Книга - Every Girl’s Secret Fantasy

Every Girl's Secret Fantasy
Robyn Grady


A wickedly sexy rebel – with a secret… Mechanic Pace Brodrick has stepped straight out of prim Phoebe’s wildest fantasy – oil-slicked and dangerously sexy, he’s her perfect Mr Right Now! Phoebe’s been long overdue some excitement – and Pace’s wicked smile guarantees she’ll have the thrill of her life! Then Pace discovers the temptress behind Phoebe’s good-girl façade!She drives him wild – but will she want their fling to last for ever when she discovers Pace has been lying to her all along? For this bad boy is actually a secret millionaire…









Praise for Robyn Grady:


DEVIL IN A DARK BLUE SUIT

‘This is a fun, wildly romantic lovers-reunited tale. Readers will root for this pair as the hero realises that only by coming to terms with the past can he move his life forward.’

—www.romantictimes.com

CONFESSIONS OF A MILLIONAIRE’S MISTRESS

‘This emotional journey features a feisty heroine determined to have it all. It proves an interesting journey as [the heroine] tries to convince the hero he deserves the same thing.’

—www.romantictimes.com

HIRED FOR THE BOSS’S BED

‘Grady wonderfully captures feelings of love, envy, insecurity and ego in this terrific tale.’

—www.romantictimes.com





Every Girl’s Secret Fantasy


BY




Robyn Grady











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


One Christmas long ago, ROBYN GRADY received a book from her big sister and immediately fell in love with Cinderella. Sprinklings of magic, deepest wishes come true—she was hooked! Picture books with glass slippers later gave way to romance novels, and, more recently, the real-life dream of writing for Mills & Boon.

After a fifteen-year career in television, Robyn met her own modern-day hero. They live on Australia’s Sunshine Coast with their three little princesses, two poodles, and a cat called Tinkie. She loves new shoes, worn jeans, lunches at Moffat Beach and hanging out with her friends on eHarlequin. Learn about her latest releases at www.robyngrady.com, and don’t forget to say hi. She’d love to hear from you!



Recent titles by the same author:

Modern Heat™

NAUGHTY NIGHTS IN THE MILLIONAIRE’S MANSION

DEVIL IN A DARK BLUE SUIT

FIRED WAITRESS, HIRED MISTRESS



Desire™

THE MAGNATE’S MARRIAGE DEMAND

FOR BLACKMAIL OR PLEASURE

BABY BEQUEST

BEDDED BY BLACKMAIL


For Senior Editor extraordinaire, Kimberley Young



Thank you for your guidance and unfailing belief in my work, for the amazing opportunities and, most of all, your friendship.




Epigraph


‘Tell me you didn’t enjoy our kiss.’

She crossed her arms and looked away.

Outside the reception doors now, Pace pulled up. When he didn’t speak or let her down, she warily met his gaze.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Did you say something?’

She wanted to tell him to show a little mercy and let her go.

But, more, she wanted the achingly 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 fully unleashed and acting purely on animal instinct? If he couldn’t set her fireworks off, no one could.

Phoebe held her breath, curled her toes, then surrendered to a defeated sigh.

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




Chapter One


KNEES gone weak, Phoebe Moore drank in the sight of two bronzed arms angling down over a well-packed T-shirt and large masculine hands raising its black interlock hem. Unaware of his company, the man dragged the shirt up over his head. At the same time Phoebe’s throat thickened and her mouth went bone-dry. After a criminally toned abdomen and broad chest were revealed, he bunched the shirt into a ball and set about towelling all that premium meat and muscle.

Phoebe released a quivering sigh.

No wonder Brodricks Prestige Cars’ slogan was “The Thrill of Your Life”.

Dynamic, charming, all gloriously packaged in the body of a sex god, the man in question—the delectable Pace Davis—was Brodricks’ lead technical adviser and resident chief mechanic. That chest, those jeans…The vision standing before her was enough to reduce Phoebe to a creamy puddle. But the best part—as well as the worst—was his sultry air of mystery. The three times she and Pace had met he’d seemed interested in details of her life, but had been curiously elusive about his own.

