Vows They Can't Escape

by Heidi Rice

  Relief washed through her to see Dane standing at the wheel, the storm sails intact. But her relief quickly retreated.

  His face was drawn, his clothing soaked, his usually graceful movements jerky and uncoordinated. He looked completely shattered. She cursed herself for waiting so long to finally confront him about his stubborn refusal to allow her on deck.

  He’d been helming the yacht for over five hours and hadn’t slept for more than twenty minutes at a time since they’d left Bermuda two days ago because he’d been keeping watch solo.

  Maybe it had been ten years ago, but she’d once been a competent yachtswoman because she’d learnt from a master. She should take the helm. There weren’t as many breakers to negotiate now, visibility was lifting and a quick survey of the horizon showed clear skies off the bow only a few miles ahead.

  ‘Dane, for goodness’ sake. Let me take over. You need some sleep.’

  ‘Get back below, damn it!’

  He swung the wheel to starboard and the boat heeled. But as she grabbed the safety line she saw a trickle of blood mixed with the rain running down his face, seeping from a gash at his hairline.

  Horror gripped her insides, and her frustration was consumed by panic. ‘Dane, you’re bleeding!’

  He scrubbed a forearm across his forehead. ‘I’m okay.’

  Hauling herself up to the stern, she covered his much larger hand with hers, shocked by the freezing skin as he clung to the wheel.

  ‘This is insane,’ she said, desperate now to make him see reason. ‘I can do this. You have to let me do this.’

  An involuntary shudder went through him, and she realised exactly how close he was to collapsing when he turned towards her, his blue eyes bloodshot and foggy with fatigue. Good grief, had he given himself a concussion?

  ‘It’s too rough still,’ he said, the words thick with exhaustion. ‘It’s not safe for you up here.’

  ‘It’s a lot calmer than it was,’ she said, registering the weary determination in his voice. However stupidly macho he was being by refusing to admit weakness, his determination to stay at the helm was born out of a desire to protect her.

  ‘At least go below and clean the cut,’ she said, clamping down on all the treacherous memories flooding back to make her heart ache.

  The mornings when he’d held her head as she threw up her breakfast in the motel bathroom...the intractable look on his face when he’d demanded she marry him after the stick had gone blue...and the crippling thought of him battered and bruised by her father’s bodyguards when he’d come back to get her...

  Her gaze drifted over his brow to the scar that he’d refused to explain. She shook off the melancholy thoughts as blood seeped from the fresh injury on his forehead. She couldn’t think about any of that now. He had a head injury. She had to get him to let go—at least for a little while.

  ‘Seriously, I can handle this!’ she shouted above the gusting wind, her voice firm and steady despite the memory bombarding her of another argument—the one they’d had the morning he’d left her...

  She’d let him have the last word then, because she hadn’t had the courage to insist she was capable of handling at least some of the burden of their finances. She’d been so angry about his attitude that morning, at his blank refusal to let her get a job.

  But maybe it was finally time to acknowledge the truth of what had happened that day. Of course he’d had no faith in her abilities—because she’d had no faith in them herself. And he hadn’t left her. He’d gone to find a job so he could support her.

  He hadn’t been able to rely on her because she had been weak and feeble, beaten down by her father’s bullying. And her one show of strength—the decision to run off and marry Dane and have the baby growing inside her—had really been nothing more than a transference of power from one man to another.

  Dane had made all the decisions simply because she’d been too scared, too unsure to make them herself. That Dane might have been equally scared, equally terrified, had never even occurred to her. But what if he had been? And what if he’d kept his feelings hidden simply to stop himself from scaring her?

  ‘I’m not a princess any more, Dane!’ she shouted, just in case he was still confusing her with that girl. She didn’t want to argue with him, but she had to make him believe she could handle this. ‘I’m a lot tougher than I look now,’ she added.

  Because I’ve had to be.

  She cut off the thought. She could never tell him all the reasons why she’d been forced to toughen up because that would only stir up more of the guilt and recriminations from their past. Until she’d found herself alone in that motel bathroom she’d let him take all the strain. But she didn’t need to do that any more.

