Every Girl's Secret Fantasy

by Robyn Grady

  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, day-long 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 l
eaving?”

  “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 temperatu
re 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.