Every Girl's Secret Fantasy (3 page)

Which meant doing what was best for the company and, if at all possible, keeping his temper where his brother was concerned.

“I'll have that data to you first thing Monday,” he ground out, and then, to change the subject, “How's Amy?”

Nick's fiancée was a sweetheart. Pace liked to hear she was well.

But Nick stayed on track. “Meeting's at eleven. I'll see you with the information at eight.” The call disconnected.

Compressing his lips, but then letting a curse fly anyway, Pace slotted the cellphone back on its clip.

He and Nick had always been last-one-left-standing rivals and always would be. Their glove-to-chin history could never be erased. As much as he'd like to believe in fairytales, no way, no how, would he and Nick ever get along. Sorry truth was neither of them wanted to.

His helmet fitted, Pace switched his thoughts to a more pleasant matter…his budding relationship with the scintillating Phoebe Moore. Given her clear-cut departure moments ago, sadly getting to know Phoebe on more intimate terms would have to wait until another time.

After a late model Merc had hummed by, Pace revved his engine and swung out. Then, like a godsend, he remembered that folder lying safe and sound in the bike's compartment near his thigh. Beneath his helmet
a wide smile broke. Catching a break in the oncoming traffic, he lunged into a knee-to-road one-eighty.

Seemed Lady Luck was on his side.

P
HOEBE
opened her apartment door, dropped her bag, and crossed to her cosy living room. After thumbing on a side-lamp, she fell like a bowling pin into the chintz couch.

What a ride!

What would Roz Morelli do when she learned her best friend had been whisked away upon the throbbing axis of a gorgeous man's bike? Scream with envy, that was what. Phoebe could barely believe it herself.

After hugging onto that broad leather-clad back all the way home, her mind was filled with an assortment of intoxicating images. Closing her eyes, she saw Pace's spectacular body—not sitting before her on that bike but poised above her, his big bare biceps either side of her head, his lidded gaze conveying a message that needed no words. She imagined his soft, skilled lips brushing hers, his deft wet tongue pushing inside, and that kernel of longing blooming at her core glowed brighter still.

Milking the delicious syrupy feeling, she held onto the vision a scrumptious moment more, then reluctantly forced her eyes open and reached for the list she'd left on the side table the night before. She scanned the
lines, then zoned back in on item number one:
Find Mr Right Now.

She'd decided Pace couldn't be the one. They were connected through work. He was obviously a playboy. And, perhaps worst of all…

She shuddered.

What if they failed to launch in the bedroom? How hard would it be to accept that even with someone of Pace's calibre she bombed out beneath the sheets? Worse, whenever they met she'd have to face
his
disappointment as well as her own. Pace was a man who would expect satisfaction in all aspects of his life—particularly, she suspected, when enjoying himself with the opposite sex. After the near-ruthless way he'd pursued her, the idea of ultimately turning Pace
off
rather than
on
left her cringeing to her toes.

No matter how much he tampered with her temperature when they were in flirting mode, nothing guaranteed that would translate into a success story when they were naked and heart-thumpingly alone. It was hard enough facing Steve, reliving his words and the embarrassment every time she saw him. She refused to risk going through the same wretchedness whenever she and Pace met. The risk wasn't worth it. It was much wiser, much safer, to keep the fantasy of
what if?
alive for them both.

Three sharp raps sounded on her door. Phoebe found her feet and, after a second to think it through, a smile. Must be Mrs G.

Her neighbour and landlady was a brash old thing, who smelled of seventies cologne and soft-serve ice cream. But she adored Hannie, Phoebe's dog. Given the time she spent at work, Phoebe was grateful for
Mrs G's eagerness to puppysit. For convenience's sake, her neighbour had her own key to let herself in and out of Phoebe's apartment. However, understanding of another's privacy, Mrs G always knocked first.

But when Phoebe fanned back the door the breath caught in her throat. A heartbeat later the strength in her legs drained like water from up-ended bottles. Not Mrs G. With one shoulder propped against the jamb, and the sort of casual, sexy attitude that was always inherent, never learned, Pace Davis stood in her doorway.

One dark brow arched over a crooked grin.
“Surprise.”

Her gaze flew from his teasing eyes to the folder visible in one large tanned hand. “Ohmi…I totally forget—”

“Your folder.” He straightened to his full six-foot-plus height. “Thought you might need it.”

The folder contained a rundown for tomorrow's
SLAMM
recording. She went cold thinking of Steve's snide reaction should word get back that she'd shown up at the studio less than prepared. Since their breakup Steve had turned over any rock that might help provide him with a reason to dismiss her. He hated being reminded of their failed relationship. He'd much prefer her gone.

