Vows They Can't Escape

Still legally wedded...

Xanthe Carmichael has just discovered two things:

1. Her ex-husband could take half of her business.

2. She’s actually still married to him!

When she jets off to New York, divorce papers in hand, Xanthe is prepared for the billionaire bad boy’s slick office...but not for the spear of lust that hits her the moment she sees Dane Redmond again! Has her body no shame, no recollection of the pain he caused? But Dane is stalling... Is he really checking the fine print or planning to stir the smoldering embers of their passion and tempt her back into the marriage bed?

‘So we’re still, technically speaking, man and wife,’ Xanthe clarified.

‘You had better be kidding me!’

‘I’ve come all the way from London this morning to get you to sign the newly issued papers so we can fix this nightmare as fast as is humanly possible. So, no, I’m not kidding.’

She flicked through the document until she got to the signature page, which she had already signed, frustrated when her fingers wouldn’t stop trembling. She could smell him—the scent that was uniquely Dane’s—clean and male and far too enticing.

She drew back. Too late. She’d already ingested a lungful, detecting expensive cedarwood soap now, instead of the supermarket brand he had once used.

‘Once you’ve signed here.’ She pointed to the signature line. ‘Our problem will be solved and I can guarantee never to darken your door again.’

She whipped a gold pen out of the briefcase, stabbed the button at the top and thrust it towards him like a dagger.

USA TODAY bestselling author HEIDI RICE lives in London, England. She is married with two teenage sons—which gives her rather too much of an insight into the male psyche—and also works as a film journalist. She adores her job, which involves getting swept up in a world of high emotions, sensual excitement, funny, feisty women, sexy, tortured men and glamorous locations where laundry doesn’t exist. Once she turns off her computer she often does chores—usually involving laundry!

Books by Heidi Rice

Beach Bar Baby

Maid of Dishonour

One Night, So Pregnant!

Unfinished Business with the Duke

Public Affair, Secretly Expecting

Hot-Shot Tycoon, Indecent Proposal

Pleasure, Pregnancy and a Proposition

Visit the Author Profile page at

millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.

Vows They Can’t Escape

Heidi Rice

www.millsandboon.co.uk

With thanks to my cousin Susan, who suggested I write a romance with a female CEO as the heroine, my best writing mate Abby Green, who kept telling me to write a classic Modern, my best mate Catri, who plotted this with me on the train back from Kilkenny Shakespeare Festival, and to Sarah Hornby of the Royal Thames Yacht Club, who explained why having my hero and heroine spend a night below decks while sailing a yacht together round the Caribbean probably wasn’t a good idea!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

XANTHE CARMICHAEL STRODE into the gleaming steel-and-glass lobby of the twenty-six-storey office block housing Redmond Design Studios on Manhattan’s West Side, satisfied that the machine-gun taps of her heels against the polished stone flooring said exactly what she wanted them to say.

Watch out, boys, woman scorned on the warpath.

Ten years after Dane Redmond had abandoned her in a seedy motel room on the outskirts of Boston, she was ready to bring the final curtain crashing down on their brief and catastrophic liaison.

So the flush that had leaked into her cheeks despite the building’s overefficient air conditioning and the bottomless pit opening up in her stomach could take a hike.

After a six-hour flight from Heathrow, spent power-napping in the soulless comfort of Business Class, and two days and nights figuring out how she was going to deal with the unexploded bomb the head of her legal team, Bill Spencer, had dropped at her feet on Wednesday afternoon, she was ready for any eventuality.

Whatever Dane Redmond had once meant to her seventeen-year-old self, the potentially disastrous situation Bill had uncovered wasn’t personal any more—it was business. And nothing got in the way of her business.

Carmichael’s, the two-hundred-year-old shipping company which had been in her family for four generations, was the only thing that mattered to her now. And she would do anything to protect it and her new position as the majority shareholder and CEO.

‘Hi, I’m Ms Sanders, from London, England,’ she said to the immaculately dressed woman at reception, giving the false name she’d instructed her PA to use when setting up this meeting. However confident she felt, she was not about to give a bare-knuckle fighter like Dane a heads-up. ‘I have an appointment with Mr Redmond to discuss a commission.’

The woman sent her a smile as immaculate as her appearance. ‘It’s great to meet you, Ms Sanders.’ She tapped the screen in front of her and picked up the phone. ‘If you’d like to take a seat, Mr Redmond’s assistant, Mel Mathews, will be down in a few minutes to escort you to the eighteenth floor.’

Xanthe’s heartbeat thudded against her collarbone as she recrossed the lobby under the life-size model of a huge wing sail catamaran suspended from the ceiling. A polished brass plaque announced that the boat had won Redmond Design a prestigious sailing trophy twice in a row.