She could guess why.

At the far end of the otherwise deserted Sydney workshop, Pace swiped the shirt down one trunk of an arm and up the other. As he gave his delectably dewy chest another chamois, sensing a presence, he glanced over and gifted her a smile—a particularly sensual lopsided grin. Air eased from Phoebe’s lungs as, moving to join her, Pace ruffled his inky-black hair into a tousled style.

That was how he’d look in the mornings, she decided, hugging her clip-folder close. Slightly dishevelled and completely desirable.

When the heat racing through her veins pooled and contracted low in her belly, Phoebe hauled herself back and drew up tall. Time to remember how late she’d stayed up the previous night making that list—her dare-to-be-bold, nothing-left-out wish list. The first point was underlined in red:

Reclaim my sexuality…Find Mr Right Now!

In one sense, dreamy Pace Davis was the perfect candidate. The friction that zapped between them would explode like two sticks of lit dynamite if they ever transferred their physical attraction to the bedroom. But taking that plunge with Pace would never happen, and for three very good reasons.

Phoebe tried to remember those reasons now, as Pace’s electric blue gaze combed her shoulders, her hips, while that mouthwatering bare chest rolled to a stop a mere foot away. His eyes locked on hers, and his square jaw shifted before that rich, deep voice rumbled out.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Miss Phoebe Moore.” His brows swooped together. “But wait…there’s something different about you.”

Phoebe’s face flushed hot. Different? Was it the spot on her chin?

“It’s there in your eyes,” he went on, and that wicked smile curved his mouth again. “It’s finally happened. You’ve had a change of heart and want me to take you home.”

Perhaps it was that honey-over-gravel voice, the smouldering intensity in his eyes, or the basic shocking truth in that line that almost undid her. Actually, it was all three—but no way would she tell Pace Davis that.

The first and biggest reason she wasn’t going there with Pace was due to the fact they knew each other through work. After a failed office affair, Phoebe was acutely aware of the pitfalls that could follow mixing business with pleasure. Pace Davis, on the other hand, suffered no such reservation. On the first night they’d met, at a sponsorship cocktail party, he’d been dressed in a tuxedo and with seduction on his mind. He’d let her know with his eyes and subtle gestures that he wanted her. More to the point, he intended to have her. It was simply a matter of time.

Or so he thought.

Finding her strength, Phoebe lifted her chin. “No change of heart, Pace.” She managed a casual shrug. “I don’t think you’re what I need right now.”

Tipping close, his warm breath stirred her hair. “Wouldn’t it be fun to find out for sure?”

When he rocked back, sexual awareness tugged her along like the drag from the Starship Enterprise. But Phoebe dug in her heels and reminded herself of the second reason she refused to cross that line with this near irresistible man.

Aside from Brodricks Prestige Cars having corporate connections with Goldmar Studios, the production house she worked for, Pace was a player…the kind of instinctively seductive male who didn’t need to brag about his exploits but made no excuses for pursuing and then enjoying what he caught. The night they’d met he’d been lapping up the company of a gaggle of admiring women. She’d bet the only reason he’d lost interest in the others and set his sights on her was because she hadn’t batted her lashes and immediately fallen at his feet. The second time they’d met, at a similar function, it had been the same story. Lots of women hanging off his every word. Pace in his element. That was evidence enough for her.

Certainly if she followed her list and found “Mr Right Now” she would be embarking on an intimate relationship with someone who may or may not be The One, but taking control of your fate was a far cry from agreeing to become another notch on some playboy’s bedpost. The latter scenario cut way too close to the mistake her mother had made, and had ultimately paid dearly for.

Her young daughter, too.

On the other hand…Pace was certainly amusing, and a bit of harmless teasing never hurt anyone.

