Every Girl's Secret Fantasy (12 page)

T
WO
weeks later, Pace swung his red Ducati 916 into Brodricks and parked beside Nick's Audi. Nick detested motorbikes. He didn't like the look of them. Didn't like their sound.

Grinning, Pace revved a couple more times, then wound the throaty engine down. Nothing like setting the tone for the day. Although these past weeks he hadn't been quite so ticked off by Nick and his strutting around the place, trying to impress.

His smile slipping, Pace removed his helmet and swung his leg over and onto the ground.

Eldest son made good.
And now that Nick was at the top there'd be no getting him down. Not that Pace wanted that job back. No way. Absolutely not.

But lately he had been thinking about his alias…about whether it had outgrown its usefulness. He couldn't live under another name all his life, although he was certain Nick wouldn't object; he was happiest when Pace Davis walked a step behind him.

Moving towards the main building, Pace cast a look around the grounds. Men were busy erecting a giant marquee and amenities for tonight's annual client and sponsor cocktail party. Once, not so long ago, Pace
wouldn't have missed that kind of event. He'd liked the music, the conversation. Most of all he'd liked the surplus of interesting female company. But he wouldn't be making an appearance tonight. Phoebe was coming over, as she'd done every night these past weeks. They would have their own conversation.

Make their own music.

In jeans and a white dress shirt, no tie, Pace strode into the main entrance, where a football field's worth of high-powered motoring luxury gleamed in the morning light. Nodding at Lance, their regular cleaner, then looking towards the offices, Pace felt his senses tingle and he slowed up. Was it imagination or had Nick kept a lower profile of late?

Pace had to grin. Maybe his brother was busy preparing his hour-long speech for tonight? But Nick
had
seemed less in his face—maybe because of his preoccupation with Phoebe and the sensational way she made him feel. Strong and confident. But more so. Happy with himself and the world in a way he'd never experienced—not even when he'd earned his driver's licence or accepted his degree in cap and gown. Whenever he and Phoebe were together his mind and body interacted in a predictable way and in an instant he was ready to take her in his arms and make love until they were both spent. He couldn't get enough of the silky warmth of her body,
sans
clothes, curled up around him at night. But was that all he wanted from her?

“You okay, Pace? You look like you forgot something.”

His mind snapping back, Pace found Lance, chamois in hand, standing close by, studying him.

Smiling, he shifted his helmet to his other hand and ran some fingers through his hair. “I'm fine. A bit distracted, is all.”

Truth was, he'd been distracted by Phoebe since the night they'd met. And the fascination kept growing. Any time they were together a powerhouse of energy simmered and sparked. Having dinner, watching a movie, going for a drive, she affected him. To his core. And when they joined together in the bedroom that powerhouse caught light and exploded, again and again.

She was like no other woman he'd known. He couldn't get enough of her. This morning when she'd kissed him goodbye, humming against his lips while the tips of her breasts had trailed over his chest, he'd struggled not to drag her back under the covers and ask her. No more wasting time going back and forth. This weekend he was going to ask her to move in.

Drastic measures.

But an irresistible temptation.

Although another question had niggled these past days, too.

How would she take it when he explained there was more to Pace Davis—aka Davis Pace Brodrick? A lot more. Like being tossed out of the top job in disgrace three years ago because he'd been too busy having a good time. Would she tell him that life could be complicated and that she understood why he'd kept it from her? More likely she'd be hurt. But no one blurted out their history, warts and all, on the first or second date. Even the third or fourth. At least
he
didn't. Although there
had
been a lot of getting-to-know-everything-about-each-other talk on her side.

When
was
the time to come clean?

Pace tipped his head in greeting at Derrick Wilson as they passed in the corridor. Derrick's face looked lined, his glasses a little askew. No wonder. Pace shuddered. Who'd want to be an accountant?

As he neared the main wing Pace imagined Brodricks' president slaving away, as usual, at his desk, poring over figures, crossing all his “t”s. But when he strolled by the office door his step faltered.