Phoebe accepted the folder from Pace. “Thank you.” She remembered the lift home and her smile deepened. “Again.”

“Well, I happened to be in the neighbourhood,” he joked. “Saw your light on…”

He looked so strong, so unaccountably attractive, every glorious wonderful inch of him. But it was his
eyes that drew Phoebe most. So alive and compelling. So startlingly blue and intense.

As if sensing her slide, he edged a fraction closer. That beguiling scent stole into her lungs, and something primal tugged in the base of her tummy. Shrinking back, Phoebe hauled herself in. She'd better get rid of him before she did something impulsive that they both might live to regret.

She summoned up a breezy smile. “So, guess I'll see you when I collect my car tomorrow.”

“After midday. I'll be there.” Pace set one hand high on the jamb. “You're recording your show in the morning?” When she nodded, he grinned. “
SLAMM
. Should be the name of a basketball show. What does it stand for again?”

Phoebe hid a grin. He knew darn well what the letters stood for. He simply wanted to hear her say it. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of blushing.

“It stands for
Sex, Love and Maybe Marriage
. We invite couples on the show who are in a relationship, in love, and thinking of making it legal.”

“Ah, yes. I remember now. It's all there in the sponsorship file. I really ought to catch a recording some time.”

“Let me know when. I'm sure the producer will look after you.”

When he inclined his head, light from her side-lamp caught his eyes, making them glitter like cut-crystal. “I was hoping
you'd
look after me.”

Phoebe quietly held her stomach. There went that addictive tug in her belly again. It wasn't that she didn't
want
to look after him. Even now it would be so easy to invite him in, offer a drink, let the evening
unfold and ultimately give in to this maddening desire to kiss him.

Kiss him and more.

Nearby, a muffled tinkling peeled out. Brought back, and feeling a little light-headed, she glanced around. Her bag was ringing.

Muttering, “Excuse me…” Phoebe dropped and rummaged around. But at the exact moment she found the cell in her bag the ringtone stopped. A couple of seconds later a text message was available.

Phoebe moaned.

What was she supposed to have done now?

“Bad news?” Pace asked, folding down beside her.

“To put it mildly.”

“Looks like you need a distraction.” His gaze dipped to trace the line of her mouth and a telling warmth swirled through her middle. “Grab your coat,” he prodded. “Come out with me.”

Phoebe gripped the phone. Her fingers ached to brush that raspy jaw. They also itched to ring Steve back and tell him to quit being such a baby, to grow up and use some manners. She was tired of showing up for work wondering what low comment Steve might have for her. She wished she could think of a way to fix the problem, but she wasn't about to leave the job she adored. Steve wasn't going anywhere either.

Mixing business with pleasure…

Her gaze roamed Pace's handsome, expectant face and she pushed to her feet.

She wouldn't make that mistake twice.

She shook her head. “Pace, let's not do this.”

He rolled back those shoulders. The intensity of his determination was palpable.

“I want to try something,” he said, in a take-no-prisoners tone. “I want you to touch me.”

Phoebe backed up, horrified.
Tempted.

Touch
him? She couldn't. She
wouldn't.

Her eyes popped.

Oh, God. He was winding out of his jacket!

“Don't bother making excuses,” he said. “I was right about the lift, wasn't I? You were worried about nothing. You enjoyed the ride.”

She honed in on the definition of his chest, discernible through the shirt, and when her slack mouth refused to work she licked her suddenly dry lips and willed her voice not to crack.

“Th-that was different.”

“No difference.” His jacket dropped and buckles pinged on the floor. “Promise.”

Her cheeks felt on fire. Her legs were all wobbly and dangerously weak. She wanted to recoil. Show him that she was serious and that this time he'd gone too far.

“I don't see that this has anything to do with—”

She was cut off when she found her hand, small and pliable, engulfed in his.

His brows fell together. “I'll tell you what this has to do with. You accepting that we're attracted to each other. That's nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to be worried about. I don't have a criminal record. I'm not a Jekyll and Hyde. Take this one little step, Phoebe. If
you feel uncomfortable I'll leave and never mention it again. You have my word.”

Entranced, Phoebe stood, trapped in his eyes.

Crazy…
foolish
…but she believed him.

More importantly, there was a way to work this standoff to her advantage.

She could go along with this game, and if she didn't melt not only would Pace back off from now on, but her curiosity in that department would also be satisfied. She'd wanted to sample more intimate contact with Pace without the risk of embarrassing herself. This was her chance. It didn't mean she had to go any further if she didn't want to.

Or
he
didn't.

