Excerpt from Too Bad to Die by Francine Mathews, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Only last week, Grace had flown to Moscow; a few months before, she'd worked the Quebec conference; and before that, she'd shared a silent cab with Ian down Pennsylvania Avenue. There'd been a time in London last summer when they'd shared dinners and films, too—The Thin Man, he remembered. Grace probably didn't. She'd embarked on a ruthless campaign to forget his existence. And she was the kind of woman who took no prisoners.

He ran his eyes over her elegant figure, the way her dark hair coiled sleekly behind her ears. He'd known the hollow at the base of her neck and the scent of her skin. He'd taken her to bed on nights when the blitz shuddered and screamed in the air around them and hadn't cared, then, if they'd died in the act. But her eyes were hard and flat tonight; the windows to her soul, a brick wall. Her fingers twisted impatiently on her earphones. In a few seconds she'd throw him out.

"You're on duty," he said.

"Obviously. And you should be with the Americans."

"They might have let you try the President's turkey."

"Choke on it, more like," she retorted, "watching poor old Pug swallow the bloody insult Roosevelt's offered him. The President's demanding we agree on a chief to coordinate American and British bombing—a Yank, no doubt. With about as much experience of real war as Eisenhower. Pug's furious. Could barely knot his tie, poor lamb. I expect he'll have a stroke before dinner's out."

Ismay was Pug to his friends, although Ian doubted Gracie called him that to his face.

"You took down the cable from Bletchley?" he asked.

"Yes." Her mouth pursed. "Don't fret, Ian. I won't talk about your Fencer and his girlfriend. I'm not that interested in your social life."

"I didn't think you were. But I need to reach Turing. As soon as possible."

She picked up a pad and pencil. "Fire away."

Ian shook his head. "It's urgent. I'd like to place a trunk call to Bletchley on the Secraphone."

Her eyes strayed to a black Bakelite telephone with a bright green handle. The nondescript box beside it was filled with something that scrambled voice frequencies. A similar box on Turing's end would unscramble them.

"You're not supposed to know it exists."

"But I do." He stepped toward her desk, that safe barrier, willing all his charm into his voice, caressing rather than challenging her. "It's absolutely vital that I use it. You're my only hope, Grace."

"I've heard that lie before." Her eyes narrowed. "Is this to do with the stray Dornier?"

"What stray Dornier?"

She brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. "Spotted over Tunis. Possibly zeroing in on us. Pug ordered snipers in the heights and an RAF post on the top of the pyramid on the strength of it. He doesn't want this conference to end in a blaze of German glory."

Ian's hands were propped on Grace's desk and his body yearned toward her. It was she who'd ended things between them, and he'd never quite gotten her out of his system. He suspected she knew that and enjoyed having the upper hand. Enjoyed denying him. He was intoxicated by her closeness, the fold of her mouth when she smiled, and his mind was only dimly processing the fact of the Dornier, which would be the 217 model, not the lighter and older 17, a reconnaissance plane and bomber that could outrun most defending fighter craft. Certainly most fighter planes the RAF could throw at it. Particularly in North Africa. The gun site on the Great Pyramid suddenly made sense.

"Do you know," he murmured, "that your left eye has a green cast in the iris?"

She swatted his head, hard, with her steno pad.

"For the love of God. Romancing the bloody secretaries again?"

Gracie came to attention, her eyes fixed on the door; Ian spun around. "Prime Minister."

Excerpted from Too Bad to Die by Francine Mathews. Copyright © 2015 by Francine Mathews. Excerpted by permission of Riverhead Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.