rapid steps, crossing to the top of
Trafalgar Square, which as usual was pullulating with tourists. The
guy in the black jumper crossed diagonally and moved into a gaggle
of Americans poring over a map trying to figure out where they
might be.

After a second's consideration,
Chastity headed across the square toward the stair that led into
the tube station and the subway across to the rail station. Pushing
past a knot of exiting tourists, she hesitated at the bottom of the
step, then turned toward the passage leading to the railway. A
homeless man, cuddled close to a very dirty dog, tunelessly sang,
"oranges, lozenges, porridges, sausages" over and over as she
passed, which distracted her for some reason. She wasn't herself
today. Maybe it was just the thought of straddling the gorgeous
Damien, which had suddenly leapt into her imagination.

Stepping to the end of the passage,
Chastity went just far enough up the steps to be out of sight of
anyone exiting the tunnel. She waited for a moment, listening. For
a time all she could hear was the tramp still singing, but then she
heard hurried steps and braced herself. As the man in the black
jumper came around the corner, Chastity swung her arm up to clock
him in the throat, leaving him gasping and choking as he grabbed
his windpipe in agony.

"Who do you work for?" she demanded,
ignoring the alarmed passersby who nonetheless, like all city
dwellers, seemed to assume the matter was none of their business.
"Who do you work for?" she repeated, nudging him with her booted
foot.