After a deliberating moment she nodded, and let him place her palm on his chest.

Immediately a delicious buzz sped through her body. Her insides contracted and her eyes drifted shut.

Heat.

Rock.

Very…very…nice…

She heard her own sigh and, caught out, let her eyes fly open. He was looking down at her, completely in control. Annoyingly superior. What must it feel like to know you were just that good?

Snatching her hand away, she hoisted up her chin and croaked, “Satisfied?”

“We're not finished.”

His roughened hands caught both of hers and held them firmly against his hard chest again. His piercing gaze seemed to search her soul. “Now put your cheek on mine.”

A world of alarm bells went off.

“I
can't
,” she cried while his hot hands kneaded hers.

Could she?
Should
she?

“Give me one reason why not,” he said, a hypnotic smile shining in his eyes.

“You're…” She licked her lips again while her heartbeat boomed. Finally she murmured, “You're too tall.”

He grinned. Bent lower. “Your cheek, Phoebe. Here on mine.”

His deep voice vibrated beyond her fingers, booming a breathless path through the channels of her mind and her body. She'd come this far. If she didn't go further, even a little, she would always wonder.

Carefully she craned her neck. Her face touched his, that wonderful scent spilled through her system, the tips of her fingers tingled and the room began a slow spin.

Eyelids growing heavy, she instinctively rubbed her cheek up. He, in response, grazed his down. She dissolved as a smouldering pulse leapt to life between her legs and dragged another sigh from her throat.

Sandpaper scuffed near her ear when his chin dipped around. Noses brushed—once, twice—before his slightly parted lips dusted hers. Overtaken by sensation, she trembled to her socks when his deep, rich voice hummed against her left temple.

“I'm right about this, Phoebe. Right about us.”

The moist, heaven-sent kiss that lingered on her brow dropped an airy veil of longing upon her shoulders. He moved back and she trembled, waiting for those lips. Waiting for that kiss. Waiting…

Waiting?

Her eyes shot open, and the wonderful fuzzy feeling evaporated like six p.m. cocktails.

The door was wide open, but Pace, and his leather jacket, were gone.

B
Y A
quarter to twelve the following day,
SLAMM
had finished its Saturday morning recording.

The floor manager was ushering out the chattering audience. Overhead, banks of lights were fading down. Soon the crew would disassemble and move the set to scenery. And in the back row of the bleachers a patient Pace Davis sat and watched and waited.

Out of sight, anxious and hidden in the wings, Phoebe curled her fingers around the studio floor curtain and rolled her teeth over her bottom lip. She hadn't noticed until halfway through the morning that Pace had followed up on his suggestion of the day before. He'd come in to see for himself how a television show was recorded, and had left her seriously off balance in the process.

When she hadn't been in front of the camera she'd watched him from the wings, as she did now. Was it her imagination? Or had he indeed been distracted a great deal of the time, absorbed in his thoughts, and not pleasant ones. But whenever their gazes had meshed over the heads of the energised audience crowd, his vibrancy had faded back up and her limbs had turned to jelly. Amazing. Even in this very public environment,
surrounded by hundreds of people, her reaction to his presence was something perilously close to overwhelming. Given the steady gleam in his eye, she wondered if he planned to play another of his games, and this time claim the kiss he'd left behind last night.

Swallowing against the nerves jumping in her throat, Phoebe watched as Pace pushed to his feet and looked expectantly around. She'd been upset last night when he'd left her standing, waiting, in her doorway. No, upset wasn't the word. She'd been livid.

Every time they met he openly pursued her—let her know that he'd like nothing better than to take her to his bed. Yesterday he'd had the perfect opportunity to push that point a long way towards home. She'd been ready and shamelessly willing to kiss him. The question was…if that kiss had been a wild success, would she have risked going further? Had she been at that point where mindless passion would have superseded inhibition and taken over?

He affected her so deeply. She'd barely slept last night for reliving every thrilling moment of that bike ride home and then his showing up unexpectedly at her door. She'd tossed and turned and wondered a thousand times what would have happened if instead of leaving he'd leaned in and pressed his lips hungrily to hers. And every time she wondered, her belly would heat and throb with longing.

Just like now.

But she couldn't stand here flustering all day.

Sucking it up, Phoebe stepped out from behind the curtain and willed Pace's sweeping gaze to meet hers. When he spotted her his eyes flashed, and the sexy grin
that never failed to fling her pulse-rate up into overdrive curved one corner of his mouth.