“I guess it would be fun to find out,” she admitted, and when his blue eyes flashed added sweetly, “You’ll be the first to know if I change my mind.”

No smile this time. Rather, he stepped into her personal space and, when her neck tipped back, angled his head achingly close to hers. The heat of his body burrowed into her skin, making her tingle and feel entirely, dangerously out of her depth.

“Know what I love about you, Phoebe?” he growled in a low, entrancing voice that sent her heart and mind racing. “Your ability to avoid the unavoidable.”

Flames licked up her limbs, across her breasts, over and between her legs. Pace’s potency this minute was so close, so lethal, she could barely get enough air. Another few seconds—another inch or two—and his mouth would drop over hers. Time to get back on track, before the scrap of sanity she still possessed snapped and she surrendered completely.

Siphoning in a quiet breath, she slid one foot back—enough to put adequate distance between them and shortcircuit the sizzling connection.

“The desk manager said I’d find you out here.” She was thankful her voice wasn’t thick. “I’ve come to collect my car.”

A measure of light flickered back up in his darkened eyes before he relented and slowly drew away. With a languid stride, he headed for a row of lockers. Game over…for the moment.

“Ah, yes,” he said, stuffing the black T-shirt into a locker. “Your new 6 Series coupé. A contemporary beauty, with a world of simmering power just begging to be released.”

She grinned at his subtext as he flicked her a devilish look and retrieved a fresh white replacement. After he’d slipped the shirt over his head and covered his CinemaScope chest, she sussed out the shop. So where was the BMW? She checked her watch. The sponsorship agreement said five p.m.

“I have the right date, don’t I?”

“Don’t worry,” he told her. “We’re not reneging on our agreement. Along with the advertising dollars we spend with your network, the president of the company is eager to provide a Brodricks prestige vehicle for the star of Goldmar Productions’ latest ratings winner for personal use for one year.” But then he cocked his head and gave his ear a tug. “Unfortunately we learned late this afternoon we won’t have the car until Monday.”

Phoebe’s heart fell.

Perfect. Because of this deal she’d gone ahead and advertised her own early model car. It had gone to its new owners this morning. If she didn’t have the sponsorship vehicle, she was without wheels. No problem normally, but this weekend it mattered.

A lot.

She took her thumbnail from her mouth. “What time Monday?”

A half-serious line creased his brow. “Were you planning on taking an extended test drive this weekend?”

Something like that. “I need to get to my hometown tomorrow. It’s a speck on the map.” And a six-hour round trip from Sydney.

Her Aunt Meg was due back from her most recent overseas jaunt, and the home Phoebe had shared with her, from the time of her mother’s death until her big move to Sydney eight years ago, needed a small but crucial repair job.

Her aunt breezed through something like co-ordinating a two-month trek across Asia, yet suffered blatant uninterest in organising inconsequential domestic affairs—like avoiding frostbite when the temperature plummeted below zero. The town’s only worthwhile handyman was teed up to fit a replacement part in the house boiler tomorrow. The evening weather was already chilly. If she didn’t see to it before the real cold set in, no one would.

Pace had made himself comfortable, propped up against a nearby Alfa Romeo’s door, arms and ankles crossed. “No problem,” he said. “I’ll organise a loaner.”

“Really?” Phoebe sparked up. “Could I pick it up tomorrow, some time after noon?”

He winked. “Leave it with me.”

Problem solved and business concluded, she thanked the Brodricks representative for his time, then promptly turned for the wide garage door, which led to the offices and main exit.

“Hey, hold up a minute.”

At his call—mellow and embracing, like an offshore breeze on a summer’s day—Phoebe rotated back.

“Need a lift home?” he said, pushing off the car door. “Don’t like your chances of finding a cab this time of day.”

Butterflies were released in her stomach at the thought of sharing a ride—just the two of them, sitting close, completely alone. The idea made her insides contract with longing and her breathing come a little quicker, but she shook off the notion and sent a cool smile.

