into the next break. At the same time the cellphone on his belt vibrated. Ditching the helmet, he studied the ID and groaned. It was the weekend, for crying out loud. What did his brother want now?
Actually, his half-brother. His father had married soon after his first wife had died in childbirth. His second marriage had produced another son. In a perfect world the two brothers might have become inseparable. Instead Pace and the slightly older Nicholas Junior had grown up at loggerheads, competing at everything, including their busy father’s attention, each step of the way. As grown men, nothing much had changed.
Setting his jaw, Pace thumbed a button and connected. “Hey, Nick.”
Nick didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Have you addressed the consignment arrival problem for that Bugatti? I need to know by eleven Monday morning. No later.”
Nick would still be sitting at his big desk, surrounded by paperwork, dark hair spiked from numerous run-throughs with his hand. In his absolute element.
“Hello? Anyone there?”
Pace grated his back teeth. “I’m here.”
“You could show a little more interest,” Nick growled, and Pace growled back.
“And you could quit with the attitude.”
“There’s something wrong with wanting to get things done and done right?”
Steam rose beneath his leather collar, but Pace kept his response to an almost civil warning. “Nick, don’t go there.”
He could do without the thinly veiled reminders.
Five years ago Pace had taken on the presidential seat of the family business, Brodricks Prestige Cars, but not because he was partial to reams of figures and boardroom meetings. After his father’s death, his will had left Pace in charge. The younger son had seen the promotion as a responsibility he couldn’t shirk, even when Nick, the brother with the accounting skills and economics letters behind his name, had made it clear he was the best man for the job. Pace, a practical rather than academic type, with an engineering background, wasn’t sure he disagreed.
No secret—Pace had enjoyed the lifestyle his inheritance and position provided. He’d partied hard, had chalked up some amazing experiences, and had entertained some exceedingly attractive company. But there was a definite downside.
He was happiest when talking cars, analysing precision engines or test-driving the fastest, classiest automobiles in the world—Jaguar, McLarens, Mercedes, Porsche—vehicles available for sale or lease through Brodricks. Design and hands-on tasks were where he excelled. Being locked behind a desk during working hours was far from his ideal existence. It had shown—not only in his demeanour but more tellingly in Brodricks’ books which, after his first two years at the helm, hadn’t looked nearly as healthy as they should. The final straw had come when he’d made a couple of glaring errors regarding funds in a foreign investment account.
At the subsequent board meeting to analyse the extent of the damage he’d maintained a firm chin, but had secretly wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. Hell, it wasn’t as if he’d asked for the job. He’d been too young—too full of juice—for the conservative life of a suit. His father should have considered that instead of constantly pushing. All concerned would have been far better off if he’d stuck to what he did best and left the tricky, aka boring bits to others.
Of course Nick had agreed.
With a handshake and a smirk his half-brother had stepped up, while Pace, needing to dodge unwanted media attention, had taken on an alias and spent the next two years overseas, incognito, researching premium automobiles all over the globe. He’d come back to Australia pumped, and champing at the bit to reclaim control over the technical side of the business. But he’d got used to his new identity, and the screen it provided from the media radar, so he’d kept the twist on his name—Pace Davis, rather than Davis Pace Brodrick.
Nick maintained that their father had chosen the slightly younger son to head the company because Pace had been his favourite. But Nick refused to examine the more valid reason underpinning their father’s decision. Pace not only understood cars, he lived for them—like the old man had. And that was Pace’s saving grace. Nick might be the current financial brain behind 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?
