Vows They Can't Escape

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 know 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?’

It was a pertinent question—and one she didn’t have a coherent answer for.

The rough pad of his fingertip trailed down her neck and into the hollow of her throat, sending sensation rioting across her collarbone and plunging into her breasts.

She should tell him to back off. She needed to leave. But something deeper and much more primal kept her immobile.

‘You know what I think?’ he said, his voice hoarse.

She shook her head. But she did know, and she really didn’t want to.

‘I think you missed me.’

‘Don’t be silly. I haven’t thought of you in years,’ she said, but the denial came out on a breathless whisper, convincing no one.

His lips lifted on one side, the don’t-give-a-damn half-smile was an invitation to sin she’d never been able to resist.

‘You don’t remember how good it used to be between us?’ he mocked, finding the punching pulse at the base of her throat. ‘Because I do.’

His thumb rubbed back and forth across her collarbone, the nonchalant caress incinerating the lacy fabric of her camisole.

‘No,’ she said, but they both knew that was the biggest lie of all.

A wad of something hard and immovable jammed her throat as his thumb drifted down to circle her nipple, the possessive, unapologetic touch electrifying even through the layers of silk and lace.

The peak engorged in a rush, poking against the fabric and announcing how big a whopper she’d told.

She needed to tell him to stop. He had no right to touch her like this any more. But the words refused to form as her back stretched, thrusting the rigid tip into his palm.

He dipped his head as his thumb traced the edge of her bra cup, rough calluses rasping sensitive skin as it slid beneath the lace. His lips nudged the corner of her mouth, so close she could smell coffee and peppermint.

‘You were always a terrible liar, Red.’

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Certainly couldn’t speak.

So objecting was an impossibility when he eased the cup down to expose one tight nipple and blew on the sensitive flesh.

‘Oh, God.’

Her lungs seized and her thigh muscles dissolved as he licked the tender peak, then nipped at the tip. She bucked, the shock of sensation bringing her hip into contact with the impressive ridge in his trousers. She rubbed against it like a cat, desperate to find relief from the exquisite agony.

He swore under his breath, then clasped her head and slanted his lips across hers. She opened for him instinctively and let his tongue plunder her mouth, driving the kiss into dark, torturous territory.

Her fingers curled into his shirt to drag him closer, absorbing his tantalising strength as the slab of muscle crushed her naked breast.

Her sex became heavy and painfully tender. Slick with longing. The melting sensation a throwback to her youth—when all he’d had to do was look at her to make her ready for him.

How can I still need him this much?

Her mind blurred, sinking into the glorious sex-fogged oblivion she’d denied herself for so long. Too long. Her tongue tangled with his, giving him the answer they both craved.

He kissed the way she remembered. With masterful thrusts and parries joined by teasing nips and licks as he devoured her mouth, no quarter given.

The day-old beard abraded her chin. Large hands brushed her thighs, bunching the skirt around her waist until he had a good firm grip on her backside.

Excitement pumped through her veins like a powerful narcotic, burning away everything but the sight, the sound, the scent of him.

He boosted her up—taking charge, taking control, the way she had always adored.

‘Put your legs round my waist.’

She obeyed the husky command without question, clinging to his strong shoulders. Her heartbeat kicked her ribs and pummelled her sex as their tongues duelled, hot and wet and frantic.

Her back hit the wall with a thud and the thick ridge in his trousers ground against her panties, the friction exquisite against her yearning clitoris.

Holding her up with one arm, he tore at her underwear. The sound of ripping satin echoed off the room’s hard surfaces, stunning her until he found her with his thumb. She moaned into his mouth, the perfect touch charging through her system like lightning.

His answering groan rumbled against her ear, harsh with need. ‘Still so wet for me, Red?’

Blunt fingers brushed expertly over the heart of her, then circled the swollen nub, teasing, coaxing, demanding a response. Everything inside her drove down to that one tight spot, desperate to feel the touch which would drive her over. The coil tightened like a vice and propelled her mindlessly towards the peak.

‘Please...’ The single word came out on a tortured sob.

Dane was the only man who knew exactly what she needed and always had.

