by Robyn Grady
The word itself made him feel all itchy and uptight.
Sam kept on studying him, chewing the last of his ham on rye, his coal-black eyes looking unconvinced.
Grunting, Pace waved his friend off. Ah, what did he know?
But he clicked his cellphone from his belt. A walk down the aisle was out of the question. He was too young, too free. They barely knew each other. But roses…
He punched in directory assistance for the number of a florist.
Roses he could do.
As the stretch limousine pulled up on the glittering forecourt of an exclusive inner city building, Phoebe clutched the evening bag to her chest and tried to control the team of nerves playing jump rope in her belly. It wasn’t too late to pull out of this rendezvous. She could inform the driver she’d made a mistake and ask could he please take her straight back home.
But now that she’d come this far—feeling like Cinderella arriving at the ball—she owed it to herself to see what other surprises lay in store. She owed it to Pace, too. She’d thought he’d give up once he’d won his prize. Thought he’d grow tired of calling when she was constantly unavailable. Wrong. His efforts to see her again had only grown—and to heights that must have cost a small fortune.
She could admit she was flattered by the attention, but not enough to fool herself into believing this was anything more than it was. An encore. Pace was a ladies’ man. He’d had a good time that night in her cottage. He wanted to enjoy those same highs again.
Gathering her courage, Phoebe raised her chin.
The naked truth was…so did she.
Looking beyond the limo’s window into the building’s glittering foyer, Phoebe slipped one of the cards Pace had sent her today back into her evening purse. A moment later the car’s back passenger door swung open and the chauffeur assisted her out with gentlemanly grace. After brushing down the folds of her aqua silk gown, she pivoted on her matching high heels, hunting her surrounds for signs of her date.
She held her knotting stomach.
Where was Pace hiding?
From inside the hotel Pace gazed on, and he liked what he saw.
Phoebe’s gown was cut daringly low at the back, and her silken hair sparkled in the moonlight with a thousand tiny diamantés. When a sudden gust eddied down the sidewalk, collecting a mini-whirlwind of leaves that funnelled around the fall of her skirt, it lifted the airy fabric enough to reveal a pair of slender ankles that Pace knew intimately. After rearranging her swirling gown, Phoebe stepped towards the chauffeur and must have asked a question—at which he drew a playful finger across sealed lips.
Pace’s smile heated his chest. He was glad he’d followed Sam’s advice. Glad he’d embellished it to the degree that he had. If a dozen red roses and a card would make Phoebe smile, why not go the whole hog and send twelve dozen dozen? He’d organised with the florist for the bouquets to arrive every twenty minutes at the studio. At six o’clock Phoebe had rung to accept his invitation to dinner. He’d told her to expect her ride at eight. Dress was formal.
Ted, the doorman, who’d been standing close by awaiting orders, slanted his head conspiratorially.
“Now, sir?”
Pace straightened. “Yes, Ted. Now.”
The uniformed man shunted back his embossed jacket shoulders and started off.
The Brodricks penthouse, with its impressive city views, imported marble decor and quality furnishings, was usually kept vacant, ready at a moment’s notice should one of Brodricks’ clients visit and need accommodation. At other times it was free for Nick or Pace’s personal use. Since returning home, however, Pace had felt more comfortable in his own home, which sat on a cliff overlooking the world’s most beautiful harbour. But Nick’s memo yesterday had turned his screws one notch too tight.
He would use this penthouse, and anything else related to Brodricks, any damn time he pleased—and if Nick wanted him to ask permission his brother would be waiting until lolly-pink was his favourite colour.
Outside, Ted introduced himself to Phoebe, then escorted her through soaring glass doors into the building. The subtle sway of her gown was nothing short of hypnotic. She’d looked fabulous in her Tyler’s Stream casual white dress, edible in that black lingerie, but at a pinch Pace preferred her in evening wear. The way she held herself, the way she glided and glowed…it stole his breath away.
