Vows They Can't Escape Read online

  This was old news. It didn’t make a damn bit of difference now. Obviously the shock of seeing her again had worked stuff loose which had been hanging about without his knowledge.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  The groggy question brought him back to the problem nestled in his arms.

  He elbowed the call button on the elevator, grateful when the doors zipped open and they could get out of range of their audience. Stepping inside, he nudged the button marked Penthouse Only.

  ‘My place. Top floor.’

  ‘What happened?’

  He glanced down to find her eyes glazed, her face still pale as a ghost. She looked sweet and innocent and scared—the way she had once before.

  ‘It’s positive. I’m going to have a baby. What are we going to do?’

  He concentrated on the panel above his head, shoving the flashback where it belonged—in the file marked Ancient History.

  ‘You tell me.’ He kept his voice casual. ‘One minute we were yelling at each other and the next you were hitting the deck.’

  ‘I must have fainted,’ she said, as if she wasn’t sure. She shifted, colour flooding back into her cheeks. ‘You can put me down now. I’m fine.’

  He should do what she asked, because having her soft curves snug against his chest and that sultry scent filling his nostrils wasn’t doing much for his equilibrium, but his heartbeat was still going for gold in Kentucky.

  His grip tightened.

  ‘Uh-huh?’ He raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘You make a habit of swooning like a heroine in a trashy novel?’

  Her chin took on a mutinous tilt, but she didn’t reply.

  Finally, score one to Redmond.

  The elevator arrived at his penthouse and the doors opened onto the panoramic view of the downtown skyline.

  At any other time the sight would have brought with it a satisfying ego-boost. The designer furniture, the modern steel and glass structure and the expertly planted roof terrace, its lap pool sparkling in the fading sunlight, was a million miles away from the squalid dump he’d grown up in. He’d worked himself raw in the last couple of years, and spent a huge chunk of investment capital, to complete the journey.

  But he wasn’t feeling too proud of himself at the moment. He’d lost his temper downstairs, but worse than that, he’d let his emotions get the upper hand.

  ‘Stop crying like a girl and get me another beer, or you’ll be even sorrier than you are already, you little pissant.’

  His old man had been a mean drunk, whom he’d grown to despise, but one thing the hard bastard had taught him was that letting your emotions show only made you weak.

  Xanthe had completed his education by teaching him another valuable lesson—that mixing sex with sentiment was never a good idea.

  Somehow both those lessons had deserted him downstairs.

  He deposited her on the leather couch in the centre of the living space and stepped back, aware of the persistent ache in his crotch.

  She got busy fussing with her hair, not meeting his eyes. Her staggered breathing made her breasts swell against the lacy top. The persistent ache spiked.

  Terrific.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘But you didn’t have to carry me all the way up here.’

  She looked around the space, still not meeting his eyes.

  He stifled the disappointment when she didn’t comment on the apartment. He wasn’t looking for her approval. Certainly didn’t need it.

  ‘The company doc’s coming up to check you out,’ he said.

  That got her attention. Her gaze flashed to his—equal parts aggravation and embarrassment.

  ‘That’s not necessary. It’s just a bit of jet lag.’

  Jet lag didn’t make all the colour drain out of your face, or give your eyes that haunted, hunted look. And it sure as hell didn’t make you drop like a stone in the middle of an argument.

  ‘Tell that to Dr Epstein.’

  She was getting checked out by a professional whether she liked it or not. She might not be his responsibility any more, but this was his place and his rules.

  The elevator bell dinged on cue.

  He crossed the apartment to greet the doctor, his racing heartbeat finally reaching the finish line and heading into a victory lap when he heard Xanthe’s annoyed huff of breath behind him.

  Better to deal with a pissed Xanthe than one who fainted dead away right before his eyes.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘WHAT I’M PRESCRIBING is a balanced meal and a solid ten hours’ sleep, in that order.’

