Every Girl's Secret Fantasy (4 page)

So, hoping that her eyes were indeed sparkling, she simply smiled. He returned a dazzling smile of his own, but when he headed for the automatic glass doors—without thinking to put her down—a prickle of panic caught at the back of her throat.

“What are you doing?” The door came nearer and she pushed against his chest—for all the good it did. His stride didn't miss a beat. “Where are you taking me?”

She'd kissed him back. Yes, had revelled in it. But she hadn't waved a limit-free green flag. He knew kidnapping was illegal, right?

“I believe I mentioned a favour,” he said, still walking, and her thoughts wound back. Yes, he
had
mentioned something about returning the favour of taking the time to deliver her car personally. She'd thought he'd meant to toy with her again and convince her to put her hands somewhere on his body. She'd ended up doing that, and more, all on her own.

Her throat closed as the exit drew nearer. A gleaming black sports car sat parked on the building's forecourt, its spokes shining and its lines straight out of a Bond film.
This
was her Brodricks loaner? She could envisage Pace slipping her into the passenger side, him sliding behind the wheel and stealing her away to heaven knew where to do heaven knew what.

She let out a trembling sigh.

How certain was she that she wanted to protest?

Her toes curled as she asked, “Exactly how big is this favour?”

“Let's just say…” he flicked her a glance and winked “…it won't hurt.” She swallowed.

Well, that was good to know.

“Whatever it is,” she said, “I can walk. You can put me down.”

“I could. But I'm having too much fun.”

Flattered, and taken aback, she gaped at him. “You don't give up, do you?”

“Not when I know I'm right. Tell me you didn't enjoy our kiss.”

She crossed her arms and looked away. Always fishing. He didn't need her affirmation.

Outside now, Pace pulled up. When he didn't speak or let her down she warily met his gaze. His blue eyes were hooded, but bright in the sunlight—bright and burning with intent. She held her breath as he lifted her higher in his arms and angled his head, pretending he was hard of hearing.

“I'm sorry?” he said. “Did you say something?”

As he spoke, his raspy jaw turned slightly and gently grazed her temple, carefully trailed her cheek. Her body reacted, humming with need, as if her flesh and her blood were programmed to sit up and beg whenever the promise of intimate contact with this man became anything near a possibility.

She wanted to tell him to show a little mercy and give her some breathing space. But, much more, she wanted the delicious sensation he whipped up inside her to go on. Seriously—if he could kiss like that, how would the rest of his repertoire pan out? How would it be to know Pace Davis fully unleashed and acting purely on animal
instinct? If
he
couldn't set her fireworks off, no one could. Surely neither of them would be disappointed?

Pace's jaw skimmed her chin, her heart began to thump and her heavy eyes drifted closed. When his lips brushed hers, both nipples fired up beneath her filmy blouse.

He nipped her bottom lip and ran his tongue along the seam. “Say it. Say you want me to kiss you again.”

Her stomach muscles quivered, and she moaned in her throat as his mouth lingered agonisingly close.

Phoebe held herself taut, told herself to think of the consequences if things should go bad. But the urge to surrender was greater than the need to take her next breath.

Oh, what the hell?

Her arms looped around his neck and she raised herself to meet his mouth. For better or worse, she was ready to start talking.

T
HE
comment came from behind.

“Hang on a minute. I'll go sell some tickets.”

Deep into a kiss which was, unbelievably, better than their first, Phoebe snapped her mind back a heartbeat before her eyes sprang open. She was in front of Goldmar Studios, locking lips with a man who could prove to be either her saviour or her ruin.

Now they had company.

Phoebe broke from the embrace and realigned her vision. At the same time her stomach dropped. Steve Trundy looked immaculate, in custom-made trousers, a glorious tan and designer lenses which graced the bridge of his perfectly chiselled nose. When Steve removed his shades, his eyes were filled with scorn.

