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‘You son of a...’ She gasped for breath, outrage consuming her. ‘I’m not allowed to play the innocent? When you took my virginity, carried on seducing me all summer, got me pregnant, insisted I marry you and then dumped me three months later?’
He’d never told her he loved her—never even tried to see her point of view during their one and only argument. But, worse than that, he hadn’t been there when she had needed him the most. Her stomach churned, the in-flight meal she’d picked at on the plane threatening to gag her as misery warred with fury, bringing the memories flooding back—memories which were too painful to forget even though she’d tried.
The pungent smell of mould and cheap disinfectant in the motel bathroom, the hazy sight of the cracked linoleum through the blur of tears, the pain hacking her in two as she prayed for him to pick up his phone.
Dane’s face went completely blank, before a red stain of fury lanced across the tanned cheekbones. ‘I dumped you? Are you nuts?’ he yelled at top volume.
‘You walked out and left me in that motel room and you didn’t answer my calls.’ She matched him decibel for decibel. She wasn’t that besotted girl any more, too timid and delusional to stand up and fight her corner. ‘What else would you call it?’
‘I was two hundred miles out at sea, crewing on a bluefin tuna boat—that’s what I’d call it. I didn’t get your calls because there isn’t a heck of a lot of network coverage in the middle of the North Atlantic. And when I got back a week later I found out you’d hightailed it back to daddy because of one damn disagreement.’
The revelation of where he’d been while she’d been losing their baby gave her pause—but only for a moment. He could have rung her to tell her about the job before he’d boarded the boat, but in his typical don’t-ask-don’t-tell fashion he hadn’t. And what about the frantic message she’d left him while she’d waited for her father to arrive and take her to the emergency room? And later, when she’d come round from the fever dreams back in her bedroom on her father’s estate?
She’d asked the staff to contact Dane, to tell him about the baby, her heart breaking into a thousand pieces, but he’d never even responded to the news. Except to send through the signed divorce papers weeks later.
She could have forgiven him for not caring about her. Their marriage had been the definition of a shotgun wedding, the midnight elopement a crazy adventure hyped up on teenage hormones, testosterone-fuelled bravado and the mad panic caused by an unplanned pregnancy. But it was his failure to care about the three-month-old life which had died inside her, his failure to even be willing to mourn its passing, that she couldn’t forgive.
It had tortured her for months. How many lies he’d told about being there for her, respecting her decision to have the baby. How he’d even gone through with their farce of a marriage, while all the time planning to dump her at the first opportunity.
It had made no sense to her for so long—until she’d finally figured it out. Why he’d always deflected conversations about the future, about the baby. Why he’d never once returned her declarations of love even while stoking the sexual heat between them to fever pitch. Why he’d stormed out that morning after her innocent suggestion that she look for a job, too, because she knew he was struggling to pay their motel bill.
He’d gotten bored with the marriage, with the responsibility. And sex had been the only thing binding them together. He’d never wanted her or the baby. His offer of marriage had been a knee-jerk reaction he’d soon regretted. And once she’d lost the baby he’d had the perfect excuse he’d been looking for to discard her.
That truth had devastated her at the time. Brought her to her knees. How could she have been so wrong about him? About them? But it had been a turning point, too. Because she’d survived the loss, repaired her shattered heart, and made herself into the woman she was now—someone who didn’t rely on others to make herself whole.
Thanks to Dane’s carelessness, his neglect, she’d shut off her stupid, fragile, easily duped heart and found a new purpose—devoting herself to the company that was her legacy. She’d begged her father for a lowly internship position that autumn, when they’d returned to London, and begun working her backside off to learn everything she needed to know about Europe’s top maritime logistics brand.
At first it had been a distraction, a means of avoiding the great big empty space inside her. But eventually she’d stopped simply going through the motions and actually found something to care about again. She’d aced her MBA, learnt French and Spanish while working in Carmichael’s subsidiary offices in Calais and Cadiz, and even managed to persuade her father to give her a job at the company’s head office in Whitehall before he’d died—all the while fending off his attempts to find her a ‘suitable’ husband.
She’d earned the position she had now through hard work and dedication and toughened up enough to take charge of her life. So there was no way on earth she was going to back down from this fight and let Dane Redmond lay some ludicrous guilt trip on her when he was the one who had crushed her and every one of her hopes and dreams. Maybe they had been foolish hopes and stupid pipe dreams, but the callous way he’d done it had been unnecessarily cruel.
‘You promised to be there for me,’ she shot back, her fury going some way to mask the hollow pain in her stomach. The same pain she’d sworn never to feel again. ‘You swore you would protect me and support me. But when I needed you the most you weren’t there.’
