Page 48 of The Wrong Husband (The Davenports #6)

Phoenix

"You may kiss the bride." Edward Chase, the former priest and Connor’s half-brother flashes us a big smile.

He flew in to conduct the wedding at the Gibraltar Registry Office.

It’s an elegant, whitewashed building that lets in the Mediterranean light through the many windows flanking its sides.

We’re in what’s called the Marriage Room, standing in front of an ornate mahogany desk, behind which Edward stands.

The registrar read out his words, then stepped aside for Edward to conduct the ceremony.

A gilded mirror hangs above the table, reflecting a handsome couple standing shoulder-to-shoulder.

The man towers over the woman; he’s at least a foot taller.

In his dark suit, hair styled back from his face, and the serious cut of his features, he looks intent.

The green of his shirt compliments the emeralds the woman is wearing.

Her hazel eyes have turned almost as green as the choker she’s wearing.

It brings out the golden specks in her eyes.

I meet his gaze in our reflection and am unable to look away.

The seriousness on his face reminds me that this is very real.

I’m getting married. To this man. To this very handsome, charismatic, gorgeous, dominant man who, so far, has shown he can also be tender and genuine.

And who wants access to his trust fund so he can literally save children. And who I felt compelled to help.

The fact that his influence will save the ER where I work from shutting down is a bonus—but really, it was his genuine desire to help children that compelled me to say yes, then accelerate the wedding by suggesting we elope.

I turn to him, lift my chin and hold his gaze as he dips his mouth closer. He places his left hand, the one where I placed a simple wedding band on his finger, on my hip. The other on my shoulder.

He lures me to my tiptoes and slants his mouth across mine. It’s an explosion of sensations. I imagine this is how it might be to get tasered—to feel the lightning strikes of electricity ignite my synapses and trigger a cascade of sensations to my extremities.

It all emanates from where his lips tease mine and our tongues tangle. It’s a kiss that feels like sealing a deal, like the start of something new and different and exciting—that’s what the roller coaster of emotions bottoming out my stomach signals to my brain.

By the time he steps back, my head is spinning, my bones feel like they’ve dissolved, and moisture pools between my legs.

"Whoa," I say hoarsely.

He smiles in satisfaction and keeps his arm about my waist, probably realizing I’ve already lost my ability to stay upright.

"Thank you for coming out at such short notice." He shakes Edward’s hand.

"You're lucky I was in Spain for work.” Edward turns to me. "Congratulations, Mrs. Davenport."

That’s…me? That’s me. I take his proffered hand. "Thank you," I echo Connor.

"I’m sure there will be time for us to meet properly, but I believe you have a yacht waiting?" He smiles at Connor.

"A yacht?"

"You didn’t think I was going to let us return without a honeymoon, did you?"

Our gazes meet, that chemistry between us roaring to the surface.

Edward clears his throat. "I need to be getting back."

Connor shakes his hand for a second time. "Thanks again, Ed. Appreciate it."

"You two have a wonderful honeymoon." Another nod in my direction, and he leaves.

And then it strikes me. A sharp jolt of realization. “I need to get back to the ER. ” I whirl toward Connor, my chest tightening. “I can’t just disappear. What if they need me?”

“You have leave saved up,” he says gently. “And I promise, I’ll have you back in three days.”

I hesitate. He’s right. I do have holidays I’ve never taken. “But?—”

“I called Arthur while you were asleep,” he says, his tone deceptively casual, “and told him we were eloping. He was so relieved that I was getting married, he agreed to give me access to the money in my trust right away. I’ve arranged to donate part of it to Archway Hospital.”

I blink. “You—what?” My voice trembles. My heart beats so hard and so fast, I feel dizzy. “You did that ?”

A tide of emotion crashes over me. My lungs feel too tight to breathe.

He did that—for me? For the ER. For the hospital.

I can almost see the beds filled, the monitors blinking, the staff I love so much able to keep doing what they do best. Hope.

