Every Girl's Secret Fantasy (5 page)

Phoebe opened the door to an elderly lady and exclaimed, “Oh, good morning, Mrs G!”

Setting his private thoughts aside, Pace nodded politely towards a woman wearing a jet-black rinse and a multi-coloured shift. As “Mrs G” entered the room, she regarded the two thoughtfully, worrying her jaw back and forth as if ill-fitting dentures were terrorising her gums.

“Didn't mean to interrupt anything,” she said. A single bark sounded as Hannie leapt over into the older woman's arms, and those assessing eyes suddenly glistened with unabashed love. “How are you, darling boy?”

Pace swallowed uncomfortably as kisses—the wet kind, involving at least two mouths and one tongue—were exchanged.

“You're not interrupting, Mrs G,” Phoebe said, guiding her visitor into the room.

“I wanted to know if you needed me this weekend.”

“Actually,” Phoebe said, “we're about to head off for the country.”

The woman's expression sharpened. “To your aunt's
place? Be nice this time of year.” She eyed Pace like a headmistress summing up a possible truant.

Phoebe gestured to Pace. “This is a friend of mine—Pace Davis.”

The old biddy glared. “You like dogs, Mr Davis?”

“Sure,” he answered jauntily. “
Hot
—with mustard and pickles.” He chuckled, but fell silent when everyone, including the hairball, simply stared. He tugged his ear.
Bad joke.

After sizing him up a final time, Mrs G turned to Phoebe. “I wanted to let you know that I have an appointment next Wednesday. Not till late.”

Phoebe turned to usher the older woman out. “I'll make sure I'm home early to take Hannie off your hands if he's over there.”

Mrs G dropped a kiss on the dog's crown. “You be a good boy. No chasing possums, hmm?” She looked down her nose at Pace. “No need to tell
you
to behave, I hope?”

Pace smiled ear to ear. “I haven't chased a possum in years.”

“Goodbye, Mrs G.” Taking Hannie, Phoebe politely showed the frowning woman to the door. When Mrs G was out of earshot, Phoebe shrugged apologetically. “She's really very sweet when you get to know her.”

Pace shuddered. “A veritable bee at the hive.”

Phoebe gave his arm a playful slap as she wove around and headed for the kitchen. “I'll pack some provisions,” she called over a shoulder.

Sensing an outing, Hannie scampered across the timber floor to camp out by the front door. Pace surrendered to a grin. Smart dog. A little
too
smart.

Pace cast an eye around the apartment. A couple
of surrealist paintings on the wall, air-con installed. Comfortable furniture strewn with bright cushions.

He spotted a loose sheet of paper on the side-table and scooped it up.

“‘Phoebe's Wish List',” he muttered aloud, then shook his head, smiling. Typical organised female. Making a list for Christmas already.

His eye ran down the page before his vision scudded back to the top. A hot bath of hope poured over him as he reread that very inviting first point:
Find Mr Right Now.

Impressed, Pace let out a low whistle. He wondered how many requests Santa got for
that
.

He peered around the corner. With Phoebe still busy in the kitchen, his attention went back to the list.

Guess it wasn't such a strange request. It was the twenty-first century, after all. Today's women were supposed to be into careers and having it all. Being tied down to a Mr Right with a couple of kids made that difficult. Hell, he was about to turn thirty and he was nowhere near ready for that kind of commitment. Playing the field was a good alternative—it seemed for both sexes.

But if having a memorable affair was at the top of Phoebe's wish list, there were only two explanations for her hard-to-get act these past weeks. It was either simply that—a tantalising act, as he'd always suspected—or she hadn't considered him a contender for the position.

Those couple of kisses today ought to leave her in no doubt.

Either way, it seemed as if it was Tyler's Stream and smooth sailing from here on.

H
ER
aunt's boiler was going to be fixed. Hannie hadn't yet tried to eat her handsome companion's face. She and Pace were enjoying each other's company, even outside of their usual flirting mode. Despite its unconventional beginning, today was turning out to be a good one.

