Every Girl's Secret Fantasy

by Robyn Grady

  By college, it had all become too hard.

  Those memories stirred up too many bad feelings. She’d sooner push them aside and concentrate on the now.

  She turned and saw that the sympathy she’d heard in Pace’s voice was mirrored in his face. But she wanted the vibrant blue in his eyes to sparkle again. She didn’t want to dwell on the past.

  “The boiler’s down here,” she announced breezily, determined to set the tone back on track. She strode toward an alcove that led to the basement and fanned open its door. “How long do you think it’ll take?”

  Toolbox in hand, he brushed by. One powerful arm whispering against hers was enough to make her quiver and remember how his lips had felt against hers—skilled and instantly drugging.

  But she was still a little shaken from the accident. For now she’d focus on the job at hand.

  Willing away the pleasant twinge low in her belly, she flicked a switch, igniting two naked lightbulbs hanging from their straggly cords.

  Pace headed down. “I’ll let you know when I’m finished. Might take five minutes.” He disappeared down the well. “Or half the night.”

  Thirty minutes later, Pace spun a final watertight wrench on the remaining bolt and stood back to evaluate his work. The part for the boiler had fitted with no problem. Hopefully dear Aunt Meg’s winters would be snug for a long time to come.

  He packed his gear, knowing this basement saw the light of those bulbs rarely. Rows of mouldy-smelling boxes lined numerous shelves. Neat piles of musty books lay stacked in a corner. Auntie collected artefacts: a pair of six-foot regal-looking giraffes; one ginormous smiling Buddha; too-many-to-count rolls of what he guessed were tapestries. Everything had its place.

  Pace ascended the creaky steps, thinking how alike he and Meg were. He, too, liked to have things where they ought to be. From a lad, every spanner had been routinely put away. At university every line and dimension on his engineering drawings had been exact. Always calibrations were checked to the nth degree.

  Nick was the same with following the stock market and analysing loopholes to keep money shifting to make the most of every tax break and investment opportunity. Yes, he and Nick were similar, too.

  And so damn different.

  He edged out into the bright light of the Moores’ living room. He’d declined Phoebe’s offer of refreshment when she’d visited the basement earlier. Now, however, he was parched. And starved. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and his growling stomach was reminding him every two minutes.

  Finding the kitchen, he took a casual inventory. Autographed memorabilia from twentieth-century legends didn’t line these counters. Just rows of tan tiles bordering a scarred hardwood bench, a menagerie of utensils hanging over an old woodstove.

  He checked out the next room from a distance.

  No Phoebe.

  He was about to move on when his gaze hooked on a pair of photos perched on the window ledge—six-by-fours set in a tarnished silver double frame. On one side a happy and beautiful young woman—bearing a striking resemblance to Phoebe—held a tiny baby up for the camera. No mistaking the identical river of pale blond hair streaked with gold, the sparkling green eyes.

  On the alternate side beamed an unusually pretty girl with a familiar heart-shaped face…Phoebe, aged perhaps nine or ten, curled around a tyre-swing hanging from some big old tree. Something small clutched in her hand—a penknife?—had caught a glint of sun. Her smile was so total the upward thrust of her cheeks left only happy slits for eyes.

  Pace’s heart pinched.

  So this was the little girl who had grown up without her parents.

  He dragged a finger across the glass. The dust-free line left Phoebe’s smile brighter still.

  Pace’s father had been an exceedingly busy and enterprising man, and an exacting, larger-than-life person as well as a mentor to whom Pace could never hope to measure up. But at a pinch Nicholas Senior had made himself available if either boy had ever truly needed him—even if gaining his undivided attention had taken some doing. The positive as well as the negative…Pace couldn’t imagine growing up without his father’s influence.

  Then there was Phoebe, who’d not only missed out on a father but on a mother’s guidance too. She’d had her aunt. But still…

  He studied the photos and his bite clenched.

  What man could walk away from his own flesh and blood?

  Phoebe pushed on the cottage’s back door and, seeing the silhouette of a tall broad figure standing in Meg’s kitchen, reflexively reeled back. She wasn’t used to seeing a man in this house—any man. But, sucking down a breath, she soon realised.

