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This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. But he’d learned the hard way that it was better to retreat and work out a strategy rather than risk riding roughshod straight into an ambush.
Her old man and his goons had taught him that on the night he’d come to collect his wife—believing he had rights and obligations only to discover that promises meant nothing if you were rich and privileged and already over the piece of trash you’d married.
The anger surged back, fresh and vivid, but he was ready for it now, in a way he hadn’t been earlier.
So had he been kidding himself that he was over what she’d done? That didn’t have to be bad. As long as he dealt with it once and for all.
‘Sure, I’ll sign them,’ he replied.
Once I’m good and ready.
She’d stirred up this hornets’ nest, so he wasn’t going to be the only one who got stung.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and the stunned pleasure in her voice crucified him a little. ‘I’m glad we finally got the c
hance to end this properly. I didn’t have—’ She stopped abruptly, cutting off the thought, her cheeks heating.
‘You didn’t have what?’
What had she been about to say? Because whatever it was she looked stricken that she’d almost let it slip.
‘Nothing.’
Yeah, right. Then why was her guilty flush bright enough to signal incoming aircraft?
‘I hope we can part as friends,’ she said, thrusting her hand out like a peace offering, the long slim fingers visibly shaking.
Friends, my butt.
They weren’t friends. Or their marriage would not have ended the way it had. Friends were honest with each other. Friends were people you could trust. And when had he ever been able to trust her?
But still he clasped her hand, and squeezed gently to stem the tremor.
She let go first, tugging free to press the elevator button. She stepped into the car when it arrived, her eyes downcast. But as she turned to hit the lobby button their gazes met.
The muscle under his heart clenched.
‘Goodbye, Dane.’
He nodded as the doors slid shut. Then he pulled out his mobile and dialled his PA.
‘Mel? Ms Carmichael—’ he paused ‘—I mean Ms Sanders, whose real name is Carmichael, is going to be stopping by any second to collect her briefcase. I want you to book her a suite at The Standard for the night and bill it to me. Then arrange a car to take her there.’
The place was classy, and only a few blocks away on the High Line. He wanted to know exactly where she was.
He didn’t want any more nasty surprises. From here on in this was his game and his rules. And he was playing to win.
‘Okay,’ Mel said, sounding confused but, like the excellent assistant she was, not questioning his authority. Unlike his soon-to-be ex-wife. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘Yeah, if she kicks up a fuss...’ He wouldn’t put it past the new, improved kick-ass Xanthe to do the one thing guaranteed to screw up his plans. ‘Tell her taking care of her accommodation is the least I could do...’ He paused, the lie that would ensure Xanthe accepted his offer tasting bittersweet. ‘For a friend.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
THAT EVENING XANTHE stood in front of the bathroom mirror in the corner suite her ex-husband had booked for her as a final gesture of ‘friendship,’ still trying to feel good about the outcome of their forced trip down memory lane that afternoon.
Tomorrow morning she would have the signed divorce papers in her hand, all threats to Carmichael’s would be gone, and she and Dane could both get back to their lives as if Augustus Greaves and his shoddy workmanship had never happened.
Mission accomplished.
