Page 4 of The Reluctant Wife

The gesture is so saucy that I bark out a surprised laugh and pretend to catch it. The car pulls ahead, and she’s out of sight. The taillights disappear around the corner. What a woman!

Slowly, the sounds of the city filter back into my consciousness, and with it, the breath I hadn’t been aware I was holding whistles out. A flurry of wind catches some scraps of paper, lifting them into a whirlwind, causing them to dance in circles. Like my life. Like this emptiness left behind. I glance down and see my hand over my heart. Damn, I’m not given to maudlin gestures such as this. One kiss, and she’s reduced me to a bumbling Romeo. I shove my hand into the pocket of my jeans.

It’s not like me to give into such fanciful thinking. Whoever she was, she's gone. Good riddance. I’ll never see her again. Never feel the press of those gorgeous lips against mine. Good thing, too. I don’t have time for such distractions. I’ve sworn never to allow myself to be this susceptible again. I'll never allow myself to feel for another. Not after what I’ve been through. And yet—the way she felt in my arms. The way she molded herself to me. Those curves of hers that felt so right. So vital. So…everything. I shake my head. She’s gone. Time for me to move on and put her out of my mind.

My phone buzzes. I pull it out of my pocket and bark, "What?"

"Be ready to report for your assignment at oh-six-hundred hours," my uncle’s voice barks down the line.

It’s as if I’m back in the Marines, and he’s my commander. Only, I’m not, and neither is he.

"I haven’t said I’m accepting the task,” I remind him.

"Cut the crap,” he scoffs. “It’s not like you have other options."

"Not like joining a fledgling security agency yet to establish itself is an option.”

He laughs. "Myreputation precedes me."

Only a fool would take Quentin Davenport at face value. His tone masks an edge of steel. Q was the first in our family to join the Marines. It set an example for me and my brothers to follow. And all of us, except the youngest, Connor, joined the armed forces. And each of us retired after giving our best years to the service. None of us regret it. Though, dealing with the guilt of living while so many of others didn’t is something I’m not sure I’ll be over anytime soon.

"You’re not going to join the Davenport group. At least, you’re smart enough to not makethatmistake," he admits. Q, like my older brothers Nathan and Knox, gave it a shot. But while both stayed on as CEOs of group companies, Q resigned his role. He agreed to stay on the board but channeled his efforts into setting up his security agency.

When I heard about it, it felt like a viable alternative to riding a desk—a possibility which has zero appeal. I squeeze my fingers around my phone.

Q is responsible for giving the order that resulted in Jane’s death and that of her battalion on a tour of duty. When I learned this about my uncle, I vowed revenge. Then, I discovered he wasn't aware they were at the enemy site he'd given the orders to take out. I had it verified by other sources, too—he wasn’t at fault. He's since apologized for his role in the matter. So, am I going to consider his offer?

"If I’m being honest, you’d do me a favor by accepting this," he murmurs.

I let out a derisive chuckle. "Laying it on thick, aren’t you?"

Q huffs out a laugh. "Of course, if you’re not ready to take on a role that you could perform with your eyes closed, then I understand. Perhaps, you need more downtime to take care of your mental health…"

The last thing I need is more time off. Frankly, I’m itching to be on a mission… Any mission. I miss the discipline of the Marines. I miss having a purpose. Former Commanding Officer that he is, Quentin Davenport is shrewd enough to know this. But I still have issues working with him. I hesitate.

On the other hand, he’s right. I have no other option; nothing else lined up. And the need to wake up and know I'm going to be of service, albeit for a private client, is a lure I can’t resist. I need something to get my mind off the past. Something to help me re-focus my attention. Something to test if I still have the edge. It’s too attractive. It’s why I snap out, "I haven’t forgiven you."

"I don’t expect you to." He blows out a breath. "But you need a goal, an objective to keep you going—" he says, unknowingly echoing my thoughts. "And I need good men I can count on. Besides, you don’t want your training to go to waste. If there’s one thing I know about you, Ryot Davenport, it’s that you want to continue to protect those in need. But do you have the guts to accept this challenge? Do you have the courage to rise above your past and commit to moving on? Do you"—he hesitates—"do you have the fortitude to not just survive but to live once again?”

3

Aurelia

“Father.” I curtsy to the King of Verenza.

We’re on the top floor of a very well-known hotel owned by one of the Seven, a group of billionaires who are close friends with my father. It doesn’t hurt that they gave him a huge discount. It’s the only way we could afford to stay here. The truth is, the Royal Family of Verenza is a hair’s breadth away from bankruptcy. It’s one of the reasons my father is in London. To drum up funds from wealthy patrons.

"Darling, Aura." He looks up from where he’s been deep in discussion with Fred Humphries, his First Minister, and another official looking man I don’t recognize.

My father's familiar face breaks into a large smile. The warmth on his features is palpable. He’s my only surviving parent. Seeing him reminds me of my mother, and my heart squeezes in my chest. Suddenly, I'm not twenty-three years old and a princess, but a daughter who goes for long periods withoutseeing her dad. He often travels on missions to further our country’s diplomatic ties.

I want to race toward him and throw myself against his chest, but he’s the king. Royal protocol decrees that I do not indulge in overt gestures of affection, not even when we’re alone.

The meeting ends, and the official I don’t recognize rises to his feet and bows. “I’ll have the paperwork sent to you, Your Highness.”

My father also rises. He holds out his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Singh. I am grateful the International Monetary Fund has accepted our bid for a loan.”

Another loan? It’s been less than a month since Verenza borrowed from the IMF. Things are worse than I realized.

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