Page 47 of The Wrong Husband
But Phe changed everything.
She's had me heated since I met her. My own personal fever. MyFever.
She gives me purpose. Something real. She’s mine. And I’m not letting her go.
My phone buzzes again.Another update. The lights are on in her house. She’s up. She normally leaves for work around 6:30 a.m.
I check the time; it’s 5 a.m.Time to move.
“Gotta go,” I say, rising. “Try not to bankrupt each other.”
"Hey, I thought you were giving me a chance to recoup my losses?" Viktor protests.
"Next time." I nod at Brody. "You can donate my winnings, as usual." I pocket my phone and run out of there. I slide behind the wheel of my Aston Martin.
It’s luxurious, yet practical for high speeds, and doesn’t stand out in London’s traffic. And now that she knows my identity, I no longer have to use the van as a disguise. I can’t use this car when I’m undercover, so it is with great pleasure that I ease the vehicle onto the road.
I drive up the road leading to her home and slow to a crawl to keep pace with her walking on the sidewalk.
She notices me and keeps walking. She’s dressed in her usual yoga pants and T-shirt… And her yellow clogs. She still hasn’t bought new shoes. She’s enroute to the hospital.
I pull ahead of her, come to a stop, then open the door to the vehicle. When she draws abreast, I call out, “Get in the car, Doc.”
She ignores me.
"Doc. Get. In. The. Car."
17
Phoenix
I get in the car. The question of disobeying His Royal Bossiness doesn’t even arise.
Sliding into his car feels like slipping into a warm yet erotic embrace. His extraordinary eyes rake over me, checking for any sign of injury or hurt, and damn my traitorous heart, it skips a beat. His full focus on me is like the sun coming out after a week of dark clouds. I hadn't realized how much I wanted to feel its warmth again.
To stop that treacherous line of thought, I firm my lips. “What’s so important that you scare the daylights out of me when I’ve not even had my coffee?—”
“Here.” He offers me the cup I hadn’t noticed in the cupholder next to my seat.
“What’s that?”
“You have a fondness for dirty chai latte, so?—”
“Thank you.” I take the cup and sip from it. The heady taste of cinnamon, cloves, and star anise, mixed with tea, milk andsugar explodes on my tongue and slides down my palate like honey.
“It’s still hot,” I breathe.
“It’s an insulated cup.”
Because, of course, he’d think of everything.
“Coffee shops aren’t open this early.” I skipped my coffee because I didn’t want to face a glowering Drew in the kitchen. I opted to forego my morning caffeine rush, again.
Having a dirty chai, first thing in the morning, is more decadent than being gifted diamonds.
“I know one that is.” He shrugs.
Like it’s not a big deal that he went to the trouble of finding it and then turning up at my place before daybreak.
