by Robyn Grady
“What say you and I get any concerns out in the open?” Pace said, sauntering over. “Then we can concentrate on enjoying a pleasant afternoon together, just the three of us. What do you say?” Pace made himself comfortable on the couch, angled towards the mutt, and stretched out a hand. “Friends?”
Inches from Pace’s fingers, ferocious tiny teeth snapped, then clattered like a rapid spurt of gunfire. Heartbeat hammering, Pace scrambled sideways off the couch.
“What’s going on out there?”
Pace ignored Phoebe’s call from the bedroom long enough to count his fingers. He blew on each digit then, shuddering, shook out his shoulders and arms. “Uh, just me and Hannie making friends.”
Setting his jaw, recalibrating his perceptions, Pace squared off in front of the mutt. Hannie bared those ninja teeth, his top lip drawn back to his nose. Pace exercised his neck, rotated his shoulders.
Then found a cynical grin.
This scene didn’t feel a whole lot different from the face-off he’d had with Nick this morning. One of so many.
Growing up, Pace had heard over and again how much the brothers resembled one another. In looks and habits, perhaps, but their brains were chalk and cheese. Nick was a figures man through and through, while Pace lived for adrenaline rushes—particularly getting behind the wheel of a hot car. That mutual love of and fascination with automobiles was the reason his father had left him in charge of the company.
Nicholas Senior had shaped his younger son for the role from his early teens. Part of Pace had basked in the attention, and in his father’s belief in his abilities. Nicholas Senior had been a powerful character. Everyone had wanted to please him.
But another well-hidden part of the younger Brodrick boy had almost resented being groomed for a job which, deep down, he’d felt only half equipped to handle. A job he’d known he could never do as well as his financially brilliant dad. Every time he saw Nick now, and they invariably butted heads, Pace was reminded of the thumping magnitude with which that prediction had come true.
From as far back as dot he and Nick had been in competition…on the tennis court, for high school girls, but particularly for their father’s attention and approval. Pace didn’t want to dwell on who their father’s favourite would be now if he were alive, but his half-brother never tired of finding subtle ways to stick it in. Point in case this morning.
In to collect the Aston for Phoebe, he’d found Nick basking behind his desk. His brother had asked again about those figures he needed on Monday; he didn’t want any mistakes and had suggested Pace double-check to make sure they were right. Triple-check if need be.
His temper had boiled. Like so many other times in his life, Pace had wanted to slog him.
A knock echoed through the living room, and Pace swung towards the door at the same time as Phoebe emerged from the bedroom, her hair a sheet of silk and her angelic curves breathtaking beneath a flowing white dress. Pace’s skin heated as a groan of brewing desire replaced the pent-up angst of a moment ago. When her jewelled eyes flashed an easy smile as she passed, Pace’s blood simmered more. He couldn’t wait to see how the rest of their day panned out—even with the mutt along.
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.
CHAPTER FIVE
HER 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.”
<
br /> 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.
