Vows They Can't Escape Read online

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THAT EVENING XANTHE stood in front of the bathroom mirror in the corner suite her ex-husband had booked for her as a final gesture of ‘friendship,’ still trying to feel good about the outcome of their forced trip down memory lane that afternoon.

  Tomorrow morning she would have the signed divorce papers in her hand, all threats to Carmichael’s would be gone, and she and Dane could both get back to their lives as if Augustus Greaves and his shoddy workmanship had never happened.

  Mission accomplished.

  The only problem was she didn’t feel good about what had happened in Dane’s office and later in his apartment. She felt edgy and tense and vaguely guilty—thoughts and emotions still colliding in her brain three hours later, like a troop of toddlers on a sugar rush.

  She smoothed aloe vera moisturiser over the red skin on her face which, fresh from a long hot bath loaded with the hotel’s luxury bath salts, beamed like a stop light. If only she’d seen that warning before she’d let Dane devour her, because stubble rash was the least of her worries.

  The memory of his rough, frantic handling sent an unwelcome shiver of awareness through her exhausted body. Firm, sensual lips subjugating hers, that marauding tongue plunging deep and obliterating all rational thought, solid pecs rippling beneath her grasping fingers, his teeth biting into her bottom lip and sending need arrowing down to her core...

  She gripped the sink, her thighs turning to mush. Again.

  She shivered, even though the bathroom’s central air was set at the perfect ambient temperature. She needed to sleep. And forget about this afternoon’s events.

  But sleep continued to elude her.

  She’d had some success in distracting herself for the first hour after Dane’s driver had deposited her at the striking modernist hotel on Manhattan’s High Line Park by doing what she did best—formulating an extensive to-do list and then doing it to death.

  The first order of business had been to book herself on the evening flight to Heathrow tomorrow and bump herself up to first class. After today’s ‘episode’ a lie-flat seat was going to be a necessity.

  With her flight booked, she’d messed around for another thirty minutes selecting designer jeans, a fashionable T-shirt, fresh underwear and a pair of flats online from a nearby boutique and getting a guarantee that it would be express-delivered by tomorrow morning at 10 a.m. No matter how washed out she felt, at least she wouldn’t have to look washed out, wearing her creased silk suit on the flight home.

  Unfortunately while actioning her to-do list she’d got a second wind that she didn’t seem able to shake—even after soaking for twenty minutes in the suite’s enormous bathtub.

  She just wanted to turn her brain off now and get comatose. But she couldn’t. Maybe it was the jet lag kicking in? It was close to dawn now in the UK—the time she usually woke up to get ready for work and have her morning caffeine hit while sitting on the balcony of her luxury flat by the River Thames, allowing herself five minutes to enjoy the sun rising over Tower Bridge.

  Her body clock had obviously decided that habit wasn’t going to change, no matter what time zone she was in. Or how shattered she felt.

  Unfortunately, being unable to sleep had given her far too much time to dissect all the things that had gone wrong this afternoon. Her fainting fit, the shocking revelation that Dane had assumed she’d aborted their child, but most of all her ludicrous reaction to Dane’s come-on.

  And she’d come to one irrefutable conclusion. When she got back to London she needed to look at options to get back in the dating game—because all work and no sex had clearly turned her into an unexploded bomb. She hadn’t had a date in three years, no actual intimate contact in at least four, and she hadn’t gone all the way since...

  Xanthe watched the frown puckering her brow in the mirror deepen into a crevice.

  Since the last time she’d made love to Dane.

  No wonder she’d lost it with him. Her physical reaction to him had nothing to do with their past—or any lingering feelings—and everything to do with her failure to find another man with the same orgasm-on-demand capabilities as her ex-husband.

  Since Dane, she’d always taken care of her own orgasms. At first she had put it down to some kind of perverse physical loyalty to the man who had abandoned her. Whenever another man touched her, her body had insisted on comparing him to Dane. Her failure to get aroused hadn’t bothered her too much—in fact she’d begun to think it was a boon. After all, she never wanted to be a slave to her sex drive again—so in thrall to a guy’s sexual prowess that she confused lust with love.