Sitting behind his desk, head in hands, Nick looked ready to reach for the nearest noose. His usually immaculately styled dark hair was mussed. The knot of his tie hung halfway down his shirt.

Pace scrubbed his jaw. What was going on? Had something happened to Amy?

When the pager on Pace's belt sounded, Nick dragged his bloodshot gaze up from his blotter. Without discerning the caller, Pace disarmed the message and entered the massive oak and leather office.

Nick's gaze fell to his desk again, but not in his usual self-important way. There were circles under his eyes. His face was unshaven. Pace sensed he barely had energy to speak.

“Doesn't look like a very good morning,” Pace observed.

“That would be correct.”

Nick's speech was thick and slurred. Was he smashed at eight in the morning? But his brother barely drank. Pace's gaze swept the room. No empty Scotch glasses. No crushed beer cans.

Pace took in the plaques on the wall, the Italian crafted furniture and the million-dollar coffee machine gleaming in one corner. Hundreds of clients had been entertained in this room, all eager to sign on the dotted
line and spend exorbitant amounts on a luxury vehicle or two. This morning Nick barely looked capable of lifting a pen.

Pace edged closer. “Everything okay at home?”

His brother didn't respond. Didn't move.

Nick was never anything other than on top, or fighting tooth and nail to get there. This lethargic, almost shattered man had Pace wondering if he'd stepped into the twilight zone. Where was the parry and thrust? The digs and wise-ass cracks.

Pace began to ask again, but Nick interrupted with a curt, “At home, Pace, everything is just great.”

“Are you sick?”

Sitting back, Nick picked up the phone, punched in a key. “I have a meeting in an hour, and—”

“And you can cancel—” Pace crossed the room and now swiped the receiver from his brother's hand “—until you tell me what on earth is going on. If this has nothing to do with Amy, it's about business. The business that's still fifty percent mine.”

Whatever was amiss, Pace wanted to know. Dammit, he
deserved
to know. And not next week.
Now.

Nick glared at him, his dark brown eyes rimmed with red. “If you recall, it was deemed best that the running of this company be left to
me
.”

Pace's temper snapped. He slammed his helmet on the desk and swung Nick's chair towards him. Gripping the armrests, he bent close and lowered his voice. “Nick, your hands are shaking, for God's sake. Crazy idea, but you never know. Maybe I can help.”

Nick blinked, and held his brother's gaze for several moments before the tension leaked from his body
and he slid his tie from around his neck the rest of the way.

“Suppose you're going to find out anyway,” he drawled. “Might as well get it over with.”

A stone sank in Pace's stomach. He recognised the look in his brother's eyes. Defeat. Stung pride. The same feelings Pace had struggled with three years ago, when he'd had that massive blowout and had to step down from the chair. On that day Pace hadn't wanted to look Nick, or anyone else, in the eye. Nick hadn't made it easy for him—then or any time after. Not that Pace had expected him to. That was how their relationship had been defined. Locked horns all the way.

And yet now…

His chest tight, Pace pulled out a chair, sat down, and spoke without anger or accusation.

“Nick…let me help.”

Nick's nostrils flared. He drilled Pace's gaze, his eyes stormy. But Pace didn't react. He loved this place as much as his brother did. He needed to know what the problem was, and being a jerk wouldn't help.

Hell, it never had.

Gradually the venom in Nick's eyes faded, until all that remained was a bleak glare of desolation.

Nick's Adam's apple bobbed twice. “I'm in trouble,” he ground out. “Big trouble.”

For the next hour Pace listened to how Nick had wanted do their father's memory proud and excel in all areas of the president's position. He wanted Brodricks to grow and do more.
Be
more. Two years ago Nick had kicked off negotiations with a group of engineers outside of the company, people who were known as brilliant but extreme in their perceptions regarding
automobiles of tomorrow. They and Nick had discussed, in depth, the possibility of creating a supercar which would carry the Brodricks badge.

Pace was floored. He and Nick had been rivals, certainly, but with his knowledge and experience he should have been consulted. It made bad business sense
not
to.

