Page 32 of The Wrong Husband
"Your brother was worried about you. He wanted me to keep an eye on you.”
What the hell?
“James sent you?”I blow out a breath. "I've sent his last calls to voicemail, sure. But I always meant to call him back.”
For a moment, I feel guilt for not staying in touch with my big brother. But it’s quickly replaced with rage.
“I can’t believe he sent you to spy on me.” I throw up my hands. “Typical, overbearing, older brother bullshit.”
I pull out my phone and begin to dial James’ number, but Connor places his hand on mine.
Electricity zings up my arm from the point of contact. This awareness between us is ridiculous. It seems to have multiplied since we met in the ER this morning. I pull my hand out from under his, my fingers trembling. The phone slips from my grasp and onto the table.
"I didn’t mean to startle you," he says softly.
The concern in his voice does funny things to my composure. If he were rude, I could handle it better. The fact that those startling blue eyes are looking at me with concern and apology touches a chord inside me. It feels like he’s melting through the resistance I’ve built up around my heart. I clear my throat and look away.
"You can understand why I’m pissed off at James, and at you. I’m a grown woman. A doctor. A professional with my own life. An adult." I rub at my temple. "And you were following me, and stalking me?—"
"I wasn’t stalking you." He shifts uncomfortably. "Not in the strict sense of the word."
“And I’m supposed to believe you because—?” I spear him with a look like he’s a misdiagnosis I plan to correct. “Oh right, becausestalkingpeople is yourprofession.”
“On occasion,” he says, maddeningly calm.
That non-answer snaps something in me. Seriously? He follows me for weeks, andthat’sthe tone he takes?
“You have good instincts,” he offers, like he’s doing me a favor.
Thenerve.
“If you think a few compliments are going to win me over?—”
“I’m stating a fact.” He shrugs. Like we’re talking about the weather, not the fact that he’s been shadowing me.
Anger coils in my chest, tight and sharp. My heart’s pounding, and it’s not just from rage. It’s him. His calm. His arrogance. That infuriating confidence that should repulse me—but doesn’t.
God help me, I find it hot.
I hate that I do.
He’s been watching me.Me.Not just in passing—he’s beenfocusedon me. For weeks. And now that I know, I can’t un-know it. There’s something twistedly intimate about it.
Moisture gathers between my thighs. My armpits are damp. My thoughts are a mess of fury, confusion, and something that feels suspiciously like arousal.
This is wrong. So wrong.
And yet the idea of him disappearing from my life makes my stomach pitch. I’dmisshim.
The thought slams into me like a punch to the chest. It’s a full-body jolt. I shoot to my feet.
“I think I’ve heard enough.”
Because if I stay one second longer, I’m afraid of what I’ll say. Or worse—what I’ll give away by my actions.
He rises calmly; which means, he towers over me. It also means, he’s able to show off those massive shoulders, and that gorgeous neck, and that superb, sculpted chest across which the T-shirt stretches, and which now doesn’t show any sign of blood. It’s a twin to the one he was wearing earlier, but it's new. For that matter, his jacket is, too.
“You changed?”