“If you're quite finished—” her boss began, but then he focused on the other man and his cleft chin was tucked in. “Davis? Is that you?”

“Phoebe invited me to sit in on a recording,” Pace replied, as easily as if they'd bumped into each other at the supermarket. “Thought I'd take her up on it.”

As Pace settled Phoebe on her feet, Steve arched a speculative brow. “I see you had a good time.”

Pace grinned. “Never doubted it.”

Steve's lip curled before he tamed his expression. Phoebe could read his thoughts. Wouldn't do to draw swords with the manager of one of the network's biggest sources of advertising dollars. He liked his job too much to upset the accountants.

Instead Steve honed his attention upon Phoebe again. “You didn't return my call yesterday.”

Phoebe felt Pace tense beside her, and a hot wave of testosterone rippled out. As usual, Steve's tone was condescending, but Pace didn't need to get involved in her fight. She could look after herself—calmly and with dignity. She didn't want to give Steve any excuse to ball her out any more than he already did.

Playing the unreturned call down, she shrugged. “Sorry. Must have missed it totally.”

“We need to talk.” Steve slotted his shades into his shirt pocket. “Actually,
you
just need to listen.”

Phoebe almost rolled her eyes. It was hard to believe she'd ever thought herself in love with this guy. So full of self-importance. So ready to puff out his chest and bully if he could.

She stood her ground. “I don't have a lot of time right now—”

“I suggest you
make
time,” Steve growled.

“Guess you didn't hear.” His voice a flinty warning, ready to ignite, Pace took one measured step forward. “The lady said she's in a hurry.”

A muscle ticked in Steve's cleanshaven jaw as he evaluated the odds. His opponent was almost a head taller, broader through the shoulders, and he carried an inherent power with the same authority as a royal wore his crown. If Steve started a fight, Pace would finish it.

Steve narrowed assessing eyes, flared his nostrils, but ultimately slid his hands in a conciliatory manner into his chinos' pockets.

“I don't have a beef with you, Davis. I want to speak to my employee.”

Pace grinned without humour. “She's clocked off.”

Steve's eyes flashed, but then he slowly smiled—a knowing, man-to-man grin. Scratching his temple, he uttered an aside. “I wouldn't waste my time if I were you.” He wrinkled his nose, as if to say,
I've been there and she's not worth it.

While Phoebe's throat closed and her hands fisted by her sides, Pace replied, “Thanks for the tip. Here's one for you.” He stepped into the lesser man's space. “If I ever hear you speak like that again, I'll break your jaw.”

 

When Pace opened the Aston Martin's passenger side door Phoebe, apparently still dazed, automatically slid in. A moment later Pace positioned himself behind the wheel and, still fuming, clipped his seatbelt on. That unscheduled meeting with his brother earlier—and chewing it over in the studio all morning—had put him in the right mood to deal with that pompous ass. Any man who insulted a woman needed a crash course on “manners or else”. He was almost sorry Trundy hadn't shaped up.

“Sorry about that,” Phoebe muttered into her lap. “Steve can be a real jerk sometimes.”

“You don't need to apologise.” Pace ignited the engine and swerved the vehicle out of the park. “Except maybe to yourself. I'm guessing there's a history between you two that goes beyond nine to five.”

None of his business, perhaps, but, dammit, he was bristling and he wanted to know.

Staring blankly out of the window, she gnawed on a thumbnail. “It was a mistake.”

Understatement of the year.

“I have a policy.” He steered out onto the main drag. “Keep work separate.”

“Except in my case?”

He frowned across. “We don't work together.”

“We're connected through business.”

“Loosely.”

She gave him a flat look. “Your company sponsors my show.”

“Marketing isn't my department. I was only at that sponsorship event where we met because my br—”

He bit off the word and, acid rising in his gut, cleared his throat. She didn't need to know that much about his background. Frankly, he didn't want to discuss it.