She resisted the urge to chew off the lipstick she’d applied in the cab ride from JFK.

Bill’s bombshell would have been less problematic if Dane had still been the boy her father had so easily dismissed as ‘a trailer trash wharf rat with no class and fewer prospects,’ but she refused to be cowed by Dane’s phenomenal success over the last decade.

She was here to show him who he was dealing with.

But, as she took in the ostentatious design of Dane’s new headquarters in New York’s uber-hip Meatpacking District, the awe-inspiring view of the Hudson River from the lobby’s third-floor aspect and that beast of a boat, she had to concede the meteoric rise of his business and his position as one of the world’s premier sailing boat designers didn’t surprise her.

He’d always been smart and ambitious—a natural-born sailor more at home on water than dry land—which was exactly why her father’s estate manager had hired him that summer in Martha’s Vineyard to run routine maintenance on the small fleet of two yachts and a pocket cruiser her father kept at their holiday home.

Running routine maintenance on Charles Carmichael’s impressionable, naive daughter had been done on his own time.

No one had ever been able to fault Dane’s work ethic.

Xanthe’s thigh muscles trembled at the disturbingly vivid memory of blunt fingers trailing across sensitive skin, but she didn’t break stride.

All that energy and purpose had drawn her to him like a heat-seeking missile. That and the superpower they’d discovered together—his unique ability to lick her to a scream-your-lungs-out orgasm in sixty seconds or less.

She propped her briefcase on a coffee table and sank into one of the leather chairs lining the lobby.

Whoa, Xan. Do not think about the superpower.

Crossing her legs, she squeezed her knees together, determined to halt the conflagration currently converging on the hotspot between her thighs. Even Dane’s superpower would never be enough to compensate for the pain he’d caused.

She hid the unsettling thought behind a tight smile as a thirtysomething woman headed in her direction across the ocean of polished stone. Grabbing the briefcase containing the documents she had flown three thousand miles to deliver, Xanthe stood up, glad when her thighs remained virtually quiver-free.

Dane Redmond’s not the only badass in town. Not any more.

* * *

Xanthe was feeling less like a badass and more like a sacrificial lamb five minutes later, as the PA led her through a sea of hip and industrious young marketing people working on art boards and computers on the eighteenth floor. Even her machine-gun heel taps had been muffled by the industrial carpeting.

The adrenaline which had been pumping through her veins for forty-eight hours and keeping her upright slowed to a crawl as they approached the glass-walled corner office and the man within, silhouetted against the New Jersey shoreline. The jolt of recognition turned the bottomless pit in her stomach into a yawning chasm.

Broad shoulders and slim hips were elegantly attired in steel-grey trousers and a white shirt. But his imposing height, the muscle bulk revealed by the shirt’s rolled-up sleeves, the dark buzz cut hugging the dome of his skull, and the tattoo that covered his left arm down to his elbow did nothing to disguise the wolf in expensively tailored clothing.

Sweat gathered between Xanthe’s breasts and the powder-blue silk suit and peach camisole ensemble she’d chosen twelve hours ago in London, because it covered all the bases from confident to kick-ass, rubbed against her skin like sandpaper.

The internet hadn’t done Dane Redmond justice. Because the memory of the few snatched images she’d found yesterday while preparing for this meeting was comprehensively failing to stop a boulder the size of an asteroid forming in her throat.

She forced one foot in front of the other as the PA tapped on the office door and led her into the wolf’s den.

Brutally blue eyes locked on Xanthe’s face.

A flicker of stunned disbelief softened his rugged features before his jaw went rigid, making the shallow dent in his chin twitch. The searing look had the thundering beat of Xanthe’s heart dropping into that yawning chasm.

Had she actually kidded herself that age and money and success would have refined Dane—tamed him, even—or at the very least made him a lot less intense and intimidating? Because she’d been dead wrong. Either that or she’d just been struck by lightning.

‘This is Ms Sanders from—’

‘Leave us, Mel.’ Dane interrupted the PA’s introduction. ‘And shut the door.’

The husky command had Xanthe’s heartbeat galloping into her throat to party with the asteroid, reminding her of all the commands he’d once issued to her in the same he-who-shall-be-obeyed tone. And the humiliating speed with which she’d obeyed them.

‘Relax, I won’t hurt you. I swear.’

‘Hold on tight. This is gonna be the ride of your life.’

‘I take care of my own, Xan. That’s non-negotiable.’

The door closed behind the dutiful PA with a hushed click.

Xanthe gripped the handle on her briefcase with enough force to crack a nail and lifted her chin, channelling the smouldering remains of her inner badass that had survived the lightning strike.

‘Hello, Dane,’ she said, glad when her voice remained relatively steady.

She would not be derailed by a physical reaction which was ten years out of date and nothing more than an inconvenient throwback to her youth. It would pass. Eventually.