‘What the hell did you need me there for?’ he spat the words out, the brittle light in the icy blue eyes shocking her into silence.
The fight slammed out of her lungs on a gasp of breath.
Because in that moment all she could see was his rage.
The hollow pain became sharp and jagged, tearing through the last of her resistance until all that was left was the horrifying uncertainty that had crippled her as a teenager.
Why was he so angry with her? When all she’d ever done was try to love him?
‘I wanted you to be there for me when I lost our baby,’ she whispered, her voice sounding as if it were coming from another dimension.
‘You wanted me to hold your hand while you aborted my kid?’
‘What?’ His sarcasm, the sneered disbelief sliced through her, and the jagged pain exploded into something huge.
‘You think I don’t know you got rid of it?’
The accusation in his voice, the contempt, suddenly made a terrible kind of sense.
‘But I—’ She tried to squeeze the words past the asteroid in her throat.
He cut her off. ‘I hitched a ride straight to the Vineyard once I got back on shore. We’d had that fight and you’d left some garbled message on my cell. When I got to your old man’s place he told me there was no baby any more, showed me the divorce papers you’d signed and then had me kicked out. And that’s when I figured out the truth. Daddy’s little princess had decided that my kid was an inconvenience she didn’t need.’
She didn’t see hatred any more, just a seething resentment, but she couldn’t process any of it. His words buzzed round in her brain like mutant bees which refused to land. Had she signed the divorce papers first? She couldn’t remember doing that. All she could remember was begging to see Dane, and her father showing her Dane’s signature on the documents. And how the sight of his name scrawled in black ink had killed the last tiny remnant of hope still lurking inside her.
‘I know the pregnancy was a mistake. Hell, the whole damn marriage was insane,’ Dane continued, his tone caustic with disgust. ‘And if you’d told me that’s what you’d decided to do I would have tried to understand. But you didn’t have the guts to own it, did you? You didn’t even have the guts to tell me that’s what you’d done? So don’t turn up here and pretend you were some innocent kid, seduced by the big bad wolf. Because we both know that’s garbage. There was only one innocent party in the whole screwed-up mess of our marriage and it wasn’t either one of us.’
She could barely hear him, those mutant killer bees had become a swarm. Her legs began to shake, and the jagged pain in her stomach joined the thudding cacophony in her skull. She locked her knees, wrapped her arms around her midriff and swallowed convulsively, trying to prevent the silent screams from vomiting out of her mouth.
How could you not know how much our baby meant to me?
‘What’s wrong?’ Dane demanded, the contempt turning to reluctant concern.
She tried to force her shattered thoughts into some semblance of order. But the machete embedded in her head was about to split her skull in two. And she couldn’t form the words.
‘Damn it, Red, you look as if you’re about to pass out.’
Firm hands clamped on her upper arms and became the only thing keeping her upright as her knees buckled.
The old nickname and the shock of his touch had a blast of memory assaulting her senses—hurtling her back in time to those stolen days on the water in Buzzards Bay: the hot sea air, the shrieks of the cormorants, the scent of salt mixed with the funky aroma of sweat and sex, the devastating joy as his calloused fingers brought her body to vibrant life.
I didn’t have an abortion.
She tried to force the denial free from the stranglehold in her throat, but nothing came out.
I had a miscarriage.
She heard him curse, felt firm fingers digging into her biceps as the cacophony in her head became deafening. And she stepped over the edge to let herself fall.
CHAPTER FOUR
WHAT THE—?
Dane leapt forward as Xanthe’s eyes rolled back, scooping her dead weight into his arms before she could crash to earth.
‘Is Ms Sanders sick?’ Mel appeared, her face blank with shock.
‘Her name’s Carmichael.’
Or, technically speaking, Redmond.
He barged past his PA, cradling Xanthe against his chest. ‘Call Dr Epstein and tell him to meet me in the penthouse.’
‘What—what shall I say happened?’ Mel stammered, nowhere near as steady as usual.
He knew how she felt. His palms were sweating, his pulse racing fast enough to win the Kentucky Derby.
Xanthe let out a low moan. He tightened his grip, something hot and fluid hitting him as his fingertips brushed her breast.
‘I don’t know what happened,’ he replied. ‘Just tell Epstein to get up there.’
He threw the words over his shoulder as he strode through the office, past his sponsorship and marketing team, every one of whom was staring at him as if he’d just told them the company had declared bankruptcy.
Had they heard him shouting at Red like a madman? Letting the fury he’d buried years ago spew out of his mouth?
Where had that come from?