Halfway to Tyler's Stream, however, Phoebe's buoyant mood dipped.

As they motored down a lonely stretch of highway in a high-powered British car that diamond-studded dreams were made of, Phoebe noticed the windscreen had begun to spot with rain. The day had begun with a flawless blue sky, but as they'd headed south rain clouds had crept in. She checked the rearview mirror.

No cars behind them. Nothing up ahead. Nevertheless, she slowed down ten Ks.

“Ready for me to take over, or do you plan to hog the wheel the whole way?” Sitting relaxed beside her, Pace chose another CD from the stash Phoebe had brought along.

These past two hours they'd listened to music while Hannie had napped in the back on the sumptuous leather seat. They'd discussed holidays and movies, but thankfully he hadn't mentioned this morning's
incidents—either those crazy-mad kisses they'd shared or the Steve Trundy debacle. Perhaps Pace didn't want her attention distracted too much while she sat in charge of a machine that would dent a bank balance at least two hundred grand. He must have a stack of clout at Brodricks to have organised such an impressive loaner. This car was amazingly smooth, incredibly powerful, and equipped with all the latest gadgets and trimmings. But after two hours she wouldn't mind a swap.

Driving in the rain wasn't her favourite thing.

Exercising her neck, she glanced over. “Think I'll pull up at the next gas station.”

The words weren't out before she spotted a huge blurry mass, the colour of red soil, bounding across the road up ahead. Her heart flew to her throat a second before instinct took over and she slammed on the brakes.

The kangaroo was a monster. If they hit, God knew how much damage would be done—to the car as well as to its passengers. She doubted the kangaroo would survive either.

She heard Pace's expletive as they both held on and the car jerked rapidly, repeatedly, decelerating ultra fast on premium anti-skid brakes. All would have been good if the kangaroo had kept on bouncing its way back into the bush. Instead, powerful hind legs brought it to a thumping stop. As its eyes meshed with hers through the windscreen, Phoebe went cold all over.

They were going to hit.

She wrenched the wheel and the car spun out.

It all happened so fast, and yet in another dimension the scene played out in agonising slow motion. She clutched the wheel, her eyes terrifyingly wide, as the
front swept around in a dizzy one-eighty. Like a rag doll, she swung one way and then, with a bruising jolt, the other. As if she were stuck in a nightmare about to get worse, she couldn't find a voice to scream.

When the car finally slammed to a dead stop Phoebe's knuckles were white, her legs were newborn-foal-weak, and the Aston Martin was facing north instead of south.

Unable to move, even to blink, she sat, dazed, trying to get her mind around what had just happened while her heart hammered high in her throat. When the driver's side door was flung open she gasped and shot a look up.

Pace was frowning at her, a vein pulsing erratically down one side of his brow.

“Move over,” he ordered. “We need to get off the road before a semi or a family in a sedan come up over that hill.”

Feeling as if she were standing on a slanting deck in the middle of a storm, she threw a glance at the empty seat beside her. When he nudged her arm, forcing her mind and shaky limbs into action, she shuffled over the gearstick. Pace leapt in and, with precision movements, swung the car around and parked it on the road's shoulder.

He flung an arm over the back of the passenger headrest. His face was as dark as hers felt pale. When his warm firm palm cupped the back of her head and he urged her head gently more towards him her chest exploded with a tempest of emotion.

Relief. Infinite gratitude. They hadn't hit. They weren't injured, or worse. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and never let go.

His concentrated gaze swept over her, top to toe. “Are you all right?”

Her body had been invaded by the shakes. Her hands trembled uncontrollably, and if she tried to speak her teeth might very well chatter. She'd never been in a car accident before, but her mother had. The worst kind.

The worst outcome.

Her lungs begging for air, Phoebe sucked in a breath, but she couldn't catch the tear trailing down her cheek. Pace leaned over and, holding her close, rubbed her back.

“It's okay,” he murmured against her ear, stroking her hair as a growling truck hurtled past and the car vibrated. “You're okay now.”

