X-rated game of Twister.
“Ptthew.” He finally worked his head to the side and spit out the strands of hair filling his mouth. “Stop moving,” Trace barked, the words harsher than he meant to sound as he gasped for breath. She didn’t listen, but then the way his night was going, this shouldn’t surprise him. Great, he thought in disgust. His groin tightened, responding like any normal red-blooded male would if holding a writhing female and contorted into a position that a Cirque du Soleil performer would envy, and he could feel himself swelling up to a regular blue-steeler. Her feminine cleft perfectly aligned with his growing arousal. He understood the woman’s alarm, but all this moving around only made his problem worse.
“Please,” he panted, “just stop moving. I’m stuck.” Knowing if he pulled up too hard or fast he’d rip half the hair from her head, he tried to keep his upper body still as he wriggled his hand out from underneath her luscious bottom. They were so close he could feel her muscles tighten through the fabric of her clothing. Her body suddenly went rigid.
Hell, she must’ve just noticed his killer hard-on.
“You’ve got two seconds before I start screaming.” Her words, if not her tone, should have been enough to deflate the near phenomenon taking place in his pants. They weren’t.
Compelled to defend himself, Trace pointed out, “Hey, I know you’re upset, but if you remember, you’re the one who ran into me.”
She huffed. “I’m sorry! It’s dark and I didn’t see you. I’m not trying to be rude but you’re lying on top of me like a dead fish. Well, mostly dead,” she muttered. “And you keep poking me.”
Heat crept up his neck. For all the appreciation she was showing, he should just yank her bald and let her live with the consequences.
The woman started wiggling again. “Ow, it really hurts.”
Trace made a strangled noise. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but moving around underneath a man is not the way to get his body to stop ‘poking’ you.”
She immediately stilled. “Um, I was talking about that pin or whatever it is you have on your shirt. It’s pok—uh, digging into my chest.”
Trace winced. “Sorry,” he mumbled and tried to shift his weight with little success. He’d forgotten about his stupid costume and the fake police badge. In the last week he’d been a cowboy, a construction worker, an Indian and now a cop. Why the hell women got turned on by seeing him dress up like one of the Village People was beyond him. “If you just give me a minute here, I’m caught in your hair,” he said, his jaw clenched as he carefully started to untangle the silky mass from what seemed like every possible spot of attachment on his body. Why me? he wondered. As if being felled by this wiggling wacko wasn’t bad enough, in less than half an hour he’d be dancing at Candy’s bachelorette party. Last week when Barbie and Candy had asked him to perform, Trace had figured this would be a good chance to find out what the showgirls knew about the Mirage’s secret cargo, as well as the private cruise he’d recently overheard a couple of Mr. V.’s men discussing. Especially since Mr. V.’s niece, Angie Venzara, would be at the party tonight, too. But the reality of stripping down to the ridiculous triangle of spandex and string, that even now was chafing the hell out of him, and doing it in such intimate surroundings, had Trace rethinking his master plan. He wished his costume came with a gun so he could just shoot himself now and be done with it. Damn, his life sucked.
Trace sighed. “Okay, I think that’s it.” Determined to be free before he embarrassed himself even more, he tried to stand and immediately identified the final obstacle. He cleared his throat. “I never thought I’d say this to a woman, but you’re going to have to unclench your leg from my back. If you want me to stop poking you, that is,” he added dryly.
The woman gasped. “Oh, I d-didn’t realize,” she stammered, her voice turning sheepish.
The pressure on his ribs eased and Trace carefully pushed onto his hands and knees. Out of breath and panting, he kneeled over her, their faces only inches apart. He blinked, looking straight into her cool, gray eyes. No, not just gray. They were silver. Reflecting the light. Unforgettable—like the haunting notes of a long-ago melody.
The light from the street lamp pooled around them and he could just make out her face. The woman’s eyes widened. Her thick dark lashes fanned out to her eyebrows. “Trace?”
He held his breath. Her skin was porcelain smooth, her mouth lush, full and red like a wet berry. She was beautiful. Amazing. He’d only known one other face so perfect.
His heart kicked into a pounding rhythm. “Phoebe? Phoebe Devereaux?”
The only woman he’d ever loved smiled up at him hesitantly. That she’d broken his heart nine years ago hardly seemed important.
2
“DAMN.” Trace’s chest clutched painfully. Well, at least he now understood his physical reaction to her on the ground. His mind might not have known who it was, but his body sure as hell had.
She shifted and winced. The change in her expression broke his spell and he realized that he was still kneeling over her. Awkwardly he rose to his feet.
“Sorry,” he said, and as she sat forward, Trace backed up a step to give her room. Desperate to tear his eyes away from her, he glanced around the darkened yard. “You dropped some of your stuff. Let me help you.”
He turned his back to Phoebe and started toward the cluster of palm trees a few feet away. He needed a moment to regroup here, and muttering a curse, adjusted himself inside his pants. Trace scowled and with some difficulty leaned over and picked up the dented present from the grass. He couldn’t believe it. Phoebe Devereaux. His college sweetheart.
Trace took a deep breath and combed his fingers through his hair. Well, more like his college obsession, really. Nine years ago, they’d both attended the University of Miami. The first time he’d seen her in the school bookstore he’d felt all but struck by lightning. One look had been enough for him to fall and fall hard. Unfortunately, she’d needed a good hundred or so more, but by their senior year when she’d finally come around, he’d never been happier. For a brief time anyway. Before she’d dumped his ass.
Trace’s hand shook as he fumbled with the crumpled white bow, trying to set it back on top. Get a grip, McGraw. He willed his racing pulse to return to normal. It’s only Phoebe. No big deal. Yeah, right. Trace released the ribbon and watched it fall dejectedly on its side. Too bad his hard-on refused to have the same reaction.
Shaking his head, he walked back to Phoebe and set the wrapped box down next to her. “Wow—” He broke off and cleared his throat. “Phoebe Devereaux. It’s been a long time.” After the major kiss-off she’d given him back in college, Trace knew he should walk away. Give her a brief greeting then turn around and never look back. But he couldn’t. He wanted to know everything. Soak up each detail of the past nine years of her life in a moment. Well, crap. He might as well just rip out his heart now and hand it to her on a silver platter. It’d save them both a lot of hassle.
“Yeah, a long time…” Her voice trailed off as she stared at him.
Trace shook his head, and in spite of the roiling sensation in his gut, felt a smile tugging at his lips. Apparently some things never changed. Phoebe sat gazing up at him as if he were a tasty dessert she couldn’t wait to devour. Of course, if this played out anything like it