  But apparently her sex drive was still a slave to Dane’s sexual prowess.

  Don’t go there. It doesn’t mean anything.

  Dane wasn’t unique. He didn’t have some special mojo that made her more susceptible, more in tune to his touch than to any other guy’s. She just hadn’t found the right guy yet—the right ‘other guy’ to hit all her happy buttons—because she hadn’t been looking.

  She’d got so used to taking care of her own business the loss hadn’t become apparent until she’d walked into Dane’s office this afternoon and had some kind of sexual breakdown. Triggered by Dane, who—in his usual in-your-face style—had decided to demonstrate exactly what she had been missing.

  Of course she’d responded to Dane with all the restraint of a firecracker meeting a naked flame. She’d been running on stress and adrenaline for three days, and working herself to the bone for a great deal longer.

  Dane had always known how to trip her switch, how to touch and caress and take her in ways that gave her no choice but to respond. And that obviously hadn’t changed. But only because she’d been holding herself hostage for ten years...not exploring the possibilities.

  After the trauma of their marriage, she had convinced herself in the last ten years that an active and fulfilled sex-life wasn’t important. But clearly it was important—to her sense of self and her sense of well-being.

  When she got back to the UK she was going to remedy that. Why not check out a few dating websites?

  She shuddered involuntarily.

  But until then she needed to get rid of all the sexual energy pumping around her system and stopping her from dropping into the exhausted sleep she so desperately needed.

  She touched her fingertip to the tender skin on her chin, then trailed the nail down, inadvertently following the path Dane had taken three hours ago. Parting her robe, she sucked in a breath as the cool satin brushed over the tender skin of her nipple. Hooking the lapel round her breast to expose herself, she circled the ripe areola, still supremely sensitive from Dane’s attentions. Her nipple rose in ruched splendour, the air cool against heated flesh. The gush of response between her thighs settled low in her abdomen, warm and fluid and heavy. She pinched the nipple, remembering the sharp nip of his teeth, and the coil of need tightened into a knot.

  Untying the robe’s belt, she let it fall open, revealing the neatly trimmed curls at the apex of her thighs, and spotted a small bruise on her hip. She ran her finger over the mark, remembering the feel of Dane’s fingers digging into her skin as he boosted her into his arms.

  ‘Wrap your legs round my waist.’

  She cupped her aching sex, pressing the heel of her palm hard against her pelvic bone.

  But as she closed her eyes all she could see was Dane’s eyes staring back at her, the iridescent blue of the irises almost invisible round the lust-blown pupils, the hot look demanding she come...but only for him.

  She parted the wet folds, but as she ran the pad of her finger over the tight bundle of nerves all she could feel were the urgent flicks and caresses of thick, blunt, calloused fingers.

  ‘Always so damn wet for me, Red.’

  His low, husky voice reverberated through her as she rubbed her clitoris in urgent, helpless strokes. She knew the right touch, the perfect touch to take her over quickly and efficiently. But this time the memory of Dane’s fingers, firm
and sure, mocked her battle for release, teasing and tempting her, taking her higher, and higher.

  She panted. Not quite there yet. Never. Quite. There.

  ‘Please, please...’

  She slammed her palm down on the vanity unit and opened her eyes to see a mad woman staring back at her—hot, bothered and still hopelessly frustrated.

  Every nerve-ending pulsated, desperate for release. A release that remained resolutely out of reach. Tantalising her senses...torturing her already-battered brain. A release she was very much afraid only Dane could give her.

  The bastard.

  Damn her ex-husband. Had he ruined her now for herself? As well as for every other man? How was that fair? Or proportionate?

  She tied the robe with shaking hands, covering her nakedness. The flushed skin was screaming in protest, too sensitive now even for the silky feel of satin. She washed her hands and swallowed round the fireball in her throat, which was equal parts mortification and arousal. Cursing Dane and his clever, commanding caresses with every staggered breath.