As his girl swept into the expansive marble foyer, Ted bowed off and Pace in his white dinner jacket stepped up. Spotting him, Phoebe froze, then released a dazzling smile while he closed in.
“I was hoping I wouldn’t feel overdressed,” she said, her eyes glistening beneath the lights.
“You’re dressed to perfection.”
Her cheeks flushed and she tilted her chin. “The flowers were unbelievable. Thank you.”
“Glad you liked them.”
“I can’t imagine how much they cost.” Her brow creased. “You shouldn’t have wasted so much money.”
“You liked them.” She was here. “It wasn’t wasted.”
The flowers were just the beginning.
When his hand cupped her elbow, his chest swelled. “I hope you’re hungry.”
As they began to walk, she threw a curious glance around. “Where are we eating? This building has more than one restaurant, doesn’t it?”
When she was about to enquire further, he placed a hushing finger to her parted lips. He didn’t want to spoil the surprise.
“Follow me.”
After they’d entered a lift, he hit the top floor button and a few moments later was leading Phoebe out onto the carpet of red and gold which blanketed the extensive private foyer of the penthouse floor. He pushed open the door, and the dulcet tones of violin strings drifting on the evening air washed over them.
Curious, Phoebe filed in ahead.
Her fingers trailed over the filigree lacing of an ornate mirror. She gaped at the collectors’ pieces of post-modern sculpture housed safely within separate alcoves. She gripped her throat when he escorted her over a glass brick bridge under which dozens of oversized goldfish glimmered within their mother-of-pearl moat. Gazing up as they alighted, she sighed at the classic Swarovski chandelier.
“Pace, how can you afford all this? Even for one night—?”
Her words ran dry when she spotted the string quartet in a far corner of the curved room decorated entirely in white. Four cheery grey heads dipped in greeting, while bows wove musical magic across violin strings.
Pace stole a sidelong look at her amazed expression and his chest expanded as he grinned. Three years ago he might have put together a party—themed, perhaps—with loud music and cocktails flowing. But now, given the company, this was far more his speed. The added touches were well worth it. He felt the sparks of excitement shooting off her. What was money if you couldn’t enjoy it and have special people enjoy it with you?
And Phoebe was indeed special.
Phoebe was speechless. This apartment was light years beyond amazing. The fish, that gorgeous chandelier right out of a storybook, the string quartet!
Light-headed, Phoebe realised Pace was waiting for her beside open balcony doors. Ducking around the filmy curtain he held back, she moved out onto a massive balcony.
Beyond the carved stone railings a blanket of night lights twinkled and the subdued noise of traffic filtered up from far below. The balcony was alive with ribbons of scarlet bougainvillaea and a delicious aroma that sent Phoebe’s tastebuds into a frenzy. To her left, a long table was lined with heated bains maries and artistic arrangements of colourful fruit, seafood and salads. A veritable feast.
A feast for two.
Crossing to stand beside her, Pace looked every bit the debonair playboy in that jacket. The magnificent line he cut, so tall and suave and commanding…she couldn’t help but think that he’d been born to don a dinner suit.
On a white linen tablecloth silver cutlery and crystal flutes sparkled, care of flickering patio torches. Pace shrugged out of his
jacket, and as he turned to rest it over a nearby chair Phoebe’s gaze sailed to the symmetry of his back. His shirt strained against the jostle of working muscles, and she imagined the smooth, hot flesh beneath the fabric, as well as the subtle smell of sandalwood that she’d enjoyed during their ride in the lift.
She inhaled a shivery breath.
This night was bound to be one to remember.
When Pace faced her again, she gathered herself and smiled as he retrieved an impressive bottle of champagne from its ice bucket. He filled the chilled flutes and she tingled to her toes at the high-pitched ping when the crystal accidentally touched as he delivered her glass and an ice-cold flute pressed into her palm.
“I’d like to propose a toast,” he said.
A pulse fluttered in her throat as she raised her glass. “A toast?”
His hooded gaze grew intense. “To the music and to our second dance together.”