“Thanks. I’ll be fine.”

A crooked grin stole across his face as those big shoulders rolled toward her. “Maybe we could stop for a coffee on the way. I’d offer a sample from the workshop percolator, but I’d rather you left here alive.”

He arched a brow at a suspect glass pot, which might have been brewing since last Christmas.

When a small laugh escaped, Phoebe quickly bit her lip. “I honestly don’t think—”

“How about you leave the thinking to me?” In full seductive mode again, he strolled closer. “And I think you can’t be in that big of a rush.” A sultry look burned in his eyes. “Or do you have a special night planned?”

“Only with my Lhasa Apso.”

“Lucky dog.” His mischievous grin might have been envious. “But I’m sure the pooch won’t mind if you’re a few minutes late.”

On a scale of difficulty, it was on a par with applying double-sided cleavage tape, but Phoebe managed to crimp her mouth into a flippant thanks-but-no-thanks smile and spin on her heel.

With a parting, “I’ll be in tomorrow to collect the car,” she headed out through the door.

She was right to deflect Pace’s advances. Although, truth be told, experiencing the full extent of his blistering brand of passion could almost be worth getting burned…particularly considering her last lukewarm experience with a man.

Instant attraction had bitten deep the day she’d met her boss, a year ago. Steve Trundy was tall and blond, with muscles that gleamed like polished steel after one of his regular workouts. She didn’t know a woman at Goldmar’s who didn’t want to date him. When he’d asked her out, Phoebe had melted and murmured yes.

Their first all-out attempt at passion had been after hours, in an unmanned studio control room. Embarrassingly less than successful. Phoebe had blamed the malfunction on her worry over someone walking in and catching them out, so when Steve had suggested a romantic weekend away she’d leapt at the chance. But the niggling she’d experienced in the control room that night had surfaced again.

She’d been baffled. Steve was intelligent, attractive, built. The lack of stimulation had to be her fault, not his. Surely next time would be different?

Willing to let the emotion and enthusiasm grow, she’d persevered, showing him what she liked in the bedroom and trying her best to please him too. But little had improved and there had come a point where she’d begun to avoid situations that might lead to intimacy. She’d thought she was in love with him, but how could that be when she shied away almost every time he touched her?

After nine months two weeks and three days, she’d broken down and, cheeks flaming, admitted that something vital was missing. The connection—the hunger—that should be there simply wasn’t. She’d felt so bad. She’d begged Steve not to blame himself.

He hadn’t. In fact he’d puffed up his chest and lost no time insisting that, if she wanted to know, he didn’t much enjoy sleeping with her either. She was so tense and staid, he said. Boring was another word he’d used. He was sorry too…that she was sexually dysfunctional. When her back had gone up and she’d defended herself he’d less than kindly pointed out that a raging inferno drowning in jet fuel couldn’t spark her match.

She could have shaken off the insult, which was obviously the result of a dented ego, if only she didn’t have to see Steve and his jilted face five days a week at the studios. When they were in the same room, his “frigid” accusation played over in her mind and icicles would form, freezing solid in her veins. But there was nothing wrong with her. They simply weren’t sexually compatible. It happened.

Still, as more time went by and Phoebe looked back on her romantic past, she began to wonder if Steve might to some degree be right. She’d had intimate relationships before, but not many, and she’d never enjoyed the volcanic, lose-your-mind, cry-out-his-name kind of lovemaking that she knew must exist.

Sitting alone in her apartment last night, she’d decided she’d spent long enough torturing herself over it. It was time to act! Her doubts needed to be washed away—and not with a few trickles but a downpour. With no truly memorable sexual experiences to speak of, at twenty-six she needed to know that she was capable of being consumed by the mindless fever that went hand-in-hand with heart-pounding, out-of-this-world, give-me-more sex. She’d read about that kind of explosive euphoria—had even dreamed of it a few times. Other women found it.