  Holding her clamouring heart, she exhaled heavily. “Pace, you scared me half to death.”

  He looked a little taken aback himself, setting the photo frames he’d been holding back on the counter.

  “I’ve finished the boiler,” he said, stepping forward. “Thought I’d find out where everyone was hiding.”

  “I was out back.”

  “Out back where?” Pace craned his neck to peer around her.

  Hooking an arm, Phoebe retraced her steps through the doorway and Pace followed.

  Scattered gums and clusters of firs stretched to distant purple hills. Untouched, unhurried smells wove all around…old wood, scented wildflowers, and the purest of fresh country air. It was beautiful. And yet Phoebe hadn’t been able to leave this town behind her quickly enough. Her aunt aside, home was supposed to be where the heart was—but if her heart lay in Tyler’s Stream she’d have to dig deep to find it.

  “When I hit seventeen Meg and I renovated the old housemaid’s quarters,” she told him, letting them both inside a smaller cottage that lay at the end of the path. “It was great, having my own space filled with my own things, listening to my own music whenever I liked. But I had responsibilities, too. Cleaning, cooking, setting my own bedtime.”

  She’d felt so grown up. But she had never over-stepped the boundaries. Never dreamed of inviting boys back in the middle of the night. She wouldn’t have betrayed Meg’s trust that way. More importantly, she hadn’t wanted to end up like her mother…starry-eyed, in love, then pregnant and alone. A child deserved two parents. Hell, she’d deserved at least one.

  As they moved further inside—the lower level a living space, an open attic the bedroom—Pace nodded his approval.

  “Cosy.” He took in the faux bearskin rug stretched between the fireplace and an Indian cotton couch. The far wall was painted cerise. When his survey hit the counter, his eyes flashed.

  “Ah! There you are.”

  Phoebe glanced over and smiled. He was talking to the hamper.

  “Guess you’re ready now?”

  She’d meant for coffee, but she didn’t miss the spark in his gaze at her suggestion—or the sizzling undercurrent that zapped a lightning path from his eyes straight to hers.

  Instantly light-headed, she angled back to boil the water.

  She’d seen that look in his eye before. A look that said he wanted what he wanted, and right now he wanted her. Earlier today, back in Sydney, she’d thought she’d wanted him too. Now, after their near accident, in this setting…

  Well, she felt more cautious. Edgy.

  Holding her stomach, she flicked on the kettle. “Coffee or cocoa?” she asked a little absently.

  When he didn’t answer, she looked back over her shoulder.

  As if it were a difficult choice, Pace had tilted his head. He moved towards her, nearer and nearer, until his mouth eventually stopped a breath away from hers. The dark bristles on his jaw glistened in the silver threads of light slanting in through the window.

  Then that masculine mouth grinned and suddenly, like an urge to jump, Phoebe’s fingertips burned to sample the sandpaper-roughness of those cheeks and compare the abrasion to those soft smiling lips. She still felt edgy, but where Pace was concerned she couldn’t seem to keep the longing she felt for him down.

  He said, “I think I like the sou
nd of cocoa.” His deep voice resonated through her blood like chords of music before he lobbed an unhurried glance over his shoulder to the fireplace, the couch. “It’s almost cold enough for a fire,” he said, as his eyes climbed the ladder and then swam back to focus once more upon her lips. A lopsided smile hooked his mouth, perfectly aligned teeth appearing as his smile grew. “Shall we drive it in?”

  Quivering inside, Phoebe swallowed hard.

  She knew his mind: cocoa first, soft mattress and crisp sheets later. After the explosion of those kisses earlier she really couldn’t blame him.

  Low and deep inside, that giddy spiral of longing intensified, the heart-thumping sensation spreading over her body like a delicious rash. Nape, nipples, fingertips—everything tingled. Despite her past experiences…the doubts she harboured about herself…wouldn’t sleeping with Pace Davis would be the easiest, most natural thing in the world?

  His lidded eyes held hers. “I have an idea. But we’ll need a few things.”