As her heart thudded, he clinked his glass to hers and sipped. He waited for her to taste the bubbles too, then took her glass, set it upon the table next to his, and folded her within the steamy circle of his arms.
Phoebe remembered again the hot thrill of his kisses, and her pulse-rate kicked up a notch. When his hot palm slid down her bare back and came to rest above the rise of her behind she bit her lip to stem a sigh. Then he began to move to the music and her body reacted instinctively, matching his step, flaming to life in response to the subtle magic of his moves.
“Are you okay with tonight being a private affair?” he asked, slow dancing her around in an intimate circle, his handsome face so confident and so close to hers.
“Depends.” She arched a brow, not wanting to give away the fact that she was melting at a rapid rate. “Do you do this often?”
His lips touched her ear and he whispered, “Never.”
She smothered a sigh. A foolish part of her wanted to believe him.
She looked into his eyes and tried not to swoon. “I thought you’d give up,” she admitted.
“Trying to see you again?” His eyes sparkled in the torchlight. “Not a chance.”
Her pulse pounded through the thousand pathways of her blood, leaving her giddy. Taking her higher. Five minutes and already things were moving quickly. She wanted everything to slow down, to savour every moment, and yet another part of her wanted to fast forward and once again know the feel of his mouth capturing hers.
His brow pinched. “Why didn’t you return my calls, Phoebe?”
A shaft of guilt fell through her and she dropped her gaze. “I told you. I was busy last week.”
“Too busy for this?” He brushed his mouth over her brow and instantly her breasts grew hot and heavy…full and tender.
Searching his eyes, she took the plunge. “I’m not too busy tonight.”
Before picking up the phone and calling him Phoebe had made a deal with herself. If he was so determined to see her again she would meet with him, even sleep with him, but she wouldn’t let herself get hung up on “what comes next”. She’d vowed to keep a tab on her feelings and, subsequently, keep them in line. She could only guess how many women had thought themselves in love with the delectable Pace Davis over the years. He would be any woman’s catch… But he was still single, wasn’t he?
Clearly he wasn’t looking for anything serious. Nothing permanent. But right now, the way her head was spinning and her heart was drumming, she too was happy to enjoy whatever lay ahead in the very immediate, intimate future.
His gaze roaming her face, he took in her reply and then, with a slow smile, pressed her closer, moving them both to the music.
“Do you have to go to work in the morning?”
She knew what he was asking—that she stay the night—and the thought flooded her belly with a hot pool of desire. She tried to mask her excitement with a light laugh and a flippant remark.
“You don’t muck around, do you?”
“Where you’re concerned?” With a knuckle, he tipped up her chin and skimmed his lips over hers. “Not any more.”
She drew in a shaky breath. Her thoughts were whirling, but she wouldn’t let him know how deeply his seductive voice, his skilled moves, were affecting her. She didn’t want to dissolve into a quivering mass of hopeless want.
At least not yet.
“Good thing we have four elderly chaperons inside,” she teased, and a wicked gleam shone in his eyes.
“You feel unsafe with me?”
“Unsafe isn’t the word.”
“Vulnerable, then?”
She thought about lying, but said instead, “Yes. A little.”
His hot fingertips trailed her bare back, and as his other hand squeezed hers his smile widened.
Phoebe paused at a thought. “Pace, you’re not thinking of borrowing my trick and tying me up, are you?”
“You know I prefer your hands free.”
An image seeped into her mind…her hands on his hips, her mouth busy and in love with its task. Her core contracted, and her eyes drifted closed as she quivered with deepest longing, inside and out.
His husky voice brushed her hair. “Perhaps we should skip dinner.”
She forced open her eyes and found his smouldering gaze fastened on her lips. Her heart clamouring, she tried to keep up her bravado, pretend she was as confident as he was. She was nowhere near. But that didn’t mean she wanted to stop.
“You’re not hungry?” she asked.
“Not hungry.” He tucked her pelvis against his. “Ravenous.”
“Well, then,” she said, sounding breathy but unable to do anything about it, “what’s for entrée?”