Instantly entranced, Phoebe smiled back as a warm and wonderful fever swept over her skin. Beneath the bodice of her pink silk blouse her breasts grew heavy and tingled at the tips. Her awakened body told her what her mind already knew…what she'd
always
known. No couple could predict with absolute certainty whether they would ultimately set off each other's fireworks behind closed doors, but, coming out of the gate, there was every indication that she and Pace would reach the finish line at a gallop.

Then again, she'd once thought the same about Steve, and look how that had turned out.

As Pace descended the audience steps, his gait fluid and purposeful, Phoebe held her freefalling stomach and inhaled a deep calming breath. She'd been determined never again to contaminate her work environment with matters of the heart. She'd set her mind never to make her mother's mistake and lay herself open to the manipulations of a bad boy, a man so confident and attractive and damnably sexy that once a woman allowed him into her life there was every chance she'd still be hooked long after the party was over. And yet, despite all the negatives, as he made his way over she could think of only one thing…

Picking up where she and the best of the bad boys had left off. Come what may, she wanted to know the soul-lifting sensation of his mouth covering hers while his hands on her shoulders drew her close. Already she could feel his palms edging her straps down, his touch moulding over her breasts, slipping beneath the elastic
of her panties and then scooping between the receptive join of her inner thighs. Stroking her…loving her…

Overheated, Phoebe fanned herself with her rundown, then repositioned her bag strap firmly over her shoulder. This was getting way too hard and way too hot. The constant tug of war—whether she should or whether she shouldn't—was making her crazy. A mass of frazzled nerves.

The sooner she was out of here, away from Pace, and on her way to Tyler's Stream the better.

They met at the bottom of the bleachers amidst the smell of spilt soda, banks of dying lights and streams of departing audience members, who veered about them like rapids around two rocks. No surprise, Pace's smile—oblique and entrancing—held even more power now that he was within touching distance.

Kissing
distance.

He settled his arms over that edible chest, which this morning was covered by a collared white shirt, sleeves rolled high enough to reveal prominent cords wreathed beneath the surface of bronzed forearms. Phoebe held back a sigh as her tummy muscles twinged and squeezed. Could this man look anything other than completely sexy?

Too late, Phoebe realised she was staring. From the satisfied slant of his smile Pace realised it too. Clearing her throat, her cheeks flushed, she dropped her gaze. But other women passing weren't shy about checking out the darkly attractive man who, remarkably, seemed to have eyes only for her.

Phoebe had a logical explanation for that.

She was his current object of desire. The power of the pre-coital gaze was well documented and part and
parcel of any genuine seduction attempt. Predators mesmerised their prey with the power of their eyes. He was
supposed
to make her feel this warm and wickedly bothered…this giddy and aching with want inside.

Phoebe shook herself partway back. This was
so
not the time. So definitely not the place.

Herding her whirling thoughts together, she curled stray hair behind an ear and, schooling her expression, asked in a blithe tone, “So, how'd you like the show?”

“Very much.” A frown creased his tanned brow. “But I'm glad it's over.”

She blinked at him. Glad? “Really?”

He stepped closer. “It means you're free.”

When he gifted her a smile meant to strip the clothes from her body Phoebe battled to contain any evidence that might reveal she was liquefying on the inside, and in an extremely pleasant way.

Instead she pointed out, “I won't be free for long. I have that trip home to make today, remember?”

“Indeed I do.” He performed a flourishing wave in the general direction of the car park. “Madame, your ride awaits you.”

Understanding dawned, and a soft smile lifted her mouth. He'd brought the loaner car here rather than have her go all the way into Brodricks. Bad boy or not, he was pretty good at this white knight stuff.

“I appreciate that,” she said, her tone nothing but sincere.

“Perhaps you can do me a favour in return.”

Her heart skipped several beats and, alert again, she laced then locked her fingers behind her back. “If it
has anything to do with my hands touching your chest, count me out.”

Not here anyway.

He chuckled. “Still in denial?”

She wasn't in denial. She knew the power he potentially had over her. Knew the dangers, too. But was
he
honest enough to be one hundred per cent truthful about what was behind his interest in her?

“Perhaps you can help me overcome my…
denial
,” she said. “Why don't you tell me why you're so keen for us to be…to be…?”

“Lovers?” he supplied and, her heart hammering at the evocative image that word drew in her head, she nodded. He rolled back his shoulders. “All right. I will.”

She had no time to think, to dodge, to tell him that what he was about to do was highly inappropriate—as if that would have stopped him. One second she was challenging him to admit that his persistence was more about the thrill of the chase than any extraordinary quality on her part except, perhaps, resistance. The next strong hands had cupped her bare shoulders and determined arms drew her near. Her heart had no time to leap from her chest before the event she'd imagined far too often was actually happening. And the reality of the experience was a thousand times more thrilling, and
devastating
, than she could ever have dreamed possible.