  ‘Please let me do this.’

  She braced herself for an argument, keeping an eye on the sea, but to her astonishment, instead of arguing further, he grasped her arm and dragged her in front of him.

  His big body bolstered hers and she felt the familiar zing of sexual awareness, complicated by a rush of emotion when his cold palms covered her hands on the wheel.

  Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them away.

  ‘You sure you can hold her?’ he said, and the exhilaration in her chest combined with a lingering sense of loss for that complicated, taciturn boy who had taught her to sail a lifetime ago. And whom she had once loved without question.

  She nodded.

  He stood behind her, shielding her from the beating rain. She melted into him for a moment and the punch of adrenaline hit her square in the solar plexus, taking her breath away as she felt the boat’s power beneath her feet.

  When she’d been that frightened, insecure girl, scared of her father’s wrath, always looking for his approval, Dane had given her this—the freedom and space to become her own woman. And she’d screwed it up by falling for him hook, line and sinker.

  If this time with him taught her one thing, let it be that she would never do that again. Never look for love when what she really needed was strength.

  ‘Go below! I’ve got this!’ she shouted over her shoulder, trying to concentrate on the job at hand and not let all the what-ifs charging through her head destroy the simple companionship of this moment.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ he said, and the husky words sprinted up her spine.

  Giving her fingers a reassuring squeeze, he took a deep breath and stepped away, leaving her alone at the helm. He pointed towards the horizon.

  ‘Head towards the clear blue. And avoid the breakers.’

  She concentrated on the break in the storm line, scanning the sea for the next wave. ‘Will do. Take as long as you need.’

  Widening her stance, she let her limbs absorb the heel of the boat as it rode over the swell. The rain was finally starting to trail off. Arousal leapt, combining with the deep well of emotion, as she watched him unclip himself from the safety line and saw his shoulders fill the entryway before he disappeared below.

  * * *

  The boat rolled to the side and Dane’s heart went with it, kicking against his ribs like a bucking bronco as he staggered into the salon, his head hurting like a son of a bitch, but his heart hurting more.

  He shook his hands and the shivering racked his body as he stripped off the life jacket and the wet clothing with clumsy fingers and headed back to his cabin.

  He didn’t want to leave Xanthe alone up there too long. She’d always been a natural sailor, and he’d sensed a new toughness and tenacity in her now, a greater resilience than when they were kids together. But even so she was his responsibility while she was on the boat, and he didn’t want to screw it up. Again.

  He winced as shame engulfed him. He’d already put her at risk, sailing them both straight into a force-eight because he’d been too damn busy thinking about the hot, wet clasp of her body and trying to decipher all the conflicting emotions she could still stir in him, instead of paying the necessary attention to the weather report, the cloud formation and the sudden dip in air
pressure.

  They’d been lucky that it hadn’t been a whole lot worse.

  But he knew when he was beaten. He had to sleep—get a good solid thirty minutes before he could relieve her at the helm. Gripping the safety line she’d rigged, he made his way to the head, dug out a piece of gauze to dab the cut on his forehead, then staggered naked into the cabin.

  Thirty minutes—that was all he needed—then he’d be able to take over again.

  His eyes closed, and his brain shut off the minute his head connected with the pillow.

  * * *

  He woke with a start what felt like moments later, to find the cabin dark and the boat steady. The events of the day—the last few days—came back in a rush.

  Xanthe.

  He jerked upright and pain lanced through the cut on his forehead where he’d headbutted the boom. He cursed. How long had he been out? He’d forgotten to set an alarm before crashing into his berth. He looked up to see clear night through the skylight. Then noticed the blanket lying across his lap.

  The blanket that hadn’t been there when he’d fallen headlong into the bunk what had to be hours ago.

  Emotion gripped as he pulled the blanket off.

  Was she still on deck? Doing his job for him?

