Page 73 of The Wrong Husband (The Davenports #6)

A month later

Connor

"He wants us to play…croquet?" I pause on the patio of Arthur’s villa in Primrose Hill. On the sprawling lawn in the backyard which faces the expanse of the Hill, is a set up with six mallets of different colors.

Six corresponding balls, six hoops—which is what they call the metal arches the ball passes through, and one center peg, or the stake, placed at the far end of the lawn, which in this case, doubles up as the court.

"Croquet?" Brody’s jaw drops.

"Cro-fucking-quet?" James, who’s walked in behind us, scowls.

"Croquet? How charming." My wife beams at the setup.

She no longer has dark circles under her eyes. Her shoulders are no longer tense. I attribute that to my doing my duty as her husband and making sure I make sweet love to her every night.

Thanks to the money I donated to the ER, there’s a new crop of residents to help carry Phe’s load in the trauma bay. She no longer has to worry about the ER closing, either. I’m chuffed I was partly responsible for that too.

Anything I can do to make her life easier gets priority.

She’s my priority.

"The old man expects us to play croquet as some kind of bonding exercise?” Brody scratches at his whiskered chin. “It’s fucking irritating, is what it is.”

"Everything okay?" I eye him closely.

His eyes are bloodshot. He hasn’t shaved. His hair is standing up on end like he’s run his fingers through the strands. It’s the first time I’ve seen him look this disheveled.

"It’s been brutal at work. My assistant managed to keep things going while I was away, but since I’ve been back, she seems to be distracted. Enough that I have to pick up the slack.” He yawns.

“Thank you for coming to my rescue. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

He draws himself up to his full height, then pushes his forefinger into my chest. “Firstly, you’d have done the same. And secondly—” He smirks. “This way, you owe me one.”

“Anytime, Brother.” I hold up my hand, and he squeezes.

We half hug, slap each other on the back.

“You must have an exceptional assistant if she kept the company running in your absence,” my wife remarks.

“Hmm.” He cracks his neck. “She was only doing her job. But you’re right, I should probably give her a raise.”

Phe’s forehead furrows. “You should definitely let her know how much you appreciate her contribution. Good employees are hard to come by.”

“What’s she going to do, leave?” His voice is light, but a troubled expression flits across his features.

My wife and I exchange a glance. Brody has a good heart, but between his cavalier attitude to finding love and his brush off when it comes to his assistant, I have a feeling my brother has some tough lessons to learn.

James eyes him closely. "Is that a gray hair at your temple?"

"I believe, the word you’re looking for is distinguished, as in, 'You look distinguished.’” Brody straightens to his full height.

"It suits you,” Phe assures him.

When I scowl, her features soften. "You have nothing to be jealous about, honey. You know I only have eyes for you.”

She runs a finger down the front of my button-down shirt sleeve, my concession to coming to see my grandfather, when I’d much rather be in shorts and T-shirt, sprawled on my couch with my wife at my side. My idea of heaven.

Previously, I’d have looked down on the idea of being home instead of gallivanting around the world on another of my missions, or working in the lab on another scientific discovery I could patent.

Now that I've met her, I realize how hollow those endeavors truly are without someone by my side to share them.

I promised her I won’t be in the field, and I’m sticking to that.

At Phe’s insistence I have, however, begun discussions with the MI5 to work as a consultant.

I'll put my expertise to good use by making missions safer for those in the field.

Running missions is part of my DNA. My wife was wise enough to recognize that.

And I'd be doing myself, and her, a disservice if I ignored that part of me completely.

Now that I control my patents, I can be assured that the royalties they generate—along with funds from my trust—are used to fund charities that need help. This gives me a deep sense of satisfaction.

It also allows me to feel more complete, which means, I can better care for my wife.

She slides her arms around my waist, then goes up on tiptoes and offers me her mouth.

I pull her close, dip my head, and kiss her.

As soon as our mouths meet, I’m lost. Her taste, the sweetness, that familiar softness, interspersed with the lick of lust gathering at the base of my spine.

Fuck. I want to throw her over my shoulder, walk out of here, and go home.

I want to fuck her, then make sweet love to her.

"I know she’s your wife, but she’s also my sister, and it’s taking everything in me not to tear you from her and bash your face in," James growls.

I can understand how uncomfortable it is for James to watch the two of us.

Not that I fucking care. She’s mine. And it’s time everyone, especially her own family, get used to the idea.