  Phoebe’s heartbeat skipped. A few things like, maybe, massage oil? Body chocolate?

  “Do you have a Thermos?”

  Phoebe blinked. Did he say… “A Thermos?”

  “And a blanket? The picnic kind.”

  She blinked again. “Yes, I have a blanket…and a Thermos.”

  “It’ll be dark soon.” Moving to a window, Pace drew back the curtain to inspect a horizon hinting at the rose-hewn colours of sunset. “We’ll take the cocoa with us on a walk. And didn’t you say there was apple pie?”

  Phoebe risked a peek at the loft, visualised two bodies wreathing and on the brink, then she saw it as it actually was—a quaint room with a neat quilted bed, shelves chock-full of memories, a box filled with her childhood dress-ups, and a one-eyed teddy bear propped on his cushions. A young woman’s retreat from her small-minded world.

  Still, as they put pie and drinks together for their picnic, his scent filled her lungs, his heat teased her skin, and Phoebe couldn’t help but wonder if it was time for her loft to grow up, too.

  CHAPTER SIX

  TEN minutes later they were strolling beside a pretty winding stream that reminded Pace of the countryside when he’d visited Germany—verdant green and breathtakingly picturesque. The last of the sun was hanging onto the day as a cool breeze drifted in from the silhouetted hills. Hannie had trotted off ahead, trusting Pace with his mistress as he disappeared into the grass.

  Pace inhaled a lung full of fresh air. “Ever miss these wide open spaces?”

  “Sometimes. Meg and my mother loved the country. That house was their parents’, and their parents’ before them. Meg used to reminisce for hours about their ‘adventures in the wilderness’ when they were young.”

  “Sounds like they were good mates,” Pace said, thinking about Nick and how they’d never seen eye to eye but rather had constantly competed. Growing up, it had always been who hit the ball hardest? Or whose mud pies were the biggest? Between his father’s expectations and his brother’s goading Pace had been constantly kept on his toes. But he’d more than held his own. Until that one god-awful, very public disgrace. Now he only had to look at his brother to be reminded of how badly he’d stuffed up three years ago. It aggravated the bejesus out of him.

  And Nick knew it.

  “Meg was a little older,” Phoebe was saying, “and a lot wiser. When my mother fell for a man passing through, Meg was there to comfort her.”

  She stooped to pluck a flower while Pace put two and two together. The man had been Phoebe’s father.

  “Ever try to find him?” he asked.

  Twirling the stem, Phoebe gazed off at some distant point and lifted her chin. “Other people might want to track down their biological links. I don’t need to go there.”

  Pace thought he understood. “Guess it wouldn’t change anything.”

  “I’m over wondering about what happened to him. But there are some things I’d change if I could.”

  “Like?”

  “Like my mother never giving up on the idea that one day he’d come back to her. She was driving to see him the night she died. It was a wet night. A tired truck driver nodded off and…” She tossed the flower away. “Well, she never came back.”

  Pace’s stomach fell. Her mother had died in a car accident? She’d had reason enough to be shaken earlier, when their car had spun out. Having lost her mother that way must have made that near miss all the more harrowing.

  The line between her brows eased. “But I had my aunt. She loved me like a daughter, and I’ve always looked on her as a parent. I don’t know what I’d have done without Meg.” Her mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. “Sometimes I wish I could tell my mother that.”

  Pace had to swallow to dislodge the stone in his throat. Not only had she been dumped by her father, Phoebe also felt abandoned by her mother—a woman who had been responsible for a small child but had driven off on a wet night to visit an ex who’d no longer wanted her.

  His own father might have worked too hard, but Pace knew he’d slogged those long hours not only for his own sense of satisfaction but also for his family’s sake, for their security. Pace’s grandfather had been an alcoholic who’d squandered the family budget on booze and terrorised the home at night in drunken rages. Nicholas Senior had wanted different things for his children. That was why he’d put in those hours. Expected so much.

  One day he hoped Phoebe could forgive her mother. Carrying around a truck full of spite for someone you ought to love was heavy work. He should know.

  Setting the hamper down, he gave a soft smile. “Let’s have that cocoa and pie.”