  Ignoring the dull pain in his head, he pulled on some trunks and a light sweater. Heading through the salon, he noticed the debris left by the storm had been cleared away and the film of water that had leaked in through the hatch onto the floor had been mopped up. His wet clothes hung on the safety line, brittle with salt but nearly dry.

  The night breeze lifted the hairs on his arms as he climbed onto the deck. The helm was empty, the autopilot was on, the storm sails were furled and the standard rigging was engaged as the boat coasted on a shallow swell.

  Xanthe lay curled up in the cockpit, out cold, her PFD still anchored to the safety line, her fist clutching the alarm clock.

  His heart hammered hard enough to hurt his bruised ribs.

  He cast his gaze out to sea, where the red light of a Caribbean dawn hung on the horizon, and struggled to breathe past the emotion making his chest ache.

  She’d seen them through the last of the storm, then kept watch all night while he slept. How could someone who looked so delicate, so fragile, be so strong underneath? And what the hell did he do with all the feelings weakening his knees now? Feelings he’d thought he had conquered a decade ago?

  Desire, possessiveness, and a bone-deep longing.

  He’d convinced himself a long time ago that Xanthe had never really belonged to him. That what he’d felt for her once had all been a dumb dream driven by endorphins and recklessness and desperation. He didn’t want to be that needy kid again. So why did this feel like more than just the desire to bury himself deep inside her?

  He crouched down on his haunches, forcing the traitorous feelings back.

  He was still tired—and more than a little horny after three days at sea with the one woman he had never been able to resist. It had been an emotional couple of days. And the storm had been a sucker punch neither of them had needed.

  He pressed his hand to her cheek, pushing the wild hair, damp with sea water, off her brow. She stirred, and the bronco in his chest gave his ribs another hefty kick.

  ‘Hmm...?’ Her eyes fluttered open, the sea green dazed with sleep. ‘Dane?’ she murmured, licking her lips.

  The blood flowed into his groin and he welcomed it. Sex had always been the easy part of the equation.

  ‘Hey, sleepyhead,’ he said, affection and admiration swelling in his chest.

  This wasn’t a big deal. She’d done a spectacular job and he owed her—that was all. Unclipping her harness, he lifted her easily in his arms.

  ‘Let’s get you below. I can take over now.’ The way he should have done approximately twelve hours ago.

  He realised how groggy she was when she didn’t protest as he carried her down the steps into the salon and headed to his own cabin.

  He wanted her in his bed while he took charge of the boat. By his calculation they’d reach the Bahamas around twilight. They’d have to anchor offshore, and dock first thing tomorrow morning, but he intended to keep his hands off her for the rest of the trip. Even if it killed him.

  Then he’d sign her divorce papers.

  And let her go.

  Before this situation got any more out of hand.

  Sitting her on the bed, he crouched down to undo her jacket. She didn’t resist his attentions, docile as a child as he pulled it off and chucked it on the floor. Her T-shirt was stuck to her skin, the hard tips of her nipples clear through the clinging fabric.

  He gritted his teeth, ignoring the pounding in his groin. The desire to warm those cold nubs with his tongue almost overwhelming.

  ‘How’s your head?’ she murmured sleepily.

  He glanced up to find her watching him, her gaze unfocused, dark with arousal.

  ‘Good,’ he said, his voice strained.

  She needed to get out of her wet clothes, grab a hot shower. But if he did it for her he didn’t know how the heck he’d be able to keep his sanity and not take advantage of her.

  ‘Have you got it from here?’

  He tugged the clock out of his back pocket. Fifteen minutes before he had to check the watch.

  ‘I should head back on deck,’ he said, hoping she couldn’t see the erection starting to strangle in his shorts. Or hear the battle being waged inside him to hold her and tend to her and claim her again...

  Because he knew if that happened he might never be able to let her go.

  * * *

  Sleep fogged Xanthe’s brain, as her mind floated on a wave of exhaustion. He looked glorious, standing before her in the half-light—the epitome of all the erotic dreams which had chased her through too many nights of disturbed sleep. Strong and unyielding... The raw, rugged beauty of his tanned skin, his muscular shoulders, the dark heat in his pure blue eyes, blazed a trail down to tighten her nipples into aching points.

