Page 16 of The Wrong Husband (The Davenports #6)

Connor

“She’ll have the wild mushroom tartlet to start, followed by the fillet of turbot. I’ll take the hand-dived scallops and the roast loin of venison. For dessert, we’ll share the dark chocolate delice with orange sorbet. Coffee for me. A glass of white for her.”

Turns out, she had not one condition, but two.

She chose the restaurant, and I was paying. The latter? Did she seriously think I'd take her to dinner and not pay?

The former? She chose James’ restaurant. Smart woman.

She means to force a confrontation between the three of us.

I say, bring it on. Of course, I took the precaution of messaging James to let him know we were headed here.

He’s going to be furious enough with me when he finds out I have designs on his sister.

I didn’t want to spring another surprise on him and take him unawares.

I hand the menus back to the waiter.

Phe arches a brow. “Presumptuous of you to order for me.”

“How did I do?”

“Perfectly.” A reluctant smile curves her lips. She reaches for her water and takes a sip. “How did you know what I wanted?”

I lean back, letting a slow grin unfurl. “Your pupils dilated when you read the word ‘mushroom.’ You tapped your finger—twice—when the waiter mentioned turbot. Subtle cues. Pattern recognition. It’s my thing.”

You’re my thing.

I’ve been watching her for weeks, observing her so closely, I could write a thesis on her. But the truth? I haven’t just been observing her. I’ve memorized her. Every twitch, every breath. Every soft, infuriating, fascinating part of her.

She lets out a breath that’s half-laugh, half-groan. “I can’t decide if you’re showing off or just being your infuriatingly confident self.”

I tilt my head. “I admit, I was trying to impress you.”

“By rolling back years of female agency?” she scoffs.

“By taking care of you.”

That gives her pause. Her forehead creases.

“You’re exhausted. It’s been another long day. I’ll bet you haven’t had a proper meal in days. Today was the first time you saw your friends in…how long?”

I pause, watching the subtle clench in her jaw.

“All I did was spare you one more decision. So, you could breathe. Eat. And maybe—just for a second—enjoy yourself.”

“And you say, you did not infringe on my privacy?” She lifts her chin.

“Maybe I did… A little. Having the chance to run surveillance on you gave me a head start in terms of piecing together much of your personality. On the other hand—“ I incline my head. “It wasn’t difficult to deduce that, based on you being an ER specialist.”

“Hmph.” She folds her arms across her chest. "Your point being?"

"I ordered for you, so you didn’t have to make yet another decision. This way, you can relax and enjoy the dinner. And the company.”

She takes another sip of the water. "I shouldn’t find the argument compelling. Because really, everything you’ve done has confirmed to me that, while you’re handsome, you’re also a wanker. A stuck-up, egoistical wanker who has a very high opinion of himself."

"You think I’m handsome?"

She chokes on the next mouthful of water, then places her glass down. Her lips twitch, but then she seems to bring her mirth under control.

"Seriously?” She huffs. “Do you want me to answer that?"

"Sorry, that was me behaving like an arsehole." I raise my hands.

"It was." She nods.

"But I stand by everything else I said."

She tosses her head. "You have a big opinion of yourself."

"In this case, your observation is warranted."

She chuckles.

“If by ordering for you, I took you for granted, I apologize.”

She blinks, then shakes her head. “Wow, okay. Now, you shatter my poor opinion of you with an apology.”

I laugh. “Good, right?”

“Wait, is this a game for you?” She scowls.

I sober. “I’m as serious as a ruptured abdominal aortic aneurysm.”

She gapes—then lets out a reluctant laugh. “How do you even know to call it that?”

“I might have been reading up on medical terminology,” I admit.

“Hmm.” She narrows her eyes. “Am I supposed to be impressed by that?"

I shake my head. “I did it because… I wanted to understand the world you live in. I wanted to get a feel for how it is to work in the ER.”

“Why is that?” Her voice softens.

Because I want to know everything about you. Because I’m haunted by images of you when I close my eyes. Because I want to understand this very important facet about your life.

But I can’t say any of that. Not yet.

So, I go with the safer version: “It’s part of the research I do when I surveil someone. I read up about their profession. It helps me tailor my approach.”

Our gazes meet and hold again. The chemistry sizzles. The air between us shimmers with lust and need.

I sense that connection between us, the one which has thrummed between us from the moment I first saw her. And from the flush in her cheeks, I know she feels it too.

Is it possible she reciprocates my feelings? I almost reach for her hand, but the waiter returns with my coffee.

I blink; so does she. On her face is that punchy, bowled-over expression which must mirror the one on my face.

The waiter pours her some wine to taste. She sips and pronounces it satisfactory. He tops off her glass and retreats.

"Coffee?" She stares at my cup.

"I’m still on duty." As soon as I say that I realize it wasn’t smart to point that out to her. Me, the undercover spy who’s adept at taking on new roles, is making rookie mistakes.

That’s how unsettled I am in her presence.

She narrows her gaze on me. "I plan to confront my brother about that."

"I assumed that when you chose his restaurant for dinner."

She sips from the wineglass. Sighs. Some of the tension I’ve noticed in her shoulders since the first time I followed her seems to bleed out. I can take credit for that. And damn, if I don’t feel happy.

"What happened at the bar fight?" She looks at me with frank curiosity. "Your enemies catch up with you?"

"Actually, yes," I concede.