  She walked back into the bedroom of the suite and crossed to the phone. She would call down and ask for some sleeping pills. She hated taking any kind of medication, hated having her senses dulled, but if she didn’t do something soon the toddlers in her head were liable to explode right out of her ears.

  Whatever black magic Dane had worked on her sex-starved body this afternoon would be undone by a decent ten hours’ sleep, and tomorrow evening she would be winging her way back across the Atlantic, the signed papers snug in her briefcase.

  She was never going to see him again. Or feel his knowing fingers. Or watch his sexy I’m-gonna-make-you-come-like-an-express-train smile. And that was exactly how she wanted it. She was her own woman now. Or she would be again, once she was out of his line of fire.

  A sharp rap at the door had her hesitating as she lifted the handset.

  It took her tired mind a moment to process the interruption, but then she remembered. Her clothes. In typically efficient New York City style, the boutique had delivered them ahead of schedule.

  Dropping the phone she crossed the room and flung open the door without bothering to check the peephole.

  All the blood drained out of her head and raced down to pound in her already pouting clitoris. And the toddlers in her head began mainlining cocaine.

  ‘Dane, what are you doing here?’

  And why do you have to look so incredible?

  Her ex stood on the threshold in worn jeans and a long-sleeved blue T-shirt covered by a chequered shirt. The buzz cut shone black in the light from the hallway, complementing the dark frown on his handsome face. Wisps of chest hair revealed by the T-shirt’s V-neck announced his overwhelming masculinity. Not that it needed any more of an introduction.

  With his broad shoulders blocking the doorway, his imposing height towering over her own five feet six inches in her bare feet and his blue eyes glittering with intent, he looked even more capable of leaping tall buildings in a single bound in casual clothing than he had in his captain of industry outfit.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  Flattening a large hand against the door, he pushed it open and strolled past her into the room before she could object.

  ‘We’ve already talked,’ she said, her voice as unsteady as her heartbeat as she gripped the lapels of the flimsy robe, drawing them over her throat in a vain attempt to hide at least some of the marks left by his kisses.

  She squeezed her traitorous nipples under folded forearms to alleviate the sudden rush of blood which had them standing out against the satin-like torpedoes ready to launch.

  Good grief, she was as good as naked, while he was fully dressed. No wonder her heartbeat was punching her pulse points with the force of a heavyweight champ.

  He turned, his size even more intimidating than usual as he stepped close. Too close. She took a step back, not caring if it made her look weak. Right now she felt weak. Too weak to resist her physical reaction to him. And that would be bad for a number of reasons. None of which she could recall, because her brain was packed full of cotton wool and rampaging toddlers tripping on cocaine.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she said, wanting to mean it.

  ‘What didn’t you have?’

  The terse question had the toddlers hitting a brick wall while the endorphin rush detonated into a thousand fragments of shrapnel.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You said, “I didn’t have,” and then you stopped. What were you about to say?’

  * * *

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘You’re lying.’ Dane could see it in her eyes. The translucent blue-green was alive with anxiety as her teeth trapped her bottom lip.

  Unfortunately he could also see she was naked under her robe. And his body was already riding roughshod over all sensible thought.

  Blood charged into his groin, but he kept his gaze steady on hers. He’d spent the last three hours trying to convince himself that seeing her again would be nuts. Why not just sign the divorce papers, have Mel deliver them tomorrow and put an end to this whole fiasco?

  But that one half-sentence, that one phrase that she’d left hanging kept coming back to torment him. That and the brutal heat that he had begun to realise had never died.

  ‘I didn’t have...’

  Eventually he’d been unable to stand it any more. So he’d walked the three blocks to the hotel. There was something she wasn’t telling him. And that something was something he needed to know.

  Maybe they meant nothing to each other now. But they had once, and not all his feelings had faded the way they should have. Which might explain why his libido hadn’t got the memo.

