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 usually had in the past, rapidly following on its heels would be her expression of self-loathing and disgust, so he didn’t bother getting too flattered. Why she’d always done this was beyond him. Hell, just the thought of Phoebe had always affected him the same way and it didn’t make him want to run out and commit hara-kiri.
Since she didn’t seem to be in any hurry to stop staring at him, Trace decided to return the favor, and what he saw caused his mouth to curve into an unholy grin.
Her sundress lay hiked up around her waist, revealing a tiny scrap of lace he supposed passed for panties. Though he’d always been a sucker for her long sable hair, it looked a little ragged at the moment with bits of grass sticking out and a rather large leaf tangled at the side. On top of that, one of her shoes must have flown south during their tumble, because only a single, lethal-looking high heel graced her arched foot.
It was enough to make a man drool. She was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen and color-coordinated to boot. Shoes, dress and underwear all in a glaring shade of pink that he could honestly say was his new favorite color. He wondered what she’d do if he told her that he could see London, France and every little bit of her underpants. Little definitely being the key word here.
Unfortunately, though not unexpectedly, Phoebe seemed to catch herself making calf eyes and pulled up short, retreating behind a stone wall of composure with a dash of indifference thrown in for good measure, in case he hadn’t taken the hint. Trace narrowed