‘Hello, Ms Sanders.’

His thinly veiled contempt at her deception had outrage joining the riot of other emotions she was busy trying to suppress.

‘If you’ve come to buy a boat, you’re all out of luck.’

The searing gaze wandered down to her toes, the insolent appraisal as infuriating as the fuses that flared to life in every pulse point en route.

‘I don’t do business with spoilt little rich chicks.’

His gaze rose back to her face, having laid waste to her composure.

‘Especially ones I was once dumb enough to marry.’

CHAPTER TWO

XANTHE CARMICHAEL.

Dane Redmond had just taken a sucker punch to the gut. And it was taking every ounce of his legendary control not to show it.

The girl who had haunted his dreams a lifetime ago—particularly all his wet dreams—and then become a star player in his nightmares. And now she had the balls to stand in his office—the place he’d built from the ground up after she’d kicked him to the kerb—as if she had a right to invade his life a second time.

She’d changed some from the girl he remembered—all trussed-up now in a snooty suit, looking chic and classy in those ice-pick heels. But there was enough of that girl left to force him to put his libido on lockdown.

She still had those wide, feline eyes. Their sultry slant hinting at the banked fires beneath, the translucent blue-green the vivid colour of the sea over the Barrier Reef. She had the same peaches-and-cream complexion, with the sprinkle of girlish freckles over her nose she hadn’t quite managed to hide under a smooth mask of make-up. And that riot of red-gold hair, ruthlessly styled now in an updo, but for a few strands that had escaped to cling to her neck and draw his gaze to the coy hint of cleavage beneath her suit.

The flush high on her cheekbones and the glitter in her eyes made her look like a fairy queen who had swallowed a cockroach. But he knew she was worse than any siren sent to lure men to their destruction, with that stunning body and that butter-wouldn’t-melt expression—and about as much freaking integrity as a sea serpent.

He curled his twitching fingers into his palms and braced his fists against the desk. Because part of him wanted to throw her over his knee and spank her until her butt was as red as her hair, and another part of him longed to throw her over his shoulder and take her somewhere dark and private, so he could rip off that damn suit and find the responsive girl beneath who had once begged him for release.

And each one of those impulses was as screwed-up as the other. Because she meant nothing to him now. Not a damn thing. And he’d sworn ten years ago, when he’d been lying on the road outside her father’s vacation home in the Vineyard, with three busted ribs, more bruises than even his old man had given him on a bad day, his stomach hollow with grief and tight with anger and humiliation, that no woman would ever make such a jackass of him again.

‘I’m here because we have a problem...’ She hesitated, her lip trembling ever so slightly.

She was nervous. She ought to be.

‘Which I’m here to solve.’

‘How could we possibly have a problem?’ he said, his voice deceptively mild. ‘When we haven’t seen each other in over a decade and I never wanted to see you again?’

She stiffened, the flush spreading down her neck to highlight the lush valley of her breasts.

‘The feeling’s mutual,’ she said. The snotty tone was a surprise.

He buried his fists into his pants pockets. The last thin thread controlling his temper about to snap.

Where the heck did she get off, being pissed with him? He’d been the injured party in their two-second marriage. She’d flaunted herself, come on to him, had him panting after her like a dog that whole summer—hooked him like a prize tuna by promising to love, honour and obey him, no matter what. Then she’d run back to daddy at the first sign of trouble. Not that he’d been dumb enough to really believe those breathless promises. He’d learned when he was still a kid that love was just an empty sentiment. But he had been dumb enough to trust her.

And now she had the gall to turn up at his place, under a false name, expecting him to be polite and pretend what she’d done was okay.

Whatever her problem was, he wanted no part of it. But he’d let her play out this little drama before he slapped her down and kicked her the hell out of his life. For good this time.

* * *

Lifting her briefcase onto the table, Xanthe ignored the hostility radiating from the man in front of her. She flipped the locks, whipped out the divorce papers and slapped them on the desk.

Dane Redmond’s caveman act was nothing new, but she was wise to it now. He’d been exactly the same as a nineteen-year-old. Taciturn and bossy and supremely arrogant. Once upon a time she’d found that wildly attractive—because once upon a time she’d believed that lurking beneath the caveman was a boy who’d needed the love she could lavish on him.

That had been her first mistake. Followed by too many others.

The vulnerable boy had never existed. And the caveman had never wanted what she had to offer.

Good thing, then, that this wasn’t about him any more—it was about her. And what she wanted. Which was exactly what she was going to get.

Because no man bullied her now. Not her father, not the board of directors at Carmichael’s and certainly not some overly ripped boat designer who thought he could boss her around just because she’d once been bewitched by his larger-than-average penis.