  The good Dr Epstein sent Xanthe a grave look which made her feel as if she were four years old again, being chastised by Nanny Foster for refusing to go down for her nap.

  ‘Your blood pressure is elevated and the fact you haven’t eaten or slept well in several days is no doubt the cause of this episode. Stress is a great leveller, Ms Carmichael,’ he added.

  As if she didn’t know that, with the source of her stress standing two feet away, eavesdropping.

  This was so not what she needed right now. For Dane to know that she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep or managed to eat a full meal since Wednesday morning. Thanks to the good doctor’s interrogation she might as well be wearing a sign with Weak and Feeble Woman emblazoned across it.

  She’d never fainted before in her life. Well, not since—

  She cut off the thought.

  Do not go back there. Not again.

  Rehashing those dark days had already cost her far too much ground. Swooning ‘like a heroine in a trashy novel,’ as Dane had so eloquently put it, had done the rest. The only good thing to come out of her dying swan act was the fact that it had happened before she’d had the chance to blurt out the truth about her miscarriage.

  After coming round in Dane’s arms, her cheek nestled against his rock-solid shoulder and her heart thundering in her chest, the inevitable blast of heat had been followed by a much needed blast of rational thought.

  She was here to finish things with Dane—not kick-start loads of angst from the past. Absolutely nothing would be achieved by correcting Dane’s assumption now, other than to cast her yet again in the role of the sad, insecure little girl who needed a man to protect her.

  Maybe that had been true then. Her father’s high-handed decision to prevent her from seeing Dane had robbed them both of the chance to end their relationship amicably. And then her father had mucked things up completely by hiring his useless old school chum Augustus Greaves to handle the admin on the divorce.

  But her father was dead now. And with hindsight she could see that in his own misguided, paternalistic way he had probably believed he was acting in her best interests. And the truth was the end result, however agonising it had been to go through at the time, had been in her best interests.

  Who was to say she wouldn’t have gone back to Dane? Been delusional enough to carry on trying to make a go of a marriage that had been a mistake from the start?

  Nothing would be gained by telling Dane the truth now, ten years too late. Except to give him another golden opportunity to demonstrate his me-Tarzan-you-Jane routine.

  She’d found his dominance and overprotectiveness romantic that summer. Believing it proved how much he loved her. When all it had really proved was that Dane, like her father, had never seen her as an equal.

  The fact that she’d felt safe and cherished and turned on by the ease with which he’d held her a moment ago was just her girly hormones talking. And those little snitches didn’t need any more excuses to join the party.

  Much better that Dane respected her based on a misconception, even if it made him hate her, than that she encourage his pity with the truth. Because his pity had left her confidence and her self-esteem in the toilet ten years ago—and led to a series of stupid decisions that had nearly destroyed her.

  She was a pragmatist now—a shrewd, focused career woman. One melodramatic swoon brought on by starvation and exhaustion and stress didn’t change that.
Thank goodness she wasn’t enough of a ninny to be looking for love to complete her life any more. Because it was complete enough already.

  Maybe there was a tiny tug of regret at the thought of that young man who had come to her father’s estate looking for her, only to be turned away. But the fact that he’d come to the worst possible conclusion proved he’d never truly understood her. How could he ever have believed she would abort their child?

  ‘I appreciate your advice, Doctor,’ she replied, as the man packed the last of his paraphernalia into his bag. ‘I’ll make sure I grab something to eat at the airport and get some sleep on the plane.’

  No doubt she’d sleep like the dead, given the emotional upheaval she’d just endured.

  She glanced at her watch and stood up, steadying herself against the sofa when a feeling of weightlessness made her head spin.

  ‘You’re flying back tonight?’ The doctor frowned at her again, as if she’d just thrown a tantrum.

  ‘Yes, at seven,’ she replied. She only had an hour before boarding closed on her flight to Heathrow. ‘So I should get going.’

  The elderly man’s grave expression became decidedly condescending. ‘I wouldn’t advise catching a transatlantic flight tonight. You need to give yourself some time to recover. You’ve just had a full-blown anxiety attack.’