As his mouth met hers, a steam bath of longing rose up and stole the rest of her breath away. The effect started low in her belly and sped through her veins, making her every sense heat up and her mind go blank then bright with a million colours. She felt him, smelled
him, and as his mouth locked over hers
tasted
him too, with every famished, sighing cell in her body.

He drew her closer at the same time as his tongue pried her lips apart.

But that wasn't true. No force was needed. She opened up for him, offering no struggle. No fight. Rather, she let the rundown slip from her grasp and, as if on autopilot, slid her palms up over the steely cage of his ribs, then higher to grip the velvet-covered rock available beneath the smooth fabric of his shirt. Her fingertips brushed and then kneaded the buttons, aching to rip the front wide open.

When all too soon his mouth gradually left hers, Phoebe's eyes remained closed and her clinging fingers stayed glued to his chest. She could feel his heart beating all the way through to her bones. His primal heat swirled out, filling her like a flash storm filled a needy well.

A deep, assured voice filtered through her pulsing fog. “Does that answer your question?”

Her heavy eyelids dragged open.

His strong shadowed jaw was the first thing she saw, but she felt so light-headed the world seemed to be tipped on its axis. Was she still on the same planet? In the same century?

Awareness slowly filtered back and, with an ice-cold draft falling through her middle, Phoebe realised precisely where she was. Then another even more frightening reality bubbled up.

Heat scorched her face as, near rigid with shame, she carefully angled her head. Her vision arced a horrifyingly slow forty-five degrees. The room was dead quiet, but not empty…in fact very much the opposite.

Perhaps fifty people stood frozen, all eyes on them. Some folk stared with mouths wide open. Others were grinning like loons. Many women held their hearts, a look of sublime amazement mixed with envy stamped on their faces.

Phoebe withered into her shoes as a shivering, shaky sensation dropped through her middle. Just when she thought she might shrivel up and keel over with embarrassment, a voice broke the silence.

“Mummy, that lady doesn't look so good. Maybe
Daddy
should give her mouth to mouth next?”

It was too much. Phoebe's knees gave way.

As she went to stabilise her weight against the bleachers' hand rail, Pace caught and swept her up into his arms. A unified sigh from the crowd went up around them. She was centre stage in a way she hadn't anticipated. Certainly didn't want. She hadn't
meant
to lose herself and kiss him back. She'd surrendered her senses in one very weak moment. Surrendered completely…

And enjoyed it—as everyone had no doubt seen.

Smothering a groan, she hid her face in her hands.

She'd made a display of herself in front of her workmates—in front of her
audience
—with the man who'd made no bones about declaring she shouldn't fight what compelled them together. Her cheeks felt like twin ovens, even as her body sizzled with the afterglow of the magic.

Even while she secretly wished that amazing kiss hadn't ended quite so soon.

Her flushed face still buried in her hands, she felt Pace set off with a languid gait. Soon the resumed noises of the crew cleaning up and the audience leaving through the studio side exit faded. When she had
the courage to come out from her hideyhole Pace was strolling through Goldmar's enormous front reception area, cradling her in his arms as if she weighed no more that a bag full of feathers.

Behind her circular polished teak desk, Cheryl the receptionist sat up for a better look as Pace marched them across the crimson-carpeted expanse. From the surrounding walls the eyes of the studio's “stars” peered down at them. Phoebe hadn't got used to seeing her own face up there yet. When Steve Trundy heard about this incident he'd want to set a new record in ripping it down.

Pace stopped in front of her giant close-up and angled his head, analysing. “It's a good print, but it doesn't capture your…effervescence.”

With Cheryl's interest still firmly upon them, Phoebe didn't need to discuss photography. But Pace studied the shot more keenly, before dropping his gaze to search her features. “Your eyes sparkle much more than that.”

After the embarrassment he'd put her through, she sorely wanted to throw a barb and wrench this out-of-control situation back into some kind of order. But another less belligerent part of her wanted to accept his compliment graciously. This situation wasn't ideal…

But it wasn't
all
bad.

She'd
never
been kissed like that before. She was still quaking, every nerve-ending singing as if they'd all been zapped by some heaven-sent force. She wished their embrace hadn't happened in such a public forum; she wasn't certain she would ever live down her flagrant show of abandon in front of so many. But she couldn't deny that the experience had been a huge boost to her confidence. The heat Pace conjured in her
couldn't
be
drawn from an ice queen, and instinct said he was capable of stoking that fire a whole lot higher.