  She glanced around and nodded. “The perfect spot.”

  They stood beneath a massive dome of lime-green foliage supported by a giant trunk and a tangle of exposed roots. This monster must stand fifty feet high. A hundred to one it was the swing-tree from that photo in the kitchen he’d looked at.

  He laid out the blanket. “What kind of tree is this?” He’d never seen one like it.

  “No idea.” Kneeling, she extracted the Thermos and cups from the hamper. “Definitely not a pine. Obviously not a gum. In spring its branches are covered with these amazing fluffy white flowers.”

  Scooping her legs at an angle beneath her, Phoebe poured two steaming cups, then handed one to Pace as he hunkered down beside her.

  “Years ago I’d tell myself this tree was magic. That it had grown here on this very spot, overlooking this part of the stream, just for me. Every year, when the blossoms were full enough, the wind strong enough…”

  Pace could imagine. “There’d be a massive white carpet?”

  “And a snowstorm of flowers floating all around. I’d close my eyes…and dream.”

  Her eyes drifted shut as an angelic smile lifted the corners of her full-lipped mouth.

  Pace’s mesmerised gaze swept over her. “What would you dream of?”

  A faint vee formed between her brows before she opened her eyes and smiled cryptically. “The usual things little girls dream of.”

  Close by, Hannie snapped out a clatter of sharp and rapid yaps before streaking off again into the distant wood.

  “Rabbits,” Phoebe explained. “They drive him nuts—not that he catches any. When he’s had enough, he knows his way home.” She took a sip, watching him over the rim of her cup. “What about you? Do your parents live in Sydney?”

  Pace lowered his cup. “My mother died when I was twelve,” he said. “My father when I was twenty-five. A heart attack. My brother and his fiancée live in Sydney.”

  “I’m sorry about your parents,” she murmured, her voice full of understanding. Then she angled her head. “You always seemed like such a mystery to me.”

  “Maybe because you were so busy running the other way.”

  “I’m not running now.”

  She held his gaze with hers and the air simmered between them. Drawn to her like never before, Pace was about to lean closer when she dropped her eyes and rummaged through the
hamper.

  The pie was delicious, sweet and filling. The cocoa too. But the air was cooling by degrees now. Pace thought they ought to head back to her cottage soon. Light a fire. Maybe stay the night. And, remarkably, his reasoning wasn’t about sex. Not entirely.

  He could do the drive back to Sydney, certainly. He’d thought she’d want him to. But after learning about her mother and how she’d died, taking a break from the road until morning might be best.

  When he’d finished eating, Pace put his plate in the hamper. Phoebe leaned in at the same time. Their hands brushed and, like a lightning flash, the chemistry that drew them together and fought to hold them there flared up again. Feeling the jolt, too, Phoebe darted her gaze to his.

  But his eyes had drifted to her mouth, to the succulent pink bow and the lone pastry crumb that sat, enticing him, on her lower lip.

  He didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. Acting on instinct, he simply leaned in, cupped her head, and plucked that crumb from her lips with his own.

  A shiver of anticipation whirled through Phoebe’s centre as Pace’s mouth touched hers. A knot of hot need swelled in her throat when, feather-light, their lips touched again, this time lingering. Her eyes drifted shut and a firestorm swept over her skin at the same time as bands of heat coiled and tightened around her core. When a tiny blissful sigh escaped her throat his arm went around her to draw her wonderfully close.

  Like a length of warm wax her body moulded to his as a crooked finger tilted her chin higher, angling her face so that his mouth hovered a heady whisper away from hers. Testing, he gently rimmed her lips with the tip of his tongue—first one way, then the other. Disbelieving that an act so simple, so mild, could wind her up so tight, Phoebe gave in to the burn—gave in to it all—and wove her arms around his strong neck.

  He kissed her deeply. Thoroughly. Her entire being seemed to shut down before an explosion detonated deep inside and her heart swelled under a rapid rush of blood. She felt exhilarated. Alive. As if she’d sprinted up ten flights of stairs with weights on her belt and angel’s wings on her feet. She savoured the flavour of apple and creamy chocolate.