‘The problem is...’ She threw the papers onto the desk, cursing the tremor in her fingers at that sudden recollection of Dane fully aroused.

Do not think about him naked.

‘My father’s solicitor, Augustus Greaves, failed to file the paperwork for our divorce ten years ago.’

She delivered the news in a rush, to disguise any hint of culpability. It was not her fault Greaves had been an alcoholic.

‘So we’re still, technically speaking, man and wife.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘YOU HAD BETTER be freaking kidding me!’

Dane looked so shocked Xanthe would have smiled if she hadn’t been shaking quite so hard. That had certainly wiped the self-righteous glare off his face.

‘I’ve come all the way from London to get you to sign these newly issued papers, so we can fix this nightmare as fast as is humanly possible. So, no, I’m not kidding.’

She flicked through the document until she got to the signature page, which she had already signed, frustrated because her fingers wouldn’t stop trembling. She could smell him—that scent that was uniquely his, clean and male, and far too enticing.

She drew back. Too late. She’d already ingested a lungful, detecting expensive cedarwood soap instead of the supermarket brand he had once used.

‘Once you’ve signed here—’ she pointed to the signature line ‘—our problem will be solved and I can guarantee never to darken your door again.’

She whipped a gold pen out of the briefcase, stabbed the button at the top and thrust it towards him like a dagger.

He lifted his hands out of his pockets but didn’t pick up the gauntlet.

‘Like I’d be dumb enough to sign anything you put in front of me without checking it first...’

She ruthlessly controlled the snap of temper at his statement. And the wave of panic.

Stay calm. Be persuasive. Don’t freak out.

She breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth, employing the technique she’d perfected during the last five years of handling Carmichael’s board. As long as Dane never found out about the original terms of her father’s will, nothing in the paperwork she’d handed him would clue him in to the real reason she’d come all this way. And why would he, when her father’s will hadn’t come into force until five years after Dane had abandoned her?

Unfortunately the memory of that day in her father’s office, with her stomach cramping in shock and loss and disbelief as the executor recited the terms of the will, was not helping with her anxiety attack.

‘Your father had hoped you would marry one of the candidates he suggested. His first preference was to leave forty-five per cent of Carmichael’s stock to you and the controlling share to your spouse as the new CEO. As no such marriage was contracted at the time of his death, he has put the controlling share in trust, to be administered by the board until you complete a five-year probationary period as Carmichael’s executive owner. If, after that period, they deem you a credible CEO, they can vote to allocate a further six per cent of the shares to you. If not, they can elect another CEO and leave the shares in trust.’

That deadline had passed a week ago. The board—no doubt against all her father’s expectations—had voted in her favour. And then Bill had discovered his bombshell—that she had still technically been married to Dane at the time of her father’s death and he could, therefore, sue for the controlling share in the company.

It might almost have been funny—that her father’s lack of trust in her abilities might end up gifting 55 per cent of his company to a man he had despised—if it hadn’t been more evidence that her father had never trusted her with Carmichael’s.

She pushed the dispiriting thought to one side, and the echo of grief that came with it, as Dane punched a number into his smartphone.

Her father might have been old-fashioned and hopelessly traditional—an aristocratic Englishman who believed that no man who hadn’t gone to Eton and Oxford could ever be a suitable husband for her—but he had loved her and had wanted the best for her. Once she got Dane to sign on the dotted line, thus eliminating any possible threat this paperwork error could present to her father’s company—her company—she would finally have proved her commitment to Carmichael’s was absolute.

‘Jack? I’ve got something I want you to check out.’ Dane beckoned to someone behind Xanthe as he spoke into the phone. The superefficient PA popped back into the office as if by magic. ‘Mel is gonna send it over by messenger.’

He handed the document to his PA, then scribbled something on a pad and passed that to her, too. The PA trotted out.

‘Make sure you check every line,’ he continued, still talking to whomever was on the other end of the phone. He gave a strained chuckle. ‘Not exactly—it’s supposed to be divorce papers.’

The judgmental once-over he gave Xanthe had her temper rising up her torso.

‘I’ll explain the why and the how another time,’ he said. ‘Just make sure there are no surprises—like a hidden claim for ten years’ back-alimony.’

He clicked off the phone and shoved it into his pocket.

She was actually speechless. For about two seconds.

‘Are you finished?’ Indignation burned, the breathing technique history.

She’d come all this way, spent several sleepless nights preparing for this meeting while being constantly tormented by painful memories from that summer, not to mention having to deal with his scent and the inappropriate heat that would not die. And through it all she’d remained determined to keep this process dignified, despite the appalling way he had treated her. And he’d shot it all to hell in less than five minutes.

The arrogant ass.

‘Don’t play the innocent with me,’ he continued, the self-righteous glare returning. ‘Because I know just what you’re capable—’