weakness.
Forcing herself to look away from him, since drooling was a very real possibility, she noticed something glinting from his shirt.
“Is that the thing that kept poking me?” she asked.
He started to jerk her foot away from his groin, then caught himself. His cheeks turning red, he frowned up at her. “What are you talking about?”
Fighting a grin, she pointed to his chest and was about to clarify her question, when she realized he was wearing a badge. And a dark blue uniform. Phoebe made a startled sound then shook her head. “Oh, my gosh, you’re a police officer. I can’t believe it.”
He made a strange face. “Me neither,” he answered on a sigh.
She stared, unsure how to respond. Trace McGraw…a police officer? Her mind fundamentally rejected the idea. Though law enforcement was certainly a noble profession, he’d been a wonderful journalist. For Trace to have given up his writing, even if it was to become a cop, just didn’t seem right. Actually it seemed wrong, and made Phoebe sad in a way she hadn’t even felt at her own ruined ambitions. “Why? I thought you were going to become a reporter. You were so good.”
Traced snorted. “And how would you know?” he asked, not bothering to lift his head.
Without thinking, she said, “Because I used to read your column in the school paper, of course.” Phoebe smiled and leaned back on her hands. “I was always excited when the next edition came out. I couldn’t wait to see what you were going to write about next.” She stopped and shrugged. “But even if I’d only read one issue, it would have been enough to recognize your talent.”
“Oh, really?” He looked up, a cocky grin spread across his mouth.
Heat crept over her cheeks. Oh, that was nice. She sounded like an adolescent girl waiting for the next issue of Tiger Beat to hit the stands. “Well, it wasn’t just me. Everyone did. You were constantly uncovering some injustice around campus,” she said, lifting her chin. “Like the time you wrote about that lecherous professor who tried to seduce most of his female students into earning extra credits in his bed.” Phoebe shuddered. “By the way, your story couldn’t have come at a better time for me. I was registered to take his class as soon as we got back from Christmas break.”
Trace’s smile slipped away. “I know.”
Phoebe paused again, brought up short. “You knew?” she asked. “But how? What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “I read your schedule. It slipped out of your purse in the library.”
Phoebe raised her eyebrows and Trace sighed. “It’s not like you didn’t know I made a habit of doing my homework in the library at the same time as you. Anyway, when I saw Professor Eiken’s name on your list, I just about sh—” He broke off, not finishing the crude expression. “I hadn’t really heard much about him until then, but one of my friends was dating a girl who’d been all but raped by the man a week or two before.” Trace’s jaw had hardened and he suddenly seemed to stare at Phoebe as if, well, it didn’t make sense, but he stared at her possessively. As if she were his to protect so that’s what he’d done. But that couldn’t be right.
Trace McGraw was not possessive over women. There were too darn many of them, for one thing. And for another, he didn’t need to be. She doubted that there’d ever been a single female in his entire life who’d willingly left his side without having to be physically shoved along first. Phoebe looked away and rubbed her forehead. Obviously, she’d misread Trace’s expression and he must still get angry when he thought about all the problems that article had created for him. Even after all this time, she could understand why he’d be upset.
With only a semester to go before graduation, Trace had exposed one of the most powerful faculty members on staff and the ensuing scandal had been huge. Professor Eiken had tried to have Trace expelled and almost succeeded. The man had even started a lawsuit against Trace and the university, but dropped it when a shocking number of abuse claims started pouring in.
And Trace had gone through all of that to keep her safe? Phoebe’s pulse fluttered. She was shocked and, well…amazingly flattered. He’d written that article for her. She had no doubt he’d been concerned for the other girls as well, but still…he’d been so generous. And he’d never even told her. Phoebe paused and bit her lip. These were not exactly the actions of a man who’d only been trying to get her into bed. The risk he’d taken spoke of a level of caring that she’d never given Trace credit for. But if he’d cared so much then why had he cheated on her?
Phoebe glanced away, unsure what to believe. Instead she asked, “So why didn’t you stay with it? Reporting, I mean.”
Trace shot her a look. “I did,” he said after a minute, rubbing the back of his neck. “But let’s just say it didn’t exactly turn out as I expected.” At Phoebe’s silence, he grudgingly added, “I got fired. It’s a long story and I’d rather not go into it right now.” He shrugged. “Listen, that platter you were carrying must have broken when you fell. I think you stepped on some glass. There’s not enough light for me to take it out down here.”
“Oh,” Phoebe said, suddenly self-conscious. “That’s okay,” she smiled. “I can do it myself once I get upstairs.”
“Not likely,” he snorted. Then he scooped her back into his arms and stood. “Relax. It’s my job to serve and protect.” Trace smiled, his teeth a white slash against his bronze skin. “And that’s exactly what I plan to do.”
“ARE YOU SURE this is the right place?” Trace asked with a scowl.
Though he’d spoken loudly, Phoebe had just been able to hear him over the music and feminine laughter floating from behind Barbie’s front door into the hallway. He was standing rigid, staring at the shiny brass numbers and holding Phoebe against his chest. And the more Trace stared and listened, the tenser he grew until his fingers were all but squeezing her legs and side.
Phoebe’s lips twitched and she nodded. “Yep, 701. This is it.”
A spark flared in his eyes but he quickly lowered them and she almost snickered. Obviously, he couldn’t believe Phoebe was going to a party that made Animal House sound genteel. Grinning smugly, Phoebe reached out to knock on the door but he stepped back.
“You know what? We forgot your present. We better go back down before somebody steals it. It’ll be gone. I’m a cop. I know these things.” He began to turn toward the elevator.
“Wait,” she protested, putting her hand on his chest, which made them both freeze for a moment and look down at her hand and his chest. Slowly, she slid her fingers away. “It’ll be fine. Believe me. Anybody who wants that Crock-Pot or the smooshed deviled eggs can have them.”
“You mean, that present you brought is a Crock-Pot?”
“Yes. Why?”
He paused for a minute then shook his head and laughed. “It’s stupid, really. For a second, I thought you might have gotten the wrong address or something. You know—” Trace shrugged “—right building, wrong party.” Strangely, he sounded relieved and his expression had brightened significantly. “Listen, why don’t I get you inside then run down and grab that gift for your friend?” He grinned down at her. “No happy homemaker should be without a Crock-Pot.”
Phoebe wrinkled her nose. “Which is exactly why we can leave it downstairs. I doubt Candy would ever use it,” she said, and Trace flinched then almost dropped her.
She clutched at his arms. “Oh, gosh. I’m sorry.” Heat crept over her cheeks. “Thanks, but really, you can put me down now. I have to be heavy.”
“You’re not heavy. How did you say you got invited to this party?” he asked without missing a beat.
On the elevator ride upstairs, Phoebe noticed Trace seemed intent on poking and prodding into each and every detail of her life since they’d last seen each other. Unfortunately,