Heidi Rice - Vows They Can't Escape

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.