“The president of the company,” he amended, “wasn't available.” Nick approved advertising budgets, among other things. Pace approved cars. “Besides, you can't put me in the same category as that meathead.”

Trundy's insinuation played over in his mind again. It was so off beam Pace couldn't help but grin.

“What's the joke?”

“Trundy,” he said, “trying to tell me you're a dud.” If Phoebe Moore was frigid, he wore wings and ballet shoes after midnight.

Rubbing her arms and crossing her legs, she slid a wary look over. “What makes you so sure he isn't right?”

Pace grabbed the gearstick and changed down. “Let me pull over and I'll show you.”

The way she responded when his mouth covered hers was proof enough. Her surrender was instinctive and, to put it mildly, highly arousing. Phoebe wasn't frigid. She wasn't even hot. She was
scorching
.

Letting him kiss her a second time said that she was finally leaning towards his way of thinking—that they owed it to themselves and each other to take this fierce attraction to the next electrifying level. To leave off finishing what they'd started today would be a crime. He only wished she didn't have somewhere else to be.

But there was always tomorrow. He'd waited this long for the privilege. He could wait a little longer.

Her cellphone rang. As he strangled the wheel, Pace's smile turned into a sneer. He almost hoped it was Trundy. He'd like nothing better than to turn this baby around and show that baboon he hadn't been joking.

Phoebe fished her phone from her bag, answered, then cried out, “Oh, no! Is he okay?” When Pace flicked a concerned look her way, she nodded, sighed, and drove a hand through her hair. “No, I understand, Wendy. I'll organise something else. Sure. Thanks for letting me know.”

A yellow light changed to red, and Pace brought the purring Aston to a standstill. Phoebe was staring, unseeing, dead ahead.

“Trouble?” he asked.

“My trip to Tyler's Stream is off.”

His brows shot up. So wishes did come true. They could spend the day together. He would have been inordinately pleased if she hadn't looked so down. “What's the problem?”

“I had a handyman lined up this afternoon to finish a job at my aunt's house. That was his wife. Daryl fell
while he was cleaning out some roof gutters today. Broke his leg. A compound fracture.”

Pace flinched. Nasty. “What job was he doing?”

“Near the end of last winter my aunt's boiler died. Meg thought she could battle through, but she ended up in hospital with pneumonia. She brought Daryl out to see if the boiler could be repaired. He gave her a price and ordered in the part. It's still sitting in the basement.”

A bus of Japanese tourists roared across the intersection and the light turned green. “Your aunt's not so good at taking care of those things?” he surmised, and she nodded. “So today you were making sure the job was done before winter kicked in?”

She nodded again. “Meg's due back from overseas in just over a month. I won't sit back and take a chance on her landing back in hospital.” She concentrated on her phone. “I'll just have to organise someone else for next weekend.”

“I could fit the part.”

She sent over a small smile. “Thanks, but it's a radiator, not a V8 engine.”

“To us mechanics, it's much of a muchness.”

She sat straighter and thought for a moment. “I couldn't ask you to do that.”

But the sparkle in her eyes told him she wanted to. She obviously cared for this aunt a great deal. Sure, he wanted time with her—wanted the opportunity to kiss her again—but he also wanted to help.

“You didn't ask,” he pointed out. “I offered.”

“It's a long drive.”

He shifted up a gear and joined the streams of traffic filing over the Harbour Bridge. “I like long drives.”

“My dog might be put out. He's not used to sharing me.”

“I'll only bite if he does.”

Phoebe succumbed to a smile, then buried it quick. “I'll accept—but on one condition.”

If the condition was not kissing her again, he wouldn't agree the terms. “Shoot.”

Her beautiful mouth lifted into a challenging grin. “At some stage I get to sit behind that wheel.”

A woman after his own heart.

He laughed and stepped on the gas. “It's a deal.”

 

Phoebe clicked open her apartment door, explaining, “My dog isn't used to company. He can be a little difficult if he doesn't know you.”