  She shivered, awareness shuddering through her.

  She heard a strained curse, then the bed dipped and her T-shirt was dragged over her head. The damp shorts and underwear followed. Her limbs were lethargic, her skin tingling as calloused fingers rasped over sensitive flesh with exquisite tenderness, beckoning her further into the erotic dream and making her throat close.

  ‘Red, you’re freezing...let’s warm you up.’

  She found herself back in strong arms, her body weightless. But she didn’t feel cold. She felt blissfully warm and languid, with hunger flaring all over her tired body as she stood on shaky legs.

  Hot jets of water rained down on her head as strong fingers massaged her scalp. She breathed in the scented steam—cedarwood and lemon—her body alive with sensation as a fluffy towel cocooned her in warmth, making her feel clean and fresh, the vigorous rubbing igniting more of that ravishing heat.

  Back on the bed, she looked into that rugged face watching her in the darkness, its expression tight with a longing that matched her own.

  Struggling up onto her elbows, she traced a finger through the hair on his chest, naked now, down the happy trail through the rigid muscles of his abdomen to his belly button.

  She heard him suck in a staggered breath, and the sound was both warning and provocation. Emotion washed through her as she stroked the heavy ridge in his pants and felt the huge erection thicken against her fingertips.

  A hand gripped her wrist and gently pulled her away. ‘Red, you’re killing me,’ he murmured, his low voice raw with agony.

  She lifted her head, saw the harsh need that pierced her abdomen reflected in Dane’s deep blue eyes. Drifting in a sensual haze, she let the uncensored swell of emotion fill up all the places in her heart that had been empty for so long.

  ‘Stay with me.’

  The words came out on a husk of breath, almost unrecognisable. Was that her voice? So sure, so uninhibited, so determined?

  ‘I need you.’

>   A tiny whisper in her head told her it was wrong to ask, wrong to need him this much. But this was just a dream, a dream from long ago, and nothing mattered now but satisfying the yearning which had begun to cut off her air supply and stab into her abdomen like a knife.

  ‘There’s never been anyone else,’ she said. ‘Only you. Don’t make me beg.’

  Moisture stung her eyes—tears of pain and sadness for all those dreams that had been forced to die inside her, along with the life they’d once made together. If she could just feel that glorious oblivion once more all would be well.

  Only he could fix this.

  ‘Shh... Shh, Red...’ Rough palms framed her face, swiping away the salty tears seeping from her eyes. ‘I’ve got this. Lie down and I’ll give you what you need.’

  She flopped back on the bed, then bowed up, racked with pleasure as his tongue circled her nipples, firm lips tugging at the tender tips. Desire arrowed down. Sharp and brutal. Obliterating every emotion but want.

  Moisture flooded between her thighs as blunt fingers found the swollen folds of her sex. Her breath sawed out, her lungs squeezing tight as the agony of loss was swept away by the fierce tide of ecstasy.

  She bucked, cried out, as those sure, seeking lips trailed across her ribs, delved into her belly button, then found the swollen bundle of nerves at last. Sensation shot through her, drawing tight, clutching at her heart and firing through her nerve-endings, making everything disappear but the agonising need to feel him filling her again.

  Large fingers pressed inside her and her clitoris burned and pulsed under the sensual torment. The wave of ecstasy crested, throwing her into the hot, dark oblivion she sought. She screamed his name, the cry of joy dying on her lips as she tasted her own pleasure in a hard, fleeting kiss.

  ‘Now, go to sleep.’

  She registered the gruff command, making her feel safe and cherished.

  His hand cradled her face and she pressed into his palm, the gentle touch making new tears spill over her lids as she closed her eyes. A blanket fell over her and she snuggled into a ball, drifting on an enervating wave of afterglow.

  And then she dived into a deep, dreamless sleep.