  ‘A...what?’ she yelped, far too aware of Dane’s overbearing presence in her peripheral vision as he listened to every word. ‘It wasn’t an anxiety attack. It was just a bit of light-headedness.’

  ‘Mr Redmond said you became very emotional, then collapsed, and that you were out for over a minute. That’s more than light-headedness.’

  ‘Right...well, thanks for your opinion, Doctor.’ As if she cared what ‘Mr Redmond’ had to say on the subject.

  ‘You’re welcome, Ms Carmichael.’

  She hung back as Dane showed Dr Epstein out, silently fuming at the subtle put-down. And the fact Dane had witnessed it. And the even bigger problem that she was going to have to wait now until the doctor had taken the lift down before she could leave herself. Which would mean spending torturous minutes alone with Dane while trying to avoid the parade of circus elephants crammed into his palatial penthouse apartment with them.

  She didn’t want to talk about their past, her so-called anxiety attack, or any of the other ten-ton pachyderms that might be up for discussion.

  However nonchalant she’d tried to be with Dr Epstein, she didn’t feel 100 per cent. She was shattered. The last few days had been stressful—more stressful than she’d wanted to admit. And the revelations that had come during their argument downstairs hadn’t exactly reduced her stress levels.

  And, while she was playing Truth or Dare with herself, she might as well also admit that being in Dane’s office had been unsettling enough.

  Being alone with him in his apartment was worse.

  She shrugged into the jacket she’d taken off while Dr Epstein took her blood pressure. Time to make a dignified and speedy exit.

  ‘Where’s my briefcase?’ she asked, her voice more high-pitched than she would have liked, as Dane walked back towards her.

  ‘My office.’

  He leaned against the steel banister of a staircase leading to a mezzanine level and crossed his arms over that wide chest. His stance looked relaxed. She wasn’t fooled.

  ‘I couldn’t scoop it up,’ he continued, his silent censure doing nothing for the pulse punching her throat, ‘because I had my hands full scooping up you.’

  ‘I’ll get it on my way out,’ she said, deliberately ignoring the sarcasm while marching towards the elevator.

  He unfolded his arms and stepped into her path. ‘That’s not what the doctor ordered.’

  ‘He’s not my doctor,’ she announced, distracted by the pectoral muscles outlined by creased white cotton. ‘And I don’t take orders.’

  His sensual lips flattened into a stubborn line and his jaw hardened, drawing her attention back to the dent in his chin.

  She bit into her tongue, assaulted by the sudden urge to lick that masculine dip.

  What the heck?

  She tried to sidestep him. He stepped with her, forcing her to butt into the wall o’ pecs. Awareness shot up her spine as she took a hasty step back.

  ‘Get out of my way.’

  ‘Red, chill out.’

  She caught a glimpse of concern, her pulse spiking uncomfortably at his casual use of the old nickname.

  ‘I will not chill out. I have a flight to catch.’ She sounded shrill, but she was starting to feel light-headed again. If she did another smackdown in front of him the last of her dignity would be in shreds.

  ‘You’re shaking.’

  ‘I’m not shaking.’

  Of course she was shaking. He was standing too close, crowding her, engulfing her in that subtly sexy scent. Even though he wasn’t touching her she could feel him everywhere—in her tender breasts, her ragged breathing and in the hotspot between her thighs which was about to spontaneously combust. Basically, her body had reverted to its default position whenever Dane Redmond was within a ten-mile radius.

  ‘Unless you’ve got a chopper handy, you’ve already missed your flight,’ he observed, doing that sounding reasonable thing again, which made her sound hysterical. ‘Midtown traffic is a bitch at this time of day. No way are you going to make it to JFK in under an hour.’

  ‘Then I’ll wait at the airport for another flight.’

  ‘Why not hang out here and catch a flight out tomorrow like Epstein suggested?’