It floods me, dizzying and golden. I feel like I’m flying, and somehow, drowning, all at once.

“Of course,” there’s a cautious edge to his voice. “I also spoke to James to let him know we were eloping. He’s one of my best friends. We met because of him. It felt right to inform him.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I messaged him too.”

“Good,” he lowers his chin, almost sheepish. “I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of informing the hospital management that we were getting married and…that you wouldn’t be back at work for the rest of the week.”

For a second, I’m too stunned to speak.

Then, softly, “Okay.”

He blinks. “You’re not upset?”

I shake my head, a slow smile curving my lips.

“Maybe a little surprised at how quickly you got everything done. And yeah, part of me wishes I’d been the one to tell them myself—but honestly?

” I exhale. “You thought of everything. You handled it all, so I don’t have to worry.

Not once did you make me feel small or sidelined.

So no, Connor. I’m not upset. I’m…” My voice thickens. “I’m in awe of you.”

He jerks his chin, a muscle flickering along his jaw. “I didn’t want to wake you. And I wanted to make sure they had time to arrange cover.” He looks almost boyish now. Uncertain. “I promise, I’ll do better next time.”

I step closer, pressing my palm to his chest, right over that steady, solid heartbeat.

“You’re incredible. You know that?”

I’m still coming to terms with the fact that the ER is probably going to be safe. That my colleagues will, hopefully, keep their jobs. And the hospital is going to get the funding it needs too.

I’m also so overwhelmed, my thoughts race around in my head.

“And you weren’t kidding when you said you Davenports have clout.” I half-laugh.

He looks at me warily. "Does that make us less in your eyes?"

I’m about to protest, then sigh. "I guess, I’m more cynical of wealth and influence since I grew up with it.

But being out in the world, without the benefit of my parents’ money, has taught me to be more appreciative of it.

And the kind of influence it can buy, too," I add as a grudging afterthought.

Which is not being charitable, because it’s thanks to the Davenports’ reach that the issue with the ER was brought to the attention of the most powerful man in the country.

“Or maybe, like most people, I value what I work for more than what’s handed to me?” I raise a hand.

He tilts his head. “I don’t disagree. I prefer to think about how best to use the wealth I already have—for something greater than myself.”

He says it slowly, carefully. And I believe him.

“It’s what I admire about you. It’s why I said yes to marrying you,” I murmur, because it’s safer than admitting I’m developing feelings for him.

Something flickers in his gaze—not quite surprise, but something sharper. Like my words struck a nerve he wasn’t ready to expose.

Then he nods.

A sharp action, that makes me wish I could be honest with him. That I could tell him that, perhaps, this marriage is real for me too.

But that doesn’t change the fact that I walked into it with strategy first and emotion second.

Or… Is that a lie I’m telling myself?

A shield I’ve trained myself to raise.

Because admitting I feel more would mean letting him in.

And if I do that—if I let him matter, if I tell him all my secrets—then he could break me in ways I swore I’d never let happen.

The insight confuses me.

He thanks the wedding official, then the two silent witnesses he provided, before leading me out of the room.

He doesn’t say anything, but I feel it—the anger, the disappointment. Radiating off him like static. A quiet, invisible wall I don’t know how to breach.

I stay quiet as he walks me down the stairs of the heritage building and down the promenade that lines the waterfront. The newly signed marriage certificate, tucked into an envelope, still warm from the registrar’s desk, is in the inner pocket of his jacket.

The sun hangs high over the Rock, lighting up the stone buildings that line one side of the street with a golden glow.

We pass a farmer’s market in progress; the smell of freshly baked bread and cheese, mixed with herbs and flowers, washes over us.

A mix of locals and tourists, marked by their uniform of straw hats and Hawaiian shirts, walk in between the shops.

An older couple stops to admire us. The woman smiles and says, "Congratulations," as we pass.

"Thank you." I smile back.