Suddenly he withdrew his fingers, sliding them through the wet folds to rest on her hip. Leaving her teetering on the edge of ecstasy.

She panted. Squirmed. Denied the touch she needed. The touch she had to have.

‘Don’t stop.’

He buried his face against her neck, the harsh pants of his breathing as tortured as her own. ‘Have to,’ he grunted.

‘Why?’

Her dazed mind reeled, her flesh clenching painfully on emptiness. Desire clawed at her insides like a ravenous beast as he left her balanced brutally on the sharp edge between pleasure and pain.

‘No way am I taking you without a condom.’

As the sex fog finally released its stranglehold on her brain the comment registered and horrifying reality smacked into her with the force and fury of an eighteen-wheeler. The nuclear blush mushroomed up to her hairline.

Did you actually just beg him to make love to you? Without protection?

If only there was such a thing as death by mortification.

This was now officially the most humiliating moment of her life. The trashy novel swoon had merely been a dress rehearsal.

She scooped her breast back into her bra, its reddened nipple mocking her.

She had to get away from here. Sod the divorce papers. She’d deal with them later. Right now saving herself and her sanity was more important than saving Carmichael’s.

CHAPTER SIX

DANE BREATHED IN the sultry scent of Xanthe’s arousal, still holding on to her butt as if she were the only solid object in the middle of a tornado.

How could it be exactly the same between them? The heat, the hunger, the insanity?

He felt as if he’d just been in a war. And he was fairly sure it was a war he hadn’t won.

What were you thinking, hitting on her like that?

He’d been mad. Mad that he’d shouted at her, mad that she’d collapsed in front of him, and madder still that he cared enough about her to be sorry. But most of all he’d been mad that he could still want her so much, despite everything.

The come-on had been a ploy to intimidate her, to make her fold and do as she was told. But she hadn’t. She’d met his demands with demands of her own. And suddenly they’d been racing to the point of no return like a couple of sex-mad teenagers—as if the last ten years had never happened.

‘Dane, put me down. You’re crushing me.’

The furious whisper brought him crashing the rest of the way back to reality.

He drew in an agonising breath of her scent. Light floral perfume and subtle sin. And lifted his head to survey the full extent of the damage.

Her hair had tumbled down, sticking in damp strands to the line of her throat. A smudge of mascara added to the bluish tinge under her eyes, the reddened skin on her chin and cheek suggesting she was going to have some serious beard-burn in the morning.

He should have shaved. Then again, he should have done a lot of things.

She looked shell-shocked.

He had the weird urge to laugh. At least he wasn’t the only one.

She pushed against his chest, struggling to get out of his arms in earnest.

‘Stop staring at me like that. I have to leave.’

He let her go and watched her scramble away, trying to be grateful that he’d at least managed to stop himself from leaping off the deep end this time. The painful erection made sure he didn’t feel nearly as great about that last-minute bout of sanity as he should.

She swept her hair back and bent to slip on the heels which must have fallen off at some point during their sex apocalypse, making it impossible for him not to notice how the slim skirt highlighted the generous contours of her butt. He tore his gaze away.

Haven’t you tortured yourself enough already?

She pressed a hand to her forehead, glancing round—still struggling to calm down, to take stock and figure out what the heck had just happened was his guess.

Good luck with that.

‘I should go.’ She smoothed her clothing with unsteady hands and brushed a wayward curl behind her ear. It sprang straight back.

He planted his hands in his pants pockets and resisted the urge to hook it back round her ear a second time. Because look how that had ended the first time.

She was right. She should go. Before the urge to follow through on what they’d just started got the better of them.

Hitting on her had been a dumb move. What exactly had he been trying to prove? That she still wanted him? That he was the one in charge? Or just that he was the biggest dumbass on the planet?

Because, whatever way you looked at it, that dumb move had stirred up stuff neither one of them was ready to deal with. Yet.

‘You think?’ he sneered, because their sex apocalypse wasn’t just on him.

She’d made the decision to sneak back into his life and poke at something that had died a long time ago. And when he’d made that first dumb move, instead of telling him no she’d gone off like a rocket—giving him a taste of the girl he remembered which he wasn’t going to be able to forget any time soon.

