back to the present, he stared at Phoebe, her protest like a blow to his solar plexus. Irrationally, anger burned through his veins, every bit as strong today as if it were only moments ago when she’d looked at him scornfully and refused to speak with him. Refused to answer his phone calls. Refused to offer even the most basic of explanations for the violent change in her attitude.
Too far gone to care what the hell he said. Trace retorted, “So I guess you shoot off like a firework for every man that buys you dinner?” He shook his head, feigning disbelief. “Huh. Somehow I had you figured differently.”
Phoebe sputtered for several seconds then finally managed to say, “We had one lousy date and things went too far. Stop acting as if we shared some great night of passion.”
“Lousy, huh? So you’re saying it was my poor taste in restaurants? You begged and moaned for more but called it quits on us because I couldn’t afford to take you someplace fancy?” He made a tsking sound. “And you call me the shallow one.”
“I can’t believe this.” She shook her head, her expression incredulous. “You’re mad. Mr. On-the-Make McGraw is pissed off because a woman actually exists who wasn’t interested in going to bed with him a second time.”
All right, now he was mad. Phoebe loved to throw the womanizer card in his face. So women liked him? Big whoop. He’d asked Phoebe out every week for four years and she’d said no. What was he supposed to do? Become a monk while he waited? As it was, when he’d finally worn her down, he’d been so damn happy and relieved she’d said yes, whatever little awareness he’d ever had of another female had literally fled his brain. Her accusations made no more sense today than they had nine years ago.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Hell yes, it was a shock. One night you were so hot I thought my skin was gonna burn to a crisp, and the next, I’m worried about frostbite.”
She pulled back her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Let’s get some facts straight here. I was not hot and I never moaned.”
“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. You can’t help it if you’re a moaner,” he said placatingly.
“If I moaned it was because you disgust me.”
“Phoebe…Phoebe.” He shook his head. “Really, it’s okay. You don’t need to make excuses. I thought it was cute when you made those deep, throaty sounds. Loud, but cute. Especially when you got that breathy little catch right before you were about to co—”
She broke in, “I hope you die. Slowly and painfully.” Phoebe dragged out each word. “And I’m there to watch it.”
Head up, chin thrust forward, her eyes flashed dangerously. Her chest rose and fell with each of her labored breaths. She was amazing and, in spite of everything, he’d never wanted her more.
Trace almost barked out a laugh. There had to be something wrong with a man who found pure contrariness on this massive a level arousing. A dose of Spanish fly poured down his gullet. But damn if he didn’t feel as if he’d just swallowed a whole bottle.
PHOEBE GULPED for air. Trace McGraw was the most aggravating, annoying, frustrating, handsome and sexy man she’d ever known. The bane of her college years. The object of her most erotic sexual fantasies. The man responsible for her one and only orgasm. And, after nine years, he stood before her determined she relive it. Maybe if she’d ever had another one she wouldn’t be reacting to his barbs like the poster child for PMS.
And did he have to look like something out of Greek mythology, too? A god come to life to depress the heck out of the mortals? Even with it this dark outside, she could see him well enough to know she’d be in big trouble if it weren’t this dark outside. Her palms had grown damp just from glancing at him—oh, all right, staring at him—and she wiped her hands on the skirt of her dress.
The man looked near-perfect. His almost black hair was a bit too long and fell in the kind of artless disarray women spent hours in front of the mirror trying to achieve. Though she wasn’t quite able to see the exact shade of his eyes, she knew from experience they were big, and astonishingly blue, and, at only the slightest glimpse of their brooding intensity, could make anything with ovaries want to rip off her clothes and drop spread-eagle to the ground. It brought new meaning to the phrase stop, drop and roll. Except with Phoebe. With her it had always been panic, overreact and run. Well, all but that one time. Unfortunately, she didn’t feel much like running now, either.
Phoebe scowled and tried to ignore the almost magnetic tug his six-foot-two form exerted over her own shivering mass. What the heck was wrong with her? Since when did she let an insignificant thing like a square and masculine jaw snare her interest? Or deep-set bedroom eyes? Or a flawless nose, more narrow than not, that led to a mouth with lips just plump enough to make her picture them shiny and wet, and wonder if they’d taste as good as she remembered…?
Phoebe realized the direction of her thoughts and could have kicked herself. Jeesh. She should be running and fast. That night may have been earth-shattering for her, however it was just one of many for Trace. True, said an insidious voice in her head. But that was a long time ago, and since you’re a new and liberated woman only interested in your next good time, there’s always the chance that if you ask real nice, he might be willing to shatter the earth for you again.
Phoebe flinched and told the sex-starved portion of her brain to shut the hell up. Then she looked into Trace’s beautiful frowning face and her pulse leaped and her own nearly shriveled-on-the-vine ovaries all but quivered. Jerking herself back to reality, she tried her hardest to appear bored with him and the entire discussion. The last thing her pride needed was for him to realize how much he still affected her. Or how much the memory of his betrayal still hurt.
“Listen,” she said, waving her hand, “all that stuff happened a long time ago. I don’t even know why we’re arguing.” There. That sounded pretty good.
He stilled for a moment then slowly shook his head and took a step closer. The scent of pine and something intrinsically Trace wafted through the humid air, tickling her nose and bringing with it a rush of memories. Sexual memories. Amazingly graphic and sexual memories. You’re pathetic, she told herself, and it was all she could do not to walk over to that tree there behind him and knock herself unconscious.
“You don’t?” he asked.
He was too close, but Phoebe couldn’t have backed up to save her life. She dug her fingernails into her palms and forced herself to laugh. “Not really, no. Heck, we were practically kids.” Any second her nose was going to grow into a great sequoia.
The real problem was that Phoebe remembered too much. Like how he’d replaced her with another woman less than twenty-four hours after she’d left his bed. Phoebe had been at ballet practice that next day and hadn’t been able to meet with Trace. Except she’d finished early and, like a lovesick fool, had headed straight for Trace’s apartment hoping to surprise him. Unfortunately, she’d been the one surprised. By the beautiful girl with him at his front door.
Stunned, Phoebe had only been able to stand silently and watch the stupid goodbye kiss that the busty redhead had planted on Trace—ridiculously childish in her opinion since the floozy’s lips had been tightly puckered and she’d even made a big smoochy noise, for heaven’s sake. Of course, Trace, the creep, had been amused, laughing affectionately then pulling the young woman back into his arms for a warm hug before waving her off.
Why the image still made her chest ache, Phoebe refused to analyze, and helplessly, she stared at Trace.