He’d lost it—and he never lost it. Not since the day on her father’s estate when he’d gone berserk, determined to see Xanthe no matter what her father said.
Of course he hadn’t told her that part of the story. The part where he’d made an ass of himself.
The pulse already pounding in his temple began to throb like a wound. He’d been dog-tired and frantic with worry when he’d arrived at Carmichael’s vacation home, his pride in tatters, his gut clenching at the thought Xanthe had run out on him.
All that had made him easy prey for the man who hadn’t considered him fit to kiss the hem of his precious daughter’s bathrobe, let alone marry her. He could still see Charles Carmichael’s smug expression, hear that superior I’m-better-than-you tone as the guy told him their baby was gone and that his daughter had made the sensible decision to cut all ties with the piece of trailer trash she should never have married.
The injustice of it all, the sense of loss, the futile anger had opened up a great big black hole inside him that had been waiting to drag him under ever since he was a little boy. So he’d exploded with rage—and got his butt thoroughly kicked by Carmichael’s goons for his trouble.
Obviously some of that rage was still lurking in his subconscious. Or he wouldn’t have freaked out again. Over something that meant nothing now.
He’d been captivated by Xanthe that summer. By her cute accent, the sexy, subtle curves rocking the bikini-shorts-and-T-shirt combos she’d lived in, her quick, curious mind and most of all the artless flirting that had grown hotter and hotter until they’d made short work of those bikini shorts.
The obvious crush she’d had on him had flattered him, had made him feel like somebody when everyone else treated him like a nobody. But their connection had never been about anything other than hot sex—souped up to fever pitch by teenage lust. He knew he’d been nuts to think it could ever be more, especially once she’d run back to Daddy when she’d discovered what it was really like to live on a waterman’s pay.
Xanthe stirred, her fragrant hair brushing his chin.
‘Settle down. I’ve got you.’ A wave of protectiveness washed over him. He didn’t plan to examine it too closely. She’d been his responsibility once. She wasn’t his responsibility any more. Whatever the paperwork said.
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.
She was a pragmatist now—a shrewd, focused career woman. One melodramatic swoon brought on by starvation and exhaustion and stress didn’t change that. Thank goodness she wasn’t enough of a ninny to be looking for love to complete her life any more. Because it was complete enough already.
Maybe there was a tiny tug of regret at the thought of that young man who had come to her father’s estate looking for her, only to be turned away. But the fact that he’d come to the worst possible conclusion proved he’d never truly understood her. How could he ever have believed she would abort their child?
‘I appreciate your advice, Doctor,’ she replied, as the man packed the last of his paraphernalia into his bag. ‘I’ll make sure I grab something to eat at the airport and get some sleep on the plane.’
No doubt she’d sleep like the dead, given the emotional upheaval she’d just endured.
She glanced at her watch and stood up, steadying herself against the sofa when a feeling of weightlessness made her head spin.
‘You’re flying back tonight?’ The doctor frowned at her again, as if she’d just thrown a tantrum.
‘Yes, at seven,’ she replied. She only had an hour before boarding closed on her flight to Heathrow. ‘So I should get going.’
The elderly man’s grave expression became decidedly condescending. ‘I wouldn’t advise catching a transatlantic flight tonight. You need to give yourself some time to recover. You’ve just had a full-blown anxiety attack.’
‘A...what?’ she yelped, far too aware of Dane’s overbearing presence in her peripheral vision as he listened to every word. ‘It wasn’t an anxiety attack. It was just a bit of light-headedness.’
‘Mr Redmond said you became very emotional, then collapsed, and that you were out for over a minute. That’s more than light-headedness.’
‘Right...well, thanks for your opinion, Doctor.’ As if she cared what ‘Mr Redmond’ had to say on the subject.
‘You’re welcome, Ms Carmichael.’
She hung back as Dane showed Dr Epstein out, silently fuming at the subtle put-down. And the fact Dane had witnessed it. And the even bigger problem that she was going to have to wait now until the doctor had taken the lift down before she could leave herself. Which would mean spending torturous minutes alone with Dane while trying to avoid the parade of circus elephants crammed into his palatial penthouse apartment with them.
She didn’t want to talk about their past, her so-called anxiety attack, or any of the other ten-ton pachyderms that might be up for discussion.
However nonchalant she’d tried to be with Dr Epstein, she didn’t feel 100 per cent. She was shattered. The last few days had been stressful—more stressful than she’d wanted to admit. And the revelations that had come during their argument downstairs hadn’t exactly reduced her stress levels.
And, while she was playing Truth or Dare with herself, she might as well also admit that being in Dane’s office had been unsettling enough.
Being alone with him in his apartment was worse.