Why not her?

But brazen bad boy Pace wasn’t the answer, as tempting as succumbing might be. Not only was that man a lesson in heartbreak waiting to happen, what if the unthinkable happened? What if she was wrong and Steve was right and she wasn’t capable of feeling the earth move, or seeing a thousand stars go off in her head? Tanking with Steve had been uncomfortable. But she’d coped.

Pace was another matter.

Now whenever Pace looked at her all she could see, all she could feel, was his barely contained desire. It sizzled over her, drew her in and made her feel as if she were some kind of goddess. If she slept with Pace and they failed to lift off, that smouldering attention would be replaced with something a whole lot less flattering…like disappointment. Or, worse, pity.

Shuddering, Phoebe walked faster.

No way. Not with Pace. She’d be humiliated into the next decade. That was the third and strongest reason she must stay well away.

Phoebe moved through the massive Brodricks showroom, its vast glass walls encasing a dazzling parade of gleaming vehicles that movie stars and Arab sheikhs might drive. Bentley, Ferrari, Rolls-Royce…She hated to guess how much this place was insured for. How must it feel to be that insanely rich? Like the vast majority of the world, she’d never know.

Outside a moment later, the early-evening air was brisk, with the crush of autumn leaves littering the pavement. Busy pedestrians swirled all around, and overhead deepening shades of blue had drawn up a blanket, preparing to tuck in for the night.

Her hand high, she hailed an approaching cab. Along with a fleet of other peak-hour traffic, it sailed by. So did a second and a third cab. Five long minutes later, when she spotted a fourth cruising down Botany Road, she shot out an arm and waved a giant arc. The cab slowed down. Smiling and waving again, she moved forward. She didn’t see the motorbike zipping in to stop ahead of the cab. Didn’t notice its helmeted rider…at least not until he reached out from his perch at the kerb to lay a steely grip on her arm.

She scowled. What the hell?

“Get your hands off me,” she growled, wrenching her arm free. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The first bell to ring was the white T-shirt, visible under the rider’s open leather jacket. The second, when the visor flipped up, was that delicious don’t-you-want-me? smile. The voice—a warm summer breeze—came in a fatal third.

Pace Davis leaned back and revved his bike. “Actually, I wondered if you’d changed your mind about that lift?”

“You?” Her mouth opened and closed twice before she got another word out. “I didn’t know you rode a bike.”

He removed the helmet and rubbed the dark, daylong bristles framing his wry smile. “For a few years now.” He hitched forward. “Here…jump on.”

“I—I don’t double on bikes.”

“You mean don’t or never tried?”

An unbidden fire ripped through her system, and for one dizzy moment she imagined herself, novice thighs clinging to hot metal, arms gathering living granite, breasts crushed against comforting firm warmth. The mere thought of being that close to definitely-off-limits made her sway a little and lose her breath.

Cursing the blush rising in her cheeks, she hurried on. “Either way, it doesn’t matter. I have a cab waiting.”

She gestured to…a vacant space.

Shifting her gaze, she spotted her taxi merging into the traffic with a passenger in the back seat. At this rate she’d never get home. Her attention slid back to Pace and her heartbeat thumped at his focused gaze. She shook her head slowly.

“This is not a good idea.”

“I’m not kidnapping you. It’s only a lift.”

Sure. That was why mischief was twinkling like rough diamonds in his eyes.

“Oh, come on,” he teased. “Live a little. I guarantee you’ll enjoy the ride. Bet my best wrench on it.”

Lateral thinking sent her head spinning at the prospect of winning this man’s prize tool.

Phoebe evaluated her attire…a cream bandage dress cut above the knee, five-inch gladiator sandal heels. How could she consider straddling that steed in this get-up?

A challenging smile lifted one side of his mouth. “Don’t think, Phoebe. Just do.”

