Page 16 of The Wrong Husband
“AndI’ve worked undercover.”
My eyes widen. That explains the cat rescue—the way he scaled that tree like he’s done it while running for his life.
“Don’t you people keep that kind of thing…secret?” I arch an eyebrow. “Or is that something you say to impress women?”
His eyes spark, lips curving like he’s got my number. “Are you impressed?”
Yes. But hell, if I’ll admit that.
“What I am”—I tighten my jaw—“is deeply skeptical about running into you again.”
I glance at the gash on his forehead. “But first—let’s deal with that wound.”
“Whatever you say, Doc.” He tips his chin.
I survey his features once again, looking for signs of mockery, but find none.
Instinct tells me, it’s rare for him to acquiesce so easily. That he’s a man more accustomed to giving orders than taking them. Well, too bad. In this ER cubicle, I am the doctor, and he’s, my patient.
A very sexy patient whose smirk triggers an acute spike in my core temperature.
Ovaries: on hyper alert. Blood pressure: elevated. Pulse rate: abnormally fast.
Every cell in my body seems to be in overdrive, completely fixated on him.
Then his gaze narrows. “You have an American accent.”
“My mother's American. I went to the American school in London,” I blurt out, then curse myself.
Why am I sharing personal information with this man? He must have shaken my composure to the extent that I’m not thinking straight.
His eyes sweep over me—slow, deliberate. A touch without contact, that leaves prickles of awareness in its wake; like powdered snow laced with shards of glass.
He could hurt me. Shatter me into something unrecognizable. Break me down and rebuild me in an image that serves his desire. And the twisted part? I’d let him. I’d want it. The idea of pleasing him—being remade for him—sends a pulse of heat through my chest.
I shiver.God, what a thought.But it clings to me, sharp and sweet. A new kind of anticipation unfurls inside me—deep, primal, unfamiliar. And it climbs my spine like a live wire.
I need to get on with treating him. Need to do my job.
I tear my gaze from his. Immediately, air fills my lungs.Good God, surely this is how it must feel to be extubated without warning—raw, exposed, but finally able to breathe on my own.
I pick up the paperwork, and scan through it. I’m not surprised to find my fingers are shaking. I compose myself.
"Connor Davenport. Thirty-five years. You were in a bar fight?" I ask without looking at him.
If I do, I’m going to be drawn into this strange chemistry between us again, and I don’t want that happening.
“The triage nurse was thorough,” he rumbles.
I ignore the instant leap to attention from various parts of my body and focus on the paperwork. Reading it until the end, I set it aside.
"Take off your clothes." My voice comes out husky. Like we’re in the bedroom instead of this examination room with its harsh fluorescent lights and tiles made of vinyl.
He arches an eyebrow.
My flush deepens. I clear my throat and try again, pleased when my tone is brisk instead of breathy. "I mean, please take off your jacket and T-shirt so I can examine your wounds." I keep my expression impersonal. "There’s blood on your T-shirt, under your jacket, which is ripped.”
He glances down at himself, then unfolds his body and rises to his feet. And keeps rising.