His eyes darkened.
“You.”
She laughed softly, but inside she was shaking. The things he said, the way he looked at her…he didn’t have to do a whole lot more to send her spiralling out of this galaxy.
“All I’ve thought about these past days,” he murmured, moving to the music again, “is kissing you.”
“I didn’t realise I’d made such an impression,” she jibed, and his eyes flashed with devilment.
“The hell you didn’t.”
His hand climbed until his warm palm reached her nape. His fingers twined in her hair and he urged her head back at the same time as his mouth closed over hers.
All those heady feelings came rushing back—the euphoria, the weak, wonderful throb of molten want winding through her blood. But the intensity was a thousand times stronger than a week ago. Truth was, she’d been unable to think of anything other than kissing him again too, and as his grip tightened on her arm and his tongue delved deeper Phoebe willingly surrendered to the thrill and the incomparable power of this amazing man’s kiss.
When his mouth broke from hers gently, almost tenderly, his hooded eyes were dark and filled with intent.
He inhaled, satisfied. “I liked our dance,” he murmured. “I could dance with you all night.”
She tried but failed to catch her breath. Her every sense was zinging, neon bright. If he even touched her down there, there was every chance she might explode.
Fighting the urge to flatten herself against him, she swallowed another breath.
“If we dance all night the food will go cold.”
He mock frowned. “We can’t have that.” Her hand in his, he led her to the banquet table. “No waiters. This evening, madame, I will serve.”
Phoebe’s mouth hooked up. Oh, she liked the sound of that.
“We have a selection for starters,” Pace pointed out. “Are you a shellfish fan? Lobster? Oysters?”
Phoebe spotted a glass bowl of fruit and her tastebuds leapt to life. “I love strawberries.”
Pace took his time choosing the biggest and reddest. While Phoebe waited she guessed his next move: bringing the strawberry to her lips and inviting her to eat it from his fingers. When he found a large plate and set the fruit in the centre Phoebe’s heart sank. She’d been expecting something more…erotic. As if to compensate a little, he reached for a pour
er of liquid chocolate and set that on the plate, too.
Phoebe’s mouth watered. Her ideal combination.
He presented the plate, and she drenched the strawberry in thick dark chocolate. When she bit it, the mix of chocolate and fruit exploded in a heavenly cocktail on her tongue. Closing her eyes, she hummed and chewed and finally swallowed. After running her tongue over her lips, she popped the rest of the strawberry into her mouth. She’d brought her fingers close to lick their tips when she noticed Pace’s expression.
With a slight breeze ruffling his hair, he looked both relaxed and fascinated. His gaze was drifting lower, down from her mouth to feather over the light fabric of her bodice. Beneath the aqua silk her nipples tingled, growing hard and hot beneath his stare. As her breathing picked up again his gaze trailed higher, to fuse with hers, its ascent leaving a sizzling path in its wake.
“You like sweet things?” His voice sounded irresistible and dark, like the chocolate lingering on her tongue.
She managed a careless shrug. “It’s a weakness.”
“Then you’ll like this.”
He heaped a portion of a meringue creation onto a plate. Blueberries and passionfruit toppled off a crest of whipped cream as he presented it to her.
But he was ahead of himself. “Pace, Pavlova’s a dessert.”
“Yes, it is. Now…” The curve of his grin, the timbre of his voice, was mesmerising. “Close your eyes.”
Inside, the quartet began another tune, this piece more lilting and evocative. Feeling carried away, she leaned back against the dinner table, held the edge either side, and willingly did as he bade.
In the darkness, the first thing Phoebe knew was the sugary smell. She guessed he’d scooped a helping of meringue onto a spoon and held it before her mouth. Tempted, she almost flicked out her tongue for a taste, but swiftly put that impulse aside.
She didn’t want to seem too eager.
“Okay,” he murmured, “open your mouth.”
The delicious ache building in her stomach contracted at the quiet power of his words, and, compelled to do precisely as she was told, she opened up.
