by Heidi Rice
Arousal powered through his system on the heels of adrenaline.
‘I’m not signing a damn thing.’
Taking the wheel, he adjusted the position of the boat until the breeze began to fill the mainsail.
‘It’s a four-day trip to the Bahamas, which is where I’m headed. With nowhere to stop en route. You want to be stuck on a boat with me for four days, that’s up to you. Either that or you can swim back to the marina.’
He cast a look over his shoulder, as if assessing the distance.
‘You’re a strong swimmer. You should be able to make it by sunset.’
The mulish expression on her face was so priceless he almost laughed—until he remembered why she was there. To protect the company of a man who had treated him like dirt.
She glared back at him. ‘I’m not budging until you sign those papers. If you think I’m scared of spending four days on a yacht with you, you’re very much mistaken.’
The renewed pulse of reaction in his crotch at this ball-busting comment forced him to admire her fighting spirit. And admit that the fierce temper suited her.
Unfortunately for her, though, she’d chosen the wrong balls to bust.
The mainsail stretched tight and the boat lurched forward.
She gripped the rail, and the flash of panic that crossed her face was some compensation for the fiery heat tying his guts in knots as the yacht picked up speed.
‘Yeah, well, maybe you should be,’ he said, realising he wasn’t nearly as mad about the prospect as he had been when she’d climbed aboard the yacht.
She’d chosen to gatecrash his solo sailing holiday and put them both into a pressure cooker situation that might very quickly get out of control. But if it did, why the hell should he care?
Doing the wild thing with Xanthe had never been a hardship. And seeing the unwanted arousal in her eyes now had taken some of his madness away, because it proved one incontrovertible fact. What had happened between them in that hotel room had been as spontaneous and unstoppable for her as it had been for him.
He wasn’t going to sign her phoney papers because that would be the same as admitting she’d been right not to trust him with the truth back in Manhattan. That her father had been right not to trust him all those years ago, too.
Charles Carmichael had accused him of being a gold-digger, of being after the Carmichael money, and his daughter must believe it too or she wouldn’t have tried to trick him into signing those papers.
He was a rich man now—he could probably buy and sell her precious Carmichael’s twenty times over—but even as a wild-eyed kid, starved of so many things, he’d never asked for a cent from her or her old man.
Xanthe had been his once—she’d insisted she loved him. But even so a part of her had stayed loyal to her old man or she would have asked questions when her father had told her lies about him. She would have tried to contact him after the miscarriage. She wouldn’t have let him go on believing she’d had an abortion up to two days ago. And she sure as hell wouldn’t need any guarantee that he wasn’t going to rip her off for 55 per cent of a company he had never wanted any part of.
If she wanted to spend the next four days pretending she was immune to him, immune to the attraction between them, so be it.
They’d see who broke first.
Because it sure as hell wasn’t going to be him.
* * *
Exhaustion and nerves clogged Xanthe’s throat as the boat bounced over the swell. She bit down on her anxiety as she watched the land retreat into the distance. She’d come all this way to reason with him—and argue some sense into him. And she’d do it. Even if she had to smack him over the head with a stanchion.
‘I apologise for not telling you about my father’s will.’ She ground out the words, which tasted bitter on her tongue. Her ability to sound contrite and subservient, which was probably what he expected, had been lost somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. ‘I should have been straight with you once I knew you hadn’t abandoned me ten years ago, the way my father led me to believe.’
He’d put his sunglasses on, and his face was an impassive mask as he concentrated on steering the boat—making it impossible for her to tell if her speech was having any impact.
The strong, silent treatment, which she had been treated to so many times in the past, only infuriated her more, while also making greasy slugs of self-doubt glide over her stomach lining.
She breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the sea air. Stupid how she’d never realised until now how easily he had undermined her confidence by simply refusing to communicate.
She dug her teeth into her bottom lip.
Not any more.
She wasn’t that giddy girl, desperate for any sign of affection. And she wasn’t getting off his precious boat until she had what she’d come for: namely, his signature on the replacement documents she had stuffed in her briefcase so she could end their marriage and any threat of legal action.
She glanced past him, back towards the mainland. Her pulse skipped a beat as she realised the pilot boat had disappeared from view and that Ireland Island was nothing more than a haze on the horizon dotted by the occasional giant cruise ship.
She pulled in a staggered breath, let it out slowly. The plan had been to get Dane’s signature on the divorce documents—not to end up getting stuck on a yacht with him for four days.
She’d expected him to be uncooperative. What she hadn’t expected was for him to call her bluff. Somewhere in the back of her mind she’d convinced herself that once she got in his face he’d be only too willing to end this charade.
But as the spark of sexual awareness arched between them, and the hotspot between her thighs began to throb in earnest, she realised she’d chronically underestimated exactly how much of an arrogant ass he could be.
The one thing she absolutely could not do was let him know how much erotic power he still wielded.
‘You don’t want me here, and I don’t want to be here. So why don’t we just end this farce and then we never have to see each other again?’
His gaze finally lowered to hers. The dark lenses of his sunglasses revealed nothing, but at least he seemed to be paying her some attention at last.
Progress. Or so she thought until he spoke.
