Читать книгу Every Girl's Secret Fantasy - Robyn Grady - Страница 8

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.