  With him? In his apartment? Alone? Was he bonkers?

  ‘No, thank you.’

  She tried to shift round him again. A restraining hand cupped her elbow and electricity zapped up her arm.

  She yanked free, the banked heat in his cool blue gaze almost as disturbing as what he said next.

  ‘How about I apologise?’

  ‘What for?’

  Was he serious? Dane had been the original never-give-in-never-surrender guy back in the day. She’d never seen him back down or apologise for anything.

  ‘For yelling at you in my office. About stuff that doesn’t matter any more.’

  It was the last thing she had expected. But as she searched his expression she could see he meant it.

  It was an olive branch. She wanted to snatch it and run straight for the moral high ground. But the tug of regret in the pit of her stomach chose that precise moment to give a sharp yank.

  ‘You don’t have to apologise for speaking your mind. But, if you insist, I should apologise, too,’ she continued. ‘You’re right. I should have consulted you about...about the abortion.’

  The lie tasted sour—a betrayal of the tiny life she’d once yearned to hold in her arms. But this was the only way to finally release them both from all those foolish dreams.

  ‘Hell, Red. You don’t have to apologise for that.’

  He scrubbed his hands over his scalp, the frustrated gesture bringing an old memory to the surface of running her hands over the soft bristles while they lay together on the deck of the pocket cruiser, her body pleasantly numb with afterglow from the first time they’d made love.

  She pressed tingling palms against the fabric of her skirt, trying to erase the picture in her head, but the unguarded memory continued to play out—one agonising sensation at a time. Goosebumps pebbling her arms from the warm breeze off the ocean...the base of her thumb stinging from the affectionate nip as he bit into the tender flesh.

  ‘You sure you’re okay? I didn’t hurt you? You’re so small and delicate...’

  ‘I get why you did it,’ Dane continued, as the erotic memory played havoc with her senses. ‘You weren’t ready to be a mom, and I would have been a disaster as a dad.’

  He was telling her he agreed with her. Case comprehensively closed. But what should have been a victory only made the sour taste in her mouth turn to mud.

  She had been ready to be a mother. How could he have doubted that? Didn’t he kno
w how much she had wanted their baby? And why would he think he’d make a terrible father? Was this something to do with all his scars, the childhood and the family he had never been willing to talk about?

  Good grief, get real. You are not still invested in that fairytale.

  The idiotic notion that she could rescue him by helping him to overcome stuff he refused to talk about had been the domain of that romantic teenage girl. That fairytale was part of her past. A past she’d just lied through her teeth to put behind her. This had to be the jet lag talking again, because it was not like her to lose her grip on reality twice in one day.

  ‘I’d really like to settle this amicably,’ she said at last, determined to accept his olive branch.

  ‘We can do that—but you need to stay put tonight. You took a couple of years off my life downstairs, and you still look as if a strong breeze could blow you over.’

  That searing gaze drifted to the top of her hair, which probably looked as if a chinchilla had been nesting in it. Awareness shimmered, the sharp tug in her abdomen ever more insistent.

  ‘I feel responsible for that,’ he said, the gentle tone at odds with the bunched muscle jumping in his jaw.

  ‘I told you. I’m okay.’ She couldn’t stay. Couldn’t risk becoming that poor, pathetic girl again, who needed his strength because she had none of her own. ‘And, more importantly, I’m not your responsibility.’

  ‘Think again,’ he said, trampling over her resistance, the muscle in his jaw now dancing a jig. ‘Because until I sign those papers you’re still my lawfully wedded wife.’

  It was an insane thing to say. But much more insane was the stutter in her pulse, the fluttering sensation deep in her abdomen at the conviction in his voice.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Dane. We are not actually married and we haven’t been for over ten years. What we’re talking about is an admin error that you wouldn’t even know about if I hadn’t come to see you today.’

  ‘About that...’ He hooked a tendril of hair behind her ear. ‘Why did you come all the way to Manhattan when you could have gotten your attorney to handle it?’