She glared at him, picking up on his pissy tone.

Yeah, that’s right, sweetheart. I’m the guy you decided wasn’t good enough for you. The guy you still can’t get enough of.

‘Don’t you dare try to put this insanity on me,’ she said. ‘I didn’t start it. And, anyway, we finished it before things got totally out of hand. So it’s not important.’

Hell, yeah, it is. If I say it is.

‘We didn’t finish it,’ he pointed out, because scoring a direct hit seemed vitally important. ‘I did.’

The flush scorched her skin and she blew out a staggered breath. ‘So what? I got a little carried away in the heat of the moment. That’s all.’

‘A little?’ Talk about an understatement.

Her lips set in a mulish line, the blush still beaming on those beard-scorched cheeks.

‘It was a mistake, okay? Brought on by stress and fatigue and...’ She paused, her gaze darting pretty much everywhere but his face. ‘And sexual deprivation.’

‘Sexual deprivation?’ He scoffed. ‘How do you figure that?’

She was going to have to spell that one out for him.

‘I’ve been extremely busy for the past five years. Obviously I needed to blow off some steam.’

He should have been insulted. And a part of him was. But a much larger part of him wanted to know if she’d really just told him she’d been celibate for five years.

‘Exactly how long has it been since you got to “blow off some steam”?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘That’s none of your business.’

‘That long, huh?’ he mocked, enjoying the spark of temper—and the news that he’d been her first in a while—probably way too much.

He’d never sparred with her when she was a girl. Because she’d always been too cute and too fragile. It would have been like kicking a puppy. He’d always had to be so careful, mindful of how delicate she was. Back then he’d been terrified he’d break her, that his rough, low-class hands would be too demanding for all that delicate, petal-soft skin. So he’d strived hard to be gentle even when it had cost him.

But she’d given as good as she’d gotten a minute ago. And damn if that didn’t turn him on even more.

The flush now mottled the skin of her cleavage, and suddenly he was remembering gliding his tongue across her nipple, her soft sob of encouragement as he captured the hard bud between his teeth.

His blood surged south. And he got mad all over again.

She’d been so far out of his reach that summer. But somehow she’d hooked him into her drama, her reality, made him want to stand up to her daddy, to fight her demons, to brand her as his and follow some cock-eyed dream. When she’d told him she was pregnant he’d been horrified at first, but much worse had been the driving need that had opened up inside him—the fierce desire to claim her and their child.

She’d convinced him she wanted to keep his baby. And that was all it had taken to finally tip him over into an alternative reality where he’d kidded himself they could make it work. That she really wanted to make it work. With him. A British heiress and a nobody from Roxbury. As if.

He’d spent years afterwards dealing with her betrayal, determined that no one would ever have the power to screw him over like that again—even after he’d finally figured out that she’d probably just been playing him all along so she could stick it to her overbearing daddy.

The thought that he could still want her so much infuriated the hell out of him. But he’d just behaved like a wild man, making it tough to deny.

He’d ripped off her panties, damn it. When was the last time he’d done something like that? Been so desperate to get to a woman he’d torn off her underwear? Hadn’t even taken the time or trouble to undress her properly, to kiss her and caress her?

He might not be a master of small talk, but he had some moves. Moves women generally appreciated and which he’d worked at acquiring over the last ten years.

Until Xanthe had strolled back into his life and managed to rip away all those layers of class and sophistication and bring back that rough, raw, reckless, screwed-up kid. The kid he’d always hated.

She made a dash for the elevators.

‘Hey, wait up!’ He chased her down, grabbed her wrist.

She swung round, her eyes bright with fury and panic. ‘Don’t touch me. I’m not staying.’

He lifted his hand away. ‘I get that. But I want to know where you’re going.’ He scrambled for a plausible reason. ‘So I can get the papers delivered tomorrow.’

In person.

‘You’ll sign them?’

She sounded so surprised and so relieved he wondered if there was more to those papers than she was letting on. Because she had to know there was no way on earth he would want to contest their divorce—no matter how hot they still were for each other.

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