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 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!