“Why didn't you talk to me?”

“Pride,” Nick admitted. “Stupidity. You'd talked about doing the same thing. From a purely business angle, I knew we ought to sit down. From a personal stand…I didn't want you to steal any of my thunder.”

Nick went on to explain how he'd poured money into the project—initially his own, and then the company's. But each new technology or material they'd hoped to incorporate into the plan had never quite been ready. But would be soon. Always soon.

“I put more funds in, and more. Last night the man I've been communicating with rang and said they'd suffered a setback and would need at least another two years. I told them our cashflow didn't have two years.”

Nick closed his eyes, and Pace cringed at the sick feeling his brother must be enduring. No doubt had been enduring since that phone call last night.

Groaning, Nick dragged open his eyes. “I screwed up.”

Yeah. But…

Pace rolled back his shoulders. “We all screw up.”

Nick looked at him sideways. “I don't get it. This is your chance. Why aren't you grinding your heel into my back?”

“Because the company won't survive if we both keep
behaving like kids. And, frankly, I'm over it, Nick—aren't you?”

Nick held his brother's gaze for an interminable time, then nodded slowly.

When Pace grinned, Nick smiled and nodded again, more firmly this time. They held out their hands and shook—a first. And it felt good. After all this time, as grown men, it felt right.

Some colour back in his gills, Nick reached for the muscle ball he kept on his desk and squeezed. His brother said it helped him think.

“So…” Nick sat forward. “What do we do?”

“Something radical. Something never heard of before.” Pace pushed to his feet. “We work together. Starting now.”

 

Early that evening, Phoebe pulled into Pace's house-cum-mansion and steered her gorgeous BMW up the wide pine-lined drive.

What would they do tonight? Not
later
tonight. She knew precisely how
that
part of the evening would play out, and where they would end up—in bed, spiralling and reaching for the stars together. She'd thought that after a few times of physically being together the thrill might settle into something more ordinary. But the sensations had gone the other way.
Higher.
And they were still climbing, becoming more concentrated and vital each and every time they made love.

Sometimes when Pace brought her to climax—using the skill of his hands or his mouth or the heavenly old-fashioned way—she wasn't able to catch her breath. At those moments she swore she wouldn't care if she
expired entirely, she felt so sublimely whole…prized and cared for.

Leaving him in the mornings was hard, even when she knew she'd be back that night. During the day Pace would always call to ask about her plans and tell her to come over straight after work. She longed to tease and say no even once, to see what he'd say. But she couldn't bring herself to do anything other than agree, and then count down the minutes until they saw each other again.

When morning came it was the same deal. Drive home. Drive to work. Wait for his call.

Unbuckling her belt, sliding out from the seat, Phoebe swept aside the quiver of unease she'd felt these past hours. Today had been different. He hadn't phoned, and she hadn't been able to get in touch with him. She wasn't concerned. Not really. Before she'd left this morning he'd called her sweetheart and murmured seductively against her lips, “See you tonight.”

Of course this affair was supposed to have been temporary—what she'd needed more than anything at the time. She had vowed that she wouldn't allow herself to feel more for smooth-talking Pace Davis than was safe.

But they were so good together, she reasoned, making her way up to the porch. Light years beyond good.

Finding a smile, she leapt up the front steps.

Now that they knew each other, she felt safer with Pace than she had felt in her life. She couldn't imagine a time when these blissful nights would end. She wanted her life to go on and on just as it did now. Even Steve's jibes at work couldn't bother her. Of course it didn't
hurt that the ratings for her show had gone through the roof. When you were this happy, each day seemed to feed off the previous one and the whole world was naturally brighter.

When she hadn't heard from Pace, she'd decided to go home to shower and pick out an extra-special outfit to wear. Now, after smoothing her designer yellow silk sheath, she siphoned down a breath and rang the sombre bell—once and twice. She waited several moments—longer than was usual—and was about to ring again when Pace swung open the heavy door.