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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.