Her gaze dropped from his entrancing blue eyes to his come-kiss-me lips. The smell of grease mingled with a hard day’s work and a faint tang of aftershave—something woodsy and distinctly memorable—and wrapped itself around her hypersensitive skin. Thoughts about possible embarrassment drifted away. He was right. She was overreacting. If she accepted this ride it would mean nothing more than a lift on a busy afternoon.

And yet she couldn’t help but look forward to clinging to his back, to moulding her hands over biceps that must be carved from rock. He would be so hot, so hard…more scrumptious than she’d ever dreamed.

Reading her mind, Pace widened his smile before he made the decision for her. Relieving her of the folder, he slid it into a slimline compartment on the bike’s side. Accepting the fact that every one of her marbles had suffered a major meltdown, Phoebe caught the spare helmet, took his hand, and swung a leg up and over the smooth seat behind the rider. The motor roared as he gunned the throttle and she set the strap under her chin.

“Now, hold on tight,” he said as the visor dropped into place. “Real tight.”

And she did, unable to hold back a whooping laugh as they shot out into a break in traffic.



Phoebe Moore could be summed up in two words.

SEX. EE.

Reaffirming that truth, Pace leaned his machine into a corner and sweet Phoebe cuddled in close. Feminine fingers clutched, warm thighs pinched, and firm breasts pushed. Smiling, he gunned the throttle for an extra burst of speed.

No contest. This woman grew more alluring each time they met. She was cute, though not ditsy. Sassy, yet kind of shy. Open, but not overbearing. Hell, she was a whole lot of things. In other words, he wanted her. And, despite driving him crazy with an impressive array of excuses, the truth of the matter sparkled in her eyes.

She wanted him too.

Pace deciphered Phoebe’s flailing arm directions and slid into a vacant space outside the well-situated northside apartment block. Slanting his long legs down to steady the stationary bike, Pace felt his heartbeat slip into third as Phoebe wiggled free of her mount. Smoothing down the skirt hitched up on those heavenly hips, she removed the helmet and shook out a satiny stream of pale blonde hair. He’d dreamed of that hair. Tonight he planned to touch it.

“Thanks for the lift.” Phoebe handed back the spare helmet with an exuberant smile. “I must admit…it was fun.”

A heavy throb condensed in the pit of his stomach at the thought of all the fun they would have.

He shot a casual glance around the mix of suburban weatherboards and trendy complexes huddled between towering gum trees. No graffiti. Buckets of kids. Nearby, someone had removed what smelled like a lamb roast from the oven.

“Nice neighbourhood,” he said, meeting her gaze again.

“I was lucky to get a place so close to the city that’s almost reasonable in rent.” She nodded at the adjacent park. “There’s barbecue areas and swings close for families. Alfresco restaurants and a mall down the road, too. It’s a good combination. Pretty and full of possibilities.”

Drinking her smile in, Pace felt his blood simmer.

It certainly is.

Bringing himself back, he glanced over his shoulder. “We passed a Japanese restaurant on the way in.”

Phoebe’s eyes flashed with approval. “I eat there all the time. It’s the freshest in town. Their rainbow rolls are to die for and—” She stopped, her head tilting as though she were embarrassed or disappointed with herself. “Sushi isn’t everyone’s favourite.”

“I’m an atmosphere man,” he confirmed. “If the service is good, lighting right and the company special…” He pictured them in a darkened corner, touching, kissing, and eased into a grin. “Well, I’m usually on my way to being satisfied.”

Her eyebrows gradually knitted. “Satisfied…” she murmured, then, “I can imagine you’d want to be.”

Pace frowned. The luminance in her glittering jade gaze was fading, eclipsed by that familiar, infuriating restraint. When she took a step back on those sexy heels, as if yanked by an imaginary lead, he almost spilled off his bike.

“You’re leaving?”

“I’ve kept you long enough.” She smiled her dimpled smile and turned away. “Thanks for the lift.”