“So, you’re a spy, and your foes are onto you?" She waves a hand in the air. "Seems a bit far-fetched, don’t you think?"

"I can assure you, it’s true."

"What does that have to do with me?"

I drain the cup of coffee, needing that burst of adrenaline from the caffeine.

My heart begins to thump in my chest. My pulse rate spikes.

Damn, I’m nervous. In none of my missions where I’ve been in life and death situations have, I felt this unsure of myself.

I shake off my anxiety, forcing myself to adopt a casual tone. "I have a proposition for you."

"Proposition?" She places her glass of wine on the table. "What do you mean?"

"Your hospital needs an infusion of money, and someone championing its cause in the corridors of power; without both, the ER will shut down."

She stiffens. "How do you know about that?"

“James mentioned you were an ER doctor at Archway Hospital. It only took a few calls to find out the hospital is struggling."

She regards me steadily. I can sense her mind beginning to join the dots.

“I also researched you online.”

She stiffens. “You looked into my past?”

“Only what’s publicly available, like on your social media feeds.”

Some of the tension seems to go out of her. “I’m too busy to have much of a social media presence.”

“You did share a fundraiser for the ER,” I point out.

Her forehead furrows. “So?”

"The ER is your world. You have friends there. You care for your co-workers. You’ve built a community there which you value. I’d say, you’ll do everything possible to ensure the hospital doesn’t shut down the ER."

She surveys me steadily, then realization filters into her eyes. “Connor Davenport ," she says slowly, rolling my name across her tongue.

And goddamn, it’s as if I can feel the vibrations all the way to crown of my cock.

"Your family is very wealthy, not to mention, connected ." She tilts her head and draws her cheek inward. A classic gesture to indicate she’s thinking hard. "Are you saying you can help with the hospital’s funding issues?"

I stare at her meaningfully, letting the silence do the talking.

She sits up straight, keen interest in her features. "You are saying that. You can stop the ER from shutting down?” Her cheeks flush with excitement. The embers in her eyes crackle.

Damn, she’s beautiful. I can’t take my gaze off her.

Also, I have a very small window within which to put my case forward.

"I am saying, unless there’s a fresh infusion of money, not to mention, systemic changes, the hospital is going to shut down the ER within the month.”

“That soon?” She gapes. “I had no idea things were that critical.”

She looks so worried that, for a few seconds, I feel a pang that I’ve upset her.

But I’m not telling her anything that’s not true.

Maybe, it’s a good thing I brought it to her attention?

And yes, I’m using the opportunity for my own selfish motives, but I can’t let go of her.

I need her in my life, and I’ll do anything to ensure that.

“They are, unfortunately.” I compose my features. “But, I may have a solution for you.”

Her gaze turns wary. “You do?”

I take in the doubt in her features, and realize I need to lay out my proposition, before she jumps to any conclusions.

I raise my hands. "Before you read into my motivations, let me tell you a bit about myself."

Interest ripples across her features again, before she reins it in. "You mean, you’re not as narcissistic as some of your earlier words led me to believe?” She scoffs.

"Guilty as charged. My ego gets in the way sometimes.”

I allow myself a small smile.

“Hard not to when I’ve created biotech patents that save lives, and I was recruited as a government agent.”

I shift my weight and tap my fingers against the table.

“Only, the missions I cared about weren’t the ones the government prioritized. So, I became a private contractor, built my own team, and started funding the work I believe in—rescue operations, med tech for underserved areas, trauma relief in conflict zones.

“But even with the royalties from my patents, it’s not enough to save those who’d never show up on an official priority list.”

She curls her fingers around the step of her wineglass. "Is there a reason you’re telling me this?"

I lean forward.

"I’m funding a charity that provides medical treatment for children caught up in war and other disasters. I need access to my trust fund to make a difference."

A surprised look comes into her eyes. "A billionaire with a conscience? Who’d have thought."

"First"—I hold up a finger—"it’s my grandfather who’s a billionaire, not me. And second, I’m doing it for my own selfish reasons."

"Which are?"

I run a knuckle along my jaw, before letting my hand fall to my thigh. Hadn’t expected to have this discussion so soon. " I realized that money alone doesn’t guarantee happiness.”

Again, her gaze widens. She surveys my features as if trying to figure out if I’m telling her the truth, which I am. For once. After living a life undercover, it feels liberating to share my thoughts without having to hide.

"You’re a spy who moonlights as a CEO?"

I raise a shoulder.

"I’m also a qualified biochemist. It provided a front for the missions I undertook in the field."

She shakes her head. "You don’t choose the easy route, do you?"

I chuckle. "Wouldn’t be sitting here if I did."

"Hmm." There’s a pleased look in her eyes, again, quickly banked. "So, you have a pet project—a mission to save children—for which you need money."

"A lot of money. Which I can access through my portion of the Davenport fortune."

"So, what’s the problem?"

"The problem is… I can only access my trust fund when I get married."

She blinks. Color flushes her cheeks. She wriggles around in her seat, looking half-ready to leave, but she doesn’t.

A fighter. Someone who isn’t scared off easily.

Damn. My heart gives a big thump in my chest. My balls tighten further.

This perfect harmony between the emotional and the carnal in response to her is an irresistible seduction of my senses.

"And what’s that got to do with me?" she asks slowly.

I meet her gaze head-on, my voice steady. "I want you to be my wife."