She focused her every fibre on his warmth and his strength. She felt Tyler's Stream so close now. The memories…good and bad. She'd grown up in a nice home, with plenty to eat and plenty of love. Yes, she
was
okay. More than okay.

But what would have become of her without Aunt Meg?

 

An hour later Pace steered the Aston Martin up a pair of shallow ruts that led to a remote, quaint-looking house in the small town of Tyler's Stream…the place Phoebe had at one time called home. The clouds had dispersed again, and a tranquil sun was arcing towards the west.

She'd remained quiet the rest of the journey here. Pace had been rather subdued too.

That spinout would have tamped down anyone's mood, but the car hadn't been damaged and no one had been hurt—thank God. She'd never forget the harrowing
feeling when she'd thought they were seconds from colliding with that gigantic roo. It was as if every iota of energy had been sucked from her heart down her legs and out through her toes. Neither would she forget how Pace had held and comforted her afterwards.

She'd been too shaken to feel silly or weak. She'd accepted his reassurance gladly, and was grateful he hadn't let her go until he'd known she was ready. It was odd to think of the turns their relationship had taken since five p.m. yesterday afternoon. She'd seen another side to her heart-throb bad boy and she liked it. A lot.

For the past hour Hannie had enjoyed the cool rush of wind on his face from the back seat. There hadn't been one peep out of him the entire time—even after the incident. But now the engine was barely cut before her little dog jumped out, yapping as he raced to the cottage's front door. Once there, he sat still as any statue, waiting for his mistress to unlock it and let him in.

Chuckling, Pace opened the passenger door. “Does he usually get so wound up about his visits to the country?”

“Sure,” Phoebe replied, slipping out of the passenger side. “It's nice…to visit.”

Moving forward, Phoebe took in the scene, and an odd, hazy sense of the past returned. The place looked the same.
Felt
the same. A haven as well as a sentence. Pristine lace curtains hung neatly in every window. The front door was lacquered that same deep red. The walls might have been whitewashed only yesterday.

Either side of the flagstone path pink and violet wildflowers were fading on the dragging heels of summer. The lawn, however, was its usual clumpy green self. The
sky was again flawless, of a hue and depth postcards from exotic lands could only hope to fudge. And the air was fresh and strangely heady; not a factory stack or congested freeway for miles. Subtle smells—damp black soil, eucalypt mixed with minty pine—reminded her of long talks, shared laughter, and sometimes tears.

From the boot, Pace found the hamper, and the toolbox which they'd collected from Brodricks on the way through. When Phoebe swung open the front door Hannie shot forward, hurling himself up onto his favourite spot—beneath the framed autographed poster of Jimi Hendrix that hung one side of a stone fireplace.

Pace set down the hamper, then made his way to the centre of the room, his gaze skating over the surrounds: a meditative pyramid frame in one corner, crystals hanging from doorways, a mound of LPs stashed against the wall company for the polished radiogram…

“This is…” He nodded, poker-faced. “Well, it's
weird
.” Phoebe laughed, and his expression broke into a relieved grin that said he was glad she understood. “I feel like I've stepped into a time warp.” A psychedelic print on the far wall must have leapt out at him, because he rubbed his eyes as if they hurt.

Phoebe swept a fanfare gesture through the air. “Welcome to Tyler's Stream's shrine to the sixties.”

“Good ol' sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll?”

“Meg would be more comfortable with
peace
, love and rock 'n' roll.” Phoebe tipped her head at an Elvis wall clock, the hips of which swivelled back and forth with every tick. “
Lots
of rock 'n' roll.”

Strolling by a credenza, Pace ran a finger along the
frame of what Phoebe knew was her aunt's pride and joy…a photo of Meg, resplendent in flower-power gear, lying on a peace sign at Woodstock with her “pal”, Janis Joplin. His initial expression of scepticism disappeared when Pace raised the frame to scrutinise it further. He cocked a brow.

“Your Aunt Meg gets around.”