On the other hand, if it weren’t for James, I wouldn’t have met her.

That’s the only reason I step back from my wife.

"Get a room." Brody walks past us.

I wrap my arm about Fever and tug her forward. "Might as well as get this over with."

"A bit like pulling off a bandage, then." James grimaces, then squares his shoulders. "Perhaps, some strong refreshments are called for?" He follows Brody.

I realize they’re headed toward the farthermost corner of the garden, where a bar has been set up.

"Is that the single men’s commiseration corner?" My wife follows James’ progress. He steps to where Brody huddles with Toren, Adrian, and Viktor.

"From what I hear, these men have struck up a friendship outside of these gatherings which Arthur instigated," she adds.

"That’s an interesting and very powerful mix of men. I wouldn’t want to fuck with them individually. Put them together, side-by-side, and they’re invincible in the business world." I purse my lips and contemplate the lot of them, then shake my head.

"Nah, not possible."

"What?" My wife shoots me a sideways glance.

"It’s nothing. A passing thought." I shake my head.

"Aww, come on. You can’t leave me hanging like that, surely?"

I shrug. "One would almost think that’s why Arthur invites them to these family functions."

She surveys them. "You mean, Arthur keeps throwing them together, so they’ll turn to each other and form some form of alliance?"

"Sounds far-fetched, right?" I chuckle. "Not even my cantankerous gramps is smart enough to have anticipated this…" Right?

Milling about on the lawn are the rest of my brothers and their wives.

Nathan nods in my direction. My uncle Quentin, who’s standing nearby with his wife tucked into his side, flashes me a thumbs-up sign.

I head for him, with Phoenix in tow. "I never got to thank you for the role you played in helping me get home safely. "

He rushed off while I was in recovery, as he wanted to return home. Seeing how Vivian is wrapped around him like they can’t bear to be parted, I get why.

"Glad I could be of help." He smiles at us. "And very happy to see the two of you together."

"All right, gather up, everyone." Imelda’s voice reaches us.

All of us look in the direction of the patio, where Imelda stands with Arthur next to her. He uses a cane nowadays—apparently, Imelda coaxed him to do so—and while he looks gaunt, he still seems sturdy and happy as he surveys us, his family.

"He loves his role as patriarch of the family," Nathan muses.

"I don’t see him relinquishing it anytime soon," I affirm.

"He deserves it. Let the old man bask in the glory of his machinations." Quentin chuckles. "After all, the lot of us are married and happy, thanks in no small part to his devious calculations."

Much as I hate to agree, he has a point.

Imelda nods in the direction of the croquet pitch.

"We’re going to play a doubles tournament. Two teams of two each. Each player will have one ball. Choose your sides peeps, and?—”

The ringing of a phone cuts through her sentence.

Arthur glowers.

All of us turn in the direction of Brody, who holds up his phone. “Sorry, chaps. It’s work. They’d only call if it were an emergency.”

He answers, voice clipped. “Davenport.”

Silence blankets the group as we listen.

“Calm down. Speak slowly, so I can understand what you’re saying.”

A pause.

“It is?” His jaw tightens.

More silence. Then?—

“Ask my assistant to take care of it.”

Another beat. His shoulders go rigid. “She what?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “I’ll be there.”

He pockets his phone, nods once to the group. “Office emergency. I need to go.”

As he strides past us, he pauses and half bows to Fever and me. “I’ve no doubt, you’ll keep each other out of trouble.”

I arch a brow. “Looks like you’re the one with trouble brewing.”

“Don’t you have a team for this kind of thing?” Fever asks.

Brody scowls. “I do. And normally they’re solid. But this time…” He drags his palm down his jaw. “This time, my team is the emergency.”

To find out what happens next read Brody and Lark’s story in The Christmas Trap here

Read an excerpt

Brody

“You’re breaking up with me?”

My assistant’s voice seems to detonate. Sharp, clear, devastating.

Her back is ramrod straight; fury carved into every line of her petite frame. Her shoulders are drawn so tightly, they could slice through steel. And her tush—that wicked, perfect curve I’ve tried damned hard not to fixate on every time she walks into my office—trembles with suppressed rage.

I clench my fists at my sides. I want to palm those full, trembling cheeks—yes, the ones I’ve admired far too long under the guise of professional detachment—and anchor her to something steady. Something safe. Something like me.