“Don't worry,” Pace assured her. “I grew up with dogs. Man's best friend and all that.”

She sent a look that said he just didn't get it, then fanned open the door.

The puppy on the couch sat up, pixie ears pricked. On seeing his mistress, he dropped his ears and his tail thumped like a piston against the cushions. Then he saw Pace. The tail stopped dead. A rumbling growl gathered, then snapped like a midget clap of thunder across the room.

“Hannie!” Phoebe barked back. “Behave yourself.”

The pup—Hannie—fell onto his stomach, setting his snout on his outstretched front paws. Pace shifted his jaw. Poor little guy was only protecting his mistress. He got that. He'd bet the dog and Trundy hadn't got on so well.

“I won't be a minute,” Phoebe said, heading for a
doorway that led, Pace presumed, to her bedroom. “I'll change and pack a few things.”

“Fine,” he called back. “Hannie and I'll get acquainted.”

Pace flung over a genial salute, one boy buddy to another. The pint-sized dog cocked his head and his rhinestone collar sparkled.

“What say you and I get any concerns out in the open?” Pace said, sauntering over. “Then we can concentrate on enjoying a pleasant afternoon together, just the three of us. What do you say?” Pace made himself comfortable on the couch, angled towards the mutt, and stretched out a hand. “Friends?”

Inches from Pace's fingers, ferocious tiny teeth snapped, then clattered like a rapid spurt of gunfire. Heartbeat hammering, Pace scrambled sideways off the couch.

“What's going on out there?”

Pace ignored Phoebe's call from the bedroom long enough to count his fingers. He blew on each digit then, shuddering, shook out his shoulders and arms. “Uh, just me and Hannie making friends.”

Setting his jaw, recalibrating his perceptions, Pace squared off in front of the mutt. Hannie bared those ninja teeth, his top lip drawn back to his nose. Pace exercised his neck, rotated his shoulders.

Then found a cynical grin.

This scene didn't feel a whole lot different from the face-off he'd had with Nick this morning. One of so many.

Growing up, Pace had heard over and again how much the brothers resembled one another. In looks and habits, perhaps, but their brains were chalk and cheese.
Nick was a figures man through and through, while Pace lived for adrenaline rushes—particularly getting behind the wheel of a hot car. That mutual love of and fascination with automobiles was the reason his father had left
him
in charge of the company.

Nicholas Senior had shaped his younger son for the role from his early teens. Part of Pace had basked in the attention, and in his father's belief in his abilities. Nicholas Senior had been a powerful character. Everyone had wanted to please him.

But another well-hidden part of the younger Brodrick boy had almost resented being groomed for a job which, deep down, he'd felt only half equipped to handle. A job he'd known he could never do as well as his financially brilliant dad. Every time he saw Nick now, and they invariably butted heads, Pace was reminded of the thumping magnitude with which that prediction had come true.

From as far back as dot he and Nick had been in competition…on the tennis court, for high school girls, but particularly for their father's attention and approval. Pace didn't want to dwell on who their father's favourite would be now if he were alive, but his half-brother never tired of finding subtle ways to stick it in. Point in case this morning.

In to collect the Aston for Phoebe, he'd found Nick basking behind his desk. His brother had asked again about those figures he needed on Monday; he didn't want any mistakes and had suggested Pace double-check to make sure they were right. Triple-check if need be.

His temper had boiled. Like so many other times in his life, Pace had wanted to slog him.

A knock echoed through the living room, and Pace swung towards the door at the same time as Phoebe emerged from the bedroom, her hair a sheet of silk and her angelic curves breathtaking beneath a flowing white dress. Pace's skin heated as a groan of brewing desire replaced the pent-up angst of a moment ago. When her jewelled eyes flashed an easy smile as she passed, Pace's blood simmered more. He couldn't wait to see how the rest of their day panned out—even with the mutt along.