“Let's say she has a way with people. You couldn't guess at some of her acquaintances these days.”

He slid another appreciative glance around. “Bet this would've been one crazy place to hang out on vacations.”

Phoebe crossed to remove the rocking chair's dustsheet. “My friends thought it was pretty cool. Weird, but cool.” Then she digested what he'd said. “Vacations? No. I grew up here.” His brow knitted, questioning. Of course—he wouldn't know. “Just me and my aunt after my mother died. I was four.”

Pace's expression disintegrated. “Oh, Phoebe… God, I'm sorry.” Blindly he replaced the photo. “You don't have any brothers or sisters?”

Winding the dustsheet over her arms, Phoebe shook her head. That was definitely a downer. She would have loved a younger sister to pamper and protect. Someone to share things with…jokes, clothes, memories. She envied people who had that.

“What about your dad?” he asked.

The crystals tinkled in a disturbed air current as she hurled the sheet at a corner in order to delay her answer. Dads were not her choice subject.

“I don't have a father.”

He studied her for a long moment. “You mean you didn't know him?” he said quietly.

At the dining room window, she drew back the cream lace to unlatch it.

“Is there a difference? When you're a child,” she explained slowly, “never knowing a person and that person never existing amounts to pretty much the same thing.”

When she'd visited friends' houses, watched their parents together, or listened when their fathers spoke about respecting their elders or such stuff, she'd wondered what it would be like to have a daddy all her own. She'd felt…different. Often on the outside looking in. By junior school she realised some people thought of her in that light, too. Being born illegitimate was considered by many to be a sin—at least in her small hometown.

By college, it had all become too hard.

Those memories stirred up too many bad feelings. She'd sooner push them aside and concentrate on the now.

She turned and saw that the sympathy she'd heard in Pace's voice was mirrored in his face. But she wanted the vibrant blue in his eyes to sparkle again. She didn't want to dwell on the past.

“The boiler's down here,” she announced breezily, determined to set the tone back on track. She strode toward an alcove that led to the basement and fanned open its door. “How long do you think it'll take?”

Toolbox in hand, he brushed by. One powerful arm whispering against hers was enough to make her quiver and remember how his lips had felt against hers—skilled and instantly drugging.

But she was still a little shaken from the accident. For now she'd focus on the job at hand.

Willing away the pleasant twinge low in her belly, she flicked a switch, igniting two naked lightbulbs hanging from their straggly cords.

Pace headed down. “I'll let you know when I'm finished. Might take five minutes.” He disappeared down the well. “Or half the night.”

 

Thirty minutes later, Pace spun a final watertight wrench on the remaining bolt and stood back to evaluate his work. The part for the boiler had fitted with no problem. Hopefully dear Aunt Meg's winters would be snug for a long time to come.

He packed his gear, knowing this basement saw the light of those bulbs rarely. Rows of mouldy-smelling boxes lined numerous shelves. Neat piles of musty books lay stacked in a corner. Auntie collected artefacts: a pair of six-foot regal-looking giraffes; one ginormous smiling Buddha; too-many-to-count rolls of what he guessed were tapestries. Everything had its place.

Pace ascended the creaky steps, thinking how alike he and Meg were. He, too, liked to have things where they ought to be. From a lad, every spanner had been routinely put away. At university every line and dimension on his engineering drawings had been exact. Always calibrations were checked to the nth degree.

Nick was the same with following the stock market and analysing loopholes to keep money shifting to make the most of every tax break and investment opportunity. Yes, he and Nick were similar, too.

And so damn different.

He edged out into the bright light of the Moores' living room. He'd declined Phoebe's offer of refreshment
when she'd visited the basement earlier. Now, however, he was parched. And starved. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, and his growling stomach was reminding him every two minutes.

Finding the kitchen, he took a casual inventory. Autographed memorabilia from twentieth-century legends didn't line these counters. Just rows of tan tiles bordering a scarred hardwood bench, a menagerie of utensils hanging over an old woodstove.