Connor, however, stays focused on wherever he’s taking me, which I assume is to the yacht. Palm trees sway above us, the market giving way to a stretch of quaint boutiques and wine bars which function as coffee shops by day.

More admiring eyes follow us, and a couple of teenagers glide by on their skateboards. One of them catcalls. When I look in his direction, he throws me a cheeky look, followed by an admiring glance. I laugh and wave at him. He throws me a kiss.

Before I can respond, Connor grabs me around my waist and hauls me closer. I look up to find him glaring at the boy, who laughs, then faces forward and pushes off, following his friend.

"He was a kid," I point out.

Connor doesn’t reply.

"He was merely being flirtatious."

Connor grunts back.

My steps slow, forcing him to adjust his speed, else he’d have to drag me around. He glances down his patrician nose, a look of bored inquisitiveness on his features.

"Oh, stop that."

"Stop what?" He lets go of my hand, and instead, jams both of his in his pockets.

"That." I wave my fingers toward his face. "You’re trying to be all cool and casual when really, you’re being all grumpy and growly inside."

"I’m not grumpy and growly," he growls back.

"See." I jut out my chin. "You’re growling at me."

He opens his mouth to speak, but a growl emerges again.

“Definitely growling.” My lips twitch, but I manage to keep my mirth at bay.

He slams his lips together and takes a few deep breaths, which results in those perfect teardrop shaped nostrils of his flaring in and out—I hope he never finds out that I think his nostrils are perfect—then seems to get a hold of himself.

"I was growling, but now, I’m not.” The hard line between his brows relaxes.

"Okay." I draw in a breath.

"Okay." He rolls his shoulders, seemingly calmer now.

"Better?" I ask cautiously.

He nods back, just as cautiously.

"Can you tell me why you’re so upset?"

To his credit, he doesn’t pretend he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. "I’m jealous of anyone else who sets eyes on my beautiful bride," he bites out.

Something hot and melting coils in my chest and drips through my veins, like honey spilling from an overfull honeycomb. Rich, thick, and sticky, and flooding my bloodstream with too many feelings. "Oh." I bite my lower lip.

Instantly, his eyes fasten on my mouth, his gaze sharpening. That not very well-hidden beast inside of him peeks out from behind his eyes. I swear, his entire demeanor changes. That dark, primal part of him I’ve sensed from the moment I met him seems to saturate his personality.

"But that’s not the real reason you’re upset, is it?

" I venture, wondering how far I can prod this lethal version of him. There’s the Connor who’s tender and understanding.

Who respected me enough not to overstep the line in invading my privacy by placing cameras in my house or investigating my past.

Then there’s this version—animalistic, visceral, and so very sexy.

Both sides of him are appealing. Together, they constitute the best possible combination I could ask for in a man.

But I want more. I want to unleash that part of him he keeps under control.

That carnal side he’s hinted at and never fully revealed.

Can I get him to show me what would happen if he fully let go of the boundaries he’s laid down between us.

He must sense my thoughts, for his jaw clenches, and a fierceness sweeps over his face. "You want to know the real reason I was upset?"

His voice has turned gravelly, with an underlying menace curling around my waist and keeping me rooted to the spot. It’s like there’s this heaviness in the air, a static electricity lighting up my nerve endings and causing the hair on my forearms to rise.

"Yes," I manage to whisper, "I do."

"I was upset because"—he bends his knees and peers into my eyes—"I want more from you."

"More?" Anticipation runs down my spine. I have a sense I know what this man is talking about. This man who is now my husband, who I sensed could surprise me in ways I couldn’t imagine, who I instinctively sensed could show me the kind of pleasure I’ve never experienced before.

He would, surely, want something in return.

He nods slowly.

"I want you to give yourself up to me fully. I don’t want you to hold back anything from me. I will not let you hold anything back. I want to know your innermost thoughts, your fears, your deepest insecurities. I want you to give yourself up to me completely. Can you do that?"