Heidi Rice - Vows They Can't Escape

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.