Page 4 of The Wrong Husband (The Davenports #6)

Connor

Bloody hell, she nearly caught me again.

This morning, I risked everything by breaking cover near her hospital to rescue that damn kitten.

She saw me. But I slipped away before she could make contact.

Now she’s on her street again— Pausing. Looking around her. She scans the darkness like she knows I’m out here.

I freeze.

There’s no way she can see me from this distance, not at this hour. Still, I hold my breath. My grip tightens on the steering wheel. I don’t even blink.

Why did she stop like that? What exactly did she feel ?

I’m parked far enough away. I’ve done this kind of surveillance a hundred times—hell, a thousand. Most people never even get a twinge. But her? She picks up on me like I’m transmitting on a private frequency only she can hear.

A full ten seconds pass before she finally walks up her path and disappears inside. The front door shuts with a quiet click.

Only then, do I let the tension bleed out in a slow exhale.

She left the lights on again. She always does. All day, every day. Maybe it’s a comfort to her, so she doesn’t feel like she’s coming home to an empty house?

I scan the surroundings of her house, my training as an undercover operative kicking in. Never let down your guard; that’s the first rule.

The second? Never get involved with those who know you in your undercover life.

I’m on a sabbatical from MI5.

She is my current assignment. And I already crossed the line of being personally involved, considering it’s my best friend who asked me to watch out for his little sister.

Still, I can only do my job if I keep some distance, which means, trying my best to ignore this draw toward her.

With half my attention still on her house, I reach for the tablet on the passenger seat. I ignore the open tab—a dense research paper on recent trauma protocols. I already speed-read it, along with the core textbooks in emergency medicine.

Just enough to hold my own in her world.

When you’ve got an IQ north of 150, it’s not hard to absorb the material. The real challenge is understanding how she thinks—what drives her, what keeps her tethered to a job that demands everything.

I want to know it all. That’s the first step to getting under her skin—and staying there.

I pull up the report I worked on earlier for James and send it to him. As I’ve done over the last three weeks, I video call him.

He picks up on the second ring. “How is she?”

“She seems fine.”

“What do you mean seems ?”

I choose my words carefully, not wanting to let on how personally involved I already am on this assignment.

“Nothing’s changed since my last report. She works all day. Comes home so late, there’s only time for her to sleep. Tomorrow is her day off, so I’m hoping she’ll be out and about.”

“Hmm.” James rubs his jaw. “She is an ER doctor, and they work long hours, but you’re right. The fact that she hasn’t been out the entire week, except for the hospital and home, isn’t very healthy.”

He exhales hard. “I’m a shit brother. I should have been more involved in her life.” He drags his fingers through his hair. “Thanks for doing this, bro. I appreciate it.” His tone is gruff.

I feel guilty that I’m so invested; this has gone beyond professional. No way, can I tell James that… Yet.

If I do, he’ll pull me off the surveillance and hand it over to someone else. The thought of any other man parked in my place and watching her ties my guts in knots.

Nope. No way, am I letting that happen. ‘Course I’ll let him know about my growing attraction to his sister—just not yet.

“I’ll keep the surveillance going and report back.” I hang up and settle back in my seat to wait.

My stomach grumbles. I skipped lunch, not wanting to vacate the parking spot I found near the hospital, and I’d give my right arm for some coffee to help me stay awake. But this is not the first time I’ve been on a solo observation job.

It is the first time I haven’t had anyone backing me up as a base team. It’s only me—and frankly, I’m glad.

I feel greedy for every single opportunity to catch a glimpse of her, so the physical discomfort I’m going through is worth it.

I move around and find a more comfortable position in my seat. Those years on recon missions have trained me to keep watch without falling asleep.

Still, when morning dawns and she leaves the house, I’m relieved. Even I have limits to my endurance. Only, I’d never vacate my post—not as long as she’s in there.

She’s wearing a sunny yellow dress with a denim jacket and sandals today. And instead of her oversized backpack, she has a crossbody bag slung between her breasts. Hmm. I’m glad she’s going out to enjoy her day off. She needs the downtime.

I wait as she heads down the sidewalk. Good thing, too. Because she suddenly stops, pivots and scans the road.

Thankfully, I’m parked at the top of the street, so she shouldn’t be able to make out my figure. Still, the fact that she looks around tells me, I need to be more discreet in the future.

