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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.
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