As she swept up the paved steps, disappearing into the building without a backward glance, Pace grinned to himself. If she wanted to play impossible to get, he’d simply get more inventive. He liked a challenge. In fact, he’d been raised on them.

And he always won.

Well, almost always.

Kicking up the stand, Pace prepared to pull out into the next break. At the same time the cellphone on his belt vibrated. Ditching the helmet, he studied the ID and groaned. It was the weekend, for crying out loud. What did his brother want now?

Actually, his half-brother. His father had married soon after his first wife had died in childbirth. His second marriage had produced another son. In a perfect world the two brothers might have become inseparable. Instead Pace and the slightly older Nicholas Junior had grown up at loggerheads, competing at everything, including their busy father’s attention, each step of the way. As grown men, nothing much had changed.

Setting his jaw, Pace thumbed a button and connected. “Hey, Nick.”

Nick didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Have you addressed the consignment arrival problem for that Bugatti? I need to know by eleven Monday morning. No later.”

Nick would still be sitting at his big desk, surrounded by paperwork, dark hair spiked from numerous run-throughs with his hand. In his absolute element.

“Hello? Anyone there?”

Pace grated his back teeth. “I’m here.”

“You could show a little more interest,” Nick growled, and Pace growled back.

“And you could quit with the attitude.”

“There’s something wrong with wanting to get things done and done right?”

Steam rose beneath his leather collar, but Pace kept his response to an almost civil warning. “Nick, don’t go there.”

He could do without the thinly veiled reminders.

Five years ago Pace had taken on the presidential seat of the family business, Brodricks Prestige Cars, but not because he was partial to reams of figures and boardroom meetings. After his father’s death, his will had left Pace in charge. The younger son had seen the promotion as a responsibility he couldn’t shirk, even when Nick, the brother with the accounting skills and economics letters behind his name, had made it clear he was the best man for the job. Pace, a practical rather than academic type, with an engineering background, wasn’t sure he disagreed.

No secret—Pace had enjoyed the lifestyle his inheritance and position provided. He’d partied hard, had chalked up some amazing experiences, and had entertained some exceedingly attractive company. But there was a definite downside.

He was happiest when talking cars, analysing precision engines or test-driving the fastest, classiest automobiles in the world—Jaguar, McLarens, Mercedes, Porsche—vehicles available for sale or lease through Brodricks. Design and hands-on tasks were where he excelled. Being locked behind a desk during working hours was far from his ideal existence. It had shown—not only in his demeanour but more tellingly in Brodricks’ books which, after his first two years at the helm, hadn’t looked nearly as healthy as they should. The final straw had come when he’d made a couple of glaring errors regarding funds in a foreign investment account.

At the subsequent board meeting to analyse the extent of the damage he’d maintained a firm chin, but had secretly wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. Hell, it wasn’t as if he’d asked for the job. He’d been too young—too full of juice—for the conservative life of a suit. His father should have considered that instead of constantly pushing. All concerned would have been far better off if he’d stuck to what he did best and left the tricky, aka boring bits to others.

Of course Nick had agreed.

With a handshake and a smirk his half-brother had stepped up, while Pace, needing to dodge unwanted media attention, had taken on an alias and spent the next two years overseas, incognito, researching premium automobiles all over the globe. He’d come back to Australia pumped, and champing at the bit to reclaim control over the technical side of the business. But he’d got used to his new identity, and the screen it provided from the media radar, so he’d kept the twist on his name—Pace Davis, rather than Davis Pace Brodrick.

Nick maintained that their father had chosen the slightly younger son to head the company because Pace had been his favourite. But Nick refused to examine the more valid reason underpinning their father’s decision. Pace not only understood cars, he lived for them—like the old man had. And that was Pace’s saving grace. Nick might be the current financial brain behind the name, but Pace was and would always be Brodricks’ heart.

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.




Chapter Two


PHOEBE 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.



Call back NOW!

Steve

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.




Chapter Three


BY 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.

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.




Chapter Four






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