‘I don’t take orders, Princess.’
The searing look was meant to be insulting, with the cruel nickname adding to her distress. Her anxiety spiked.
‘Fine. You refuse to meet me even halfway...’ She scooped the briefcase off the bench seat in the cockpit. ‘I guess you’re stuck with me.’
She headed below decks.
It wasn’t a retreat, she told herself staunchly, simply a chance to refuel and regroup.
The cool air in the cabin’s main living space felt glorious on her heated skin as she took a moment to catch her breath and calm her accelerated heartbeat.
But her belly dropped to her toes and then cinched into tight, greasy knots as her eyes adjusted to the low lighting and she took in the space they would be sharing for the next four days.
The yacht had looked huge from the outside, but Dane had obviously designed it with speed in mind. While the salon was luxuriously furnished in the best fabrics and fittings, and boasted a couch, a table, shelves crammed with books and maps, a chart table and a well-appointed galley equipped with state-of-the-art appliances, it was a great deal snugger than she had anticipated.
The man was six foot three, with shoulders a mile wide, for goodness’ sake. How on earth was she going to fit in a space this compact with him without bumping up against that rock solid body every time the boat hit a wave?
And then she noticed the door at the end of the space, open a crack onto the owner’s cabin, where a huge mahogany carved bed took up most of the available space, its royal blue coverlet tucked into the frame with military precision.
A hot brick of panic swelled in her throat, not to mention other more sensitive parts of her anatomy. She swallowed it down.
Dane wouldn’t be spending much time below decks, she reasoned. No solo sailor could afford to spend more than twenty minutes at a time away from the helm if they were going to keep a lookout for approaching vessels or other maritime dangers. And she had no plans to offer to share the load with him, given she was effectively here against her will—not to mention her better judgement.
Dumping her briefcase, she crossed into the galley and flung open the fridge to find it stocked—probably by his staff—with everything she could possibly need to have a five-star yachting vacation at his expense.
He’d accused her of being a princess, so it would serve him right if she played the role to the hilt.
It didn’t matter if the living space was compact. It had all the creature comforts she needed to while away her hours on board in style until he saw reason. With Dane occupied on deck, she could use this as her sanctuary.
After finding a beautifully appointed spare berth, with its own bathroom, she cleaned up and stowed her briefcase. Returning to the galley, she cracked open one of the bottles of champagne she’d found in the fridge, poured herself a generous glass and made herself a meal fit for a queen—or even a princess—from the array of cordon bleu food.
But as she picked at her meal her heartbeat refused to level off completely.
How exactly was she going to dictate terms to a man who had always refused to follow any rules but his own? A man she couldn’t get within ten feet of without feeling as if she were about to explode?
* * *
Dane held fast to the wheel and scanned the water, blissfully empty and free of traffic now they’d left Ireland Island and the pocket cruisers and day trippers behind. He wheeled to starboard. The sail slapped against the mast, then drew tight as the boat harnessed the wind’s power. He tipped his head back as The Sea Witch gathered speed. Elation swelled as the dying sun burned his face and the salt spray peppered his skin.
Next stop the Bahamas.
What had he been thinking, waiting so long to get back on the water?
But then his gaze dropped to the door to the cabin, which had been firmly shut ever since Xanthe had stormed off a couple of hours ago.
He imagined her sulking down there, and wondered if she planned to hide away for the rest of the trip.
The boat punched a wave and the jolt shimmered through his bones.
His heartbeat sped up. Her little disappearing act confirmed what he already knew—that he wasn’t the only one who’d felt the snap and crackle of that insane sexual chemistry sparking between them when she’d arrived. The fact he was the only one prepared to admit it gave him the upper hand.
He sliced the boat across the swell and felt the hull lurch into the air.
She’d made a major miscalculation if she thought they would be able to avoid it on a fifty-five-foot boat, even if she planned to hide below decks for the duration.
Switching on the autopilot as the sun finally disappeared below the horizon, he ventured below—to find the salon empty and the door to the spare berth firmly shut. But he could detect that subtle scent of spring flowers that had enveloped him two nights ago, when he’d been wrapped around her in sleep.
He rubbed his chin, feeling two days’ worth of scruff. He imagined her fingernails scraping over his jaw. What was that saying about opposites attracting?
They were certainly opposites—him a ‘wharf rat’ who had made good and her the princess ballsy enough to run a multinational company, even if she was only doing it to please her old man. But the attraction was still there, and stronger than ever.
He wasn’t going to push anything because he didn’t have to. She would come to him—the way she had before. And then they’d see exactly who needed who.
He grabbed a beer from the fridge, a blanket from his cabin and the alarm clock he kept on hand to wake him up during the night while he was on watch. But as he headed back up on deck, ready to bed down in the cockpit, he spotted an artfully arranged plate of fancy deli items sitting on the galley counter covered in sandwich wrap. Next to it was an open bottle of fizz, with a note attached to it.
For Dane, from his EX-wife.
Don’t worry, the princess hasn’t poisoned it...yet!
He coughed out a gruff chuckle. ‘You little witch.’