  He still wanted her, and it was driving him crazy.

  The light perfume of her scent, the sight of her hair curling in damp strands to her shoulders, the moist patches making the wet satin cling to her collarbone, the trembling fingers closing the robe while he imagined all the treasures that lay beneath...

  Damn it, Redmond. Concentrate. You’re not here to jump her. You’re here to get the truth.

  He’d convinced himself that she’d got rid of their kid because she’d had to, because it had been the only way she could be shot of him, and he’d never questioned it, but in the last three hours he’d begun picking apart the evidence—and not one bit of it made any sense.

  He’d always known Xanthe didn’t love him, because no one really loved anyone else. But when had she ever given him any indication that she didn’t want to keep their baby? Never. Not once. She had been the one who had insisted she wanted to have it when the stick had turned blue. She had been the one to say yes instantly when he’d suggested marriage. She had been the one who had kept on smiling every morning as she’d puked her guts up in the motel bathroom while he was left feeling tense and scared. And she’d been the one who had never stopped talking about the tiny life inside her. So much so, that she’d made him believe in it, too.

  How could that girl have given up on their baby because of one dumb argument?

  ‘I’m not lying,’ she said. ‘And you need to leave.’

  The quiver of distress in her voice made a mockery of the spark of defiance in her eyes. He could see the war she was waging to stay strong and immune. Her back was ramrod-straight, and her chin stuck out as if she were waiting for him to take a shot at it.

  Frustration tangled with lust.

  Gripping her upper arms, he tugged her towards him. Her muscles tensed under his palms, the thin layer of smooth satin over warm skin sending sex messages to his brain he did not need.

  ‘Tell me the truth, Red. What really happened to our baby? You owe me that much.’

  A shudder ran through her and she looked away—but not before he spotted the flare of anguish.

  ‘Please don’t do this. None of it matters any more.’

  ‘It does to me,’ he said, and the feelings inside him—feelings he’d thought he’d conquered years ago—raced out of
hiding to sucker-punch him all over again.

  Hurt, loss, sadness, but most of all that futile festering rage.

  Except this time the rage wasn’t directed at Xanthe but at himself. Why hadn’t he fought harder to see her? Why hadn’t he made more of an effort to get past her father and his goons and find out what had really happened?

  She kept her head down, but a lone tear trickled down the side of her face. Pain stabbed into his gut—a dull echo of the pain when Carmichael’s goons had dragged him off the estate and beaten him until he’d been unable to fight back.

  ‘Look at me, Xan.’

  She gave a loud sniff and shook her head.

  Cradling her cheek, he brushed the tear away with his thumb and raised her face to his. Her eyes widened, shadowed with hopelessness and grief, glittering with unshed tears.

  And suddenly he knew. The truth he should have figured out ten years ago. The truth that would have been obvious to him then if he’d been less of a screwed-up, insecure kid and more of a man.

  He swore softly and folded his arms around her, trying to absorb the pain.

  ‘You didn’t have an abortion, did you?’

  He said the words against her hair, breathing in the clean scent of lemon verbena, anchoring her fragile frame against his much stronger one.

  His emotions tangled into a gut-wrenching mix of anger and pain and guilt. How could he have got things so wrong? And what did he do with the information now?

  She stood rigid in his arms, refusing to soften, refusing to take the comfort he offered. The comfort her old man had denied them both.

  He swallowed down the ache in his throat. ‘That sucks, Red.’

  She drew in a deep, fortifying breath, her whole body starting to shake like a leaf in a hurricane. He tightened his arms, feeling helpless and inadequate but knowing, this once, that he was not going to take the easy road. She wasn’t that girl any more—sweet and sunny and stupidly in love with a guy who had never existed—and up until two seconds ago he would have thought he was glad of it. But now he wasn’t so sure.

  His throat burned as she trembled in his arms and he mourned the loss of that bright, optimistic girl who had always believed the best of him when he had been unable to believe it himself.