She’s nearly caught me twice now. Once could’ve been chance. Twice feels like something else. Could I have slipped up on purpose? Some reckless part of me wanting her to see me—to stop hiding, to finally speak to her, to tell her the truth? No. That’s not possible.

I’ve only been watching her a few weeks. Not nearly enough time to grow attached. And yet… I’m not acting like myself. I’ve handled riskier assignments without so much as a blink. Never once, have I let personal feelings interfere. Never once, have I begun to care for the person I’m tracking.

But this isn’t an assignment . It’s a favor to James. That’s what I keep telling myself. I’m doing this for him. To watch out for his sister.

And that’s exactly why I can’t cross that line. He trusted me. I won’t repay that trust by acting on something as stupid—and dangerous—as attraction.

Finally, she turns and keeps walking.

Only once she’s gone, do I let myself breathe.

After she rounds the corner, I get out of the van, lock it, and follow—just in time to see her vanish down the next street.

She reaches the crosswalk and, as she waits for the light, taps her chest three times. Familiar ritual. I’ve seen her do this before—nervous tic, or something deeper?

The light turns green. She crosses.

Twenty minutes later, she steps onto Primrose Hill High Street.

She heads to the bookshop called The Sp!cy Booktok. I give it another ten minutes, then make my way down the street. I stop in front of a book display in the window. I feign interest in the book title— The Unwanted Wife by L. Steele—then let my gaze wander across the inside of the store.

She’s at the shelf featuring books on sale. She’s in profile, but I can make out the smile on her face. Her shoulders are relaxed. She runs her fingers down the spines of the books on the middle shelf.

A shiver curls down my spine.

Then she stops at a book, partially extracts the volume, and… I can imagine her curling those slender fingers around my cock.

The blood drains to my groin, and I groan aloud. I need to get a grip on my imagination. She pulls off her hair tie, moves to put it in her purse, but it slips to the floor.

Her thick auburn hair flows around her shoulders; I can imagine the whisper of the strands over my skin. My thigh muscles bunch. My blood pressure shoots up. I feel dizzy with longing and shake my head to clear it.

Then, because I’ve stood there long enough and don’t want to attract attention, and because she’s moved deeper into the store, and I reckon she’s preoccupied and won’t notice me, I step inside.

The bell over the door tinkles. The assistant behind the counter is busy with someone else.

Good. The less people who see me, the better.

I pull down my baseball cap to avoid my features being captured by the security cameras inside.

I head for the secondhand section and locate the sparkly hair tie on the floor.

Before pocketing it, I lift it to my nose and sniff: a trace of roses; deeper notes of jasmine; an underlying strain of vanilla.

My already hard cock lengthens further. I want to roll around in her scent like a rutting canine.

My heart leaps in my chest. I feel like a five-year-old who’s been told Christmas comes early this year. I have something of hers. With me.

I close my fingers around the hair tie, very aware that my behavior is not normal. That I’m acting like someone obsessed. That I have already crossed the line between surveillance and having a personal interest in my subject—some might call it stalking—and there’s no going back.

I stop myself from groaning aloud, and speed-read the titles on the shelf in front of me.

Self-help books dominate the shelf: Dealing with Grief. How to Recover from Burnout. Coping with Trauma.

Why would she want to read these? Then again, given her line of work, it makes sense.

But right beside them—like a defiant splash of color—sit Around the World in Eighty Days and Five Weeks in a Balloon by Jules Verne, alongside Balloonatics: How I Learned to Love the Air and Let It Love Me Back by Richard E. Hamlin.

O-k-a-y, she may also have a thing for hot air balloons.

I can’t resist touching the spines of the books. Is it my imagination or does her warmth linger on them?

“I love the classics!” A woman’s high-pitched voice gushes behind me. “These are a great choice.”

“Jane Eyre is my favorite. I have a weakness for independent, resilient heroines wary of relying on powerful men.” Another voice—softer, more melodic—reaches me.

It’s her voice. I’ve never heard her speak.

But I have no doubt that’s her. Like the tinkling of chimes in the breeze.

There’s an underlying sadness which is evocative, a haunting quality to her chuckle which makes me want to scoop her up in my arms, take her home, and make her laugh until whatever is bothering her fades away, leaving only sunshine and satisfaction in its wake.