But then the memory of the meals she’d always had waiting for him in their motel room when he’d got back from another day of searching for work slammed into him. And the rueful smile on his lips died. Suddenly all he could see was those brilliant blue-green eyes of hers, bright with excitement about the pregnancy. All he could hear was her lively chatter flowing over him as he watched her hands stroke the smooth bump of her stomach and shovelled up the food she’d made for him in silence. Too scared to tell her the truth.
Heat flared in his groin, contradicting the guilt twisting in his gut as the crushing feeling of inadequacy pressed down on him.
That agonising fear felt real again—the fear of going another day without finding a job, the terror that had consumed him at the thought that he couldn’t pay their motel bill, let alone meet the cost of Xanthe’s medical care when the baby arrived.
Putting the beer back in the fridge, he chugged down a gulp of the expensive champagne and let the fruity bubbles dissolve the ball of remembered agony lodged in his throat.
Get a grip, Redmond.
That boy was long gone. He didn’t have anything to prove any more. Not to Xanthe, not to himself, not to anyone. He’d made a staggering success of his life. Had worked like a dog to get to college and ace his qualification as a maritime architect, then developed an award-winning patent that with a clever investment strategy had turned a viable business into a multimillion-dollar marine empire—not to mention acing the America’s Cup twice with his designs.
He had more than enough money now to waste on bottles of pricey fizz that he rarely drank. Getting hung up on the past now was redundant.
She’d thought she loved him once and, like the sad little bastard he’d been then, he’d sucked up every ounce of her affection—all those tender touches, the adoring looks, all her sweet, stupid talk about love and feelings.
But he wasn’t that sad little bastard any more. He knew exactly what he wanted and needed now. And love didn’t even hit the top ten.
He sat on deck, wolfing down the food she’d made for him and watching the phosphorescent glow of the algae shine off the water in the boat’s wake while a very different kind of hunger gnawed at his gut.
He didn’t need Xanthe’s love any more, but her body was another matter—because, whether she liked it or not, they both knew that had always and would always belong to him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
XANTHE STEADIED HERSELF by slapping a hand on the table the following morning and glared at the hatch as the boat’s hull rocked to one side. How fast was he driving this thing? It felt as if they were flying.
Luckily she’d already found her sea legs which, to her surprise and no small amount of dismay, were just where she’d left them the last time she’d been sailing—ten years ago. With Dane.
The boat lurched again, but her stomach stayed firmly in place.
Don’t get mad. That had been her mistake yesterday. She needed to save herself for the big battles—like getting him to sign the divorce papers. Provoking him was counterproductive.
After a night of interrupted sleep, her body humming with awareness while she listened to him moving about in the salon on his short trips below deck, she knew just how counterproductive.
Given the meteoric rise in the temperature during their argument yesterday, she needed to be careful. Knowing Dane, and his pragmatic attitude to sex, he wouldn’t exert too much effort to keep the temperature down, even if it threatened to blaze out of control. So it would be up to her to do that for both of them.
Xanthe poured herself a mug of the strong coffee she’d found brewing on the stove and added cream and sugar, adjusting to the sway of the boat like a pro.
&n
bsp; While she wasn’t keen to see Dane, she couldn’t stay down here indefinitely. Early-morning sunlight glowed through the windows that ran down the side of the boat. Each time the hull heeled to starboard she could see the horizon stretching out before them.
Her pulse jumped and skittered, reminding her of the days they’d spent on the water before, and how much she’d enjoyed that sense of freedom and exhilaration. Of course back then she’d believed Dane would keep her safe. That he cared about her even if he couldn’t articulate it.
She knew better now.
Good thing she didn’t need a man to keep her safe any longer.
She dumped the last of the coffee into the sink and tied her hair back in a knot.
She wasn’t scared of Dane, or her reaction to him, so it was way past time she stopped hiding below deck.
Even so, her heart gave a definite lurch—to match the heel of the boat—when she climbed out of the cabin and spotted Dane standing at the wheel. On the water, with his long legs braced against the swell, his big capable hands steering the boat with relaxed confidence and his gaze focused on the horizon, he looked even more dominant and, yes—damn it—sexy. Her pulse jumped, then sank into her abdomen, heading back to exactly where she did not need it to be.
She shut the door to the cabin with a frustrated snap. His gaze dropped to hers. Her face heated at the thorough inspection.
‘You finished sulking yet, Princess?’ His deep voice carried over the flap of canvas and the rush of wind.
Her temper spiked at the sardonic tone. ‘I wasn’t sulking,’ she said. ‘I was having some coffee and now I plan to do some sunbathing.’
After a night lying awake in her cabin and listening to him crewing the boat alone, she had planned to offer to help out this morning. She needed to get him to sign those papers, and she’d never been averse to good honest work, but his surly attitude and that ‘princess’ comment had fired up her indignation again.
She’d be damned if she’d let his snarky comments and his low opinion of her and her motives get to her.
Ignoring him, she faced into the wind, letting it whip at her hair and sting her cheeks. The sea was empty as far as the eye could see, the bright, cloudless blue of the sky reflecting off the brilliant turquoise water. She licked her lips, tasted salt and sun...and contemplated making herself a mimosa later.