physical attraction to the bedroom. But taking that plunge with Pace would never happen, and for three very good reasons.
Phoebe tried to remember those reasons now, as Pace’s electric blue gaze combed her shoulders, her hips, while that mouthwatering bare chest rolled to a stop a mere foot away. His eyes locked on hers, and his square jaw shifted before that rich, deep voice rumbled out.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Miss Phoebe Moore.” His brows swooped together. “But wait…there’s something different about you.”
Phoebe’s face flushed hot. Different? Was it the spot on her chin?
“It’s there in your eyes,” he went on, and that wicked smile curved his mouth again. “It’s finally happened. You’ve had a change of heart and want me to take you home.”
Perhaps it was that honey-over-gravel voice, the smouldering intensity in his eyes, or the basic shocking truth in that line that almost undid her. Actually, it was all three—but no way would she tell Pace Davis that.
The first and biggest reason she wasn’t going there with Pace was due to the fact they knew each other through work. After a failed office affair, Phoebe was acutely aware of the pitfalls that could follow mixing business with pleasure. Pace Davis, on the other hand, suffered no such reservation. On the first night they’d met, at a sponsorship cocktail party, he’d been dressed in a tuxedo and with seduction on his mind. He’d let her know with his eyes and subtle gestures that he wanted her. More to the point, he intended to have her. It was simply a matter of time.
Or so he thought.
Finding her strength, Phoebe lifted her chin. “No change of heart, Pace.” She managed a casual shrug. “I don’t think you’re what I need right now.”
Tipping close, his warm breath stirred her hair. “Wouldn’t it be fun to find out for sure?”
When he rocked back, sexual awareness tugged her along like the drag from the Starship Enterprise. But Phoebe dug in her heels and reminded herself of the second reason she refused to cross that line with this near irresistible man.
Aside from Brodricks Prestige Cars having corporate connections with Goldmar Studios, the production house she worked for, Pace was a player…the kind of instinctively seductive male who didn’t need to brag about his exploits but made no excuses for pursuing and then enjoying what he caught. The night they’d met he’d been lapping up the company of a gaggle of admiring women. She’d bet the only reason he’d lost interest in the others and set his sights on her was because she hadn’t batted her lashes and immediately fallen at his feet. The second time they’d met, at a similar function, it had been the same story. Lots of women hanging off his every word. Pace in his element. That was evidence enough for her.
Certainly if she followed her list and found “Mr Right Now” she would be embarking on an intimate relationship with someone who may or may not be The One, but taking control of your fate was a far cry from agreeing to become another notch on some playboy’s bedpost. The latter scenario cut way too close to the mistake her mother had made, and had ultimately paid dearly for.
Her young daughter, too.
On the other hand…Pace was certainly amusing, and a bit of harmless teasing never hurt anyone.
“I guess it would be fun to find out,” she admitted, and when his blue eyes flashed added sweetly, “You’ll be the first to know if I change my mind.”
No smile this time. Rather, he stepped into her personal space and, when her neck tipped back, angled his head achingly close to hers. The heat of his body burrowed into her skin, making her tingle and feel entirely, dangerously out of her depth.
“Know what I love about you, Phoebe?” he growled in a low, entrancing voice that sent her heart and mind racing. “Your ability to avoid the unavoidable.”
Flames licked up her limbs, across her breasts, over and between her legs. Pace’s potency this minute was so close, so lethal, she could barely get enough air. Another few seconds—another inch or two—and his mouth would drop over hers. Time to get back on track, before the scrap of sanity she still possessed snapped and she surrendered completely.
Siphoning in a quiet breath, she slid one foot back—enough to put adequate distance between them and shortcircuit the sizzling connection.
“The desk manager said I’d find you out here.” She was thankful her voice wasn’t thick. “I’ve come to collect my car.”
A measure of light flickered back up in his darkened eyes before he relented and slowly drew away. With a languid stride, he headed for a row of lockers. Game over…for the moment.
“Ah, yes,” he said, stuffing the black T-shirt into a locker. “Your new 6 Series coupé. A contemporary beauty, with a world of simmering power just begging to be released.”
She grinned at his subtext as he flicked her a devilish look and retrieved a fresh white replacement. After he’d slipped the shirt over his head and covered his CinemaScope chest, she sussed out the shop. So where was the BMW? She checked her watch. The sponsorship agreement said five p.m.
“I have the right date, don’t I?”
“Don’t worry,” he told her. “We’re not reneging on our agreement. Along with the advertising dollars we spend with your network, the president of the company is eager to provide a Brodricks prestige vehicle for the star of Goldmar Productions’ latest ratings winner for personal use for one year.” But then he cocked his head and gave his ear a tug. “Unfortunately we learned late this afternoon we won’t have the car until Monday.”
Phoebe’s heart fell.
Perfect. Because of this deal she’d gone ahead and advertised her own early model car. It had gone to its new owners this morning. If she didn’t have the sponsorship vehicle, she was without wheels. No problem normally, but this weekend it mattered.
A lot.
She took her thumbnail from her mouth. “What time Monday?”
A half-serious line creased his brow. “Were you planning on taking an extended test drive this weekend?”
Something like that. “I need to get to my hometown tomorrow. It’s a speck on the map.” And a six-hour round trip from Sydney.
Her Aunt Meg was due back from her most recent overseas jaunt, and the home Phoebe had shared with her, from the time of her mother’s death until her big move to Sydney eight years ago, needed a small but crucial repair job.
Her aunt breezed through something like co-ordinating a two-month trek across Asia, yet suffered blatant uninterest in organising inconsequential domestic affairs—like avoiding frostbite when the temperature plummeted below zero. The town’s only worthwhile handyman was teed up to fit a replacement part in the house boiler tomorrow. The evening weather was already chilly. If she didn’t see to it before the real cold set in, no one would.
Pace had made himself comfortable, propped up against a nearby Alfa Romeo’s door, arms and ankles crossed. “No problem,” he said. “I’ll organise a loaner.”
“Really?” Phoebe sparked up. “Could I pick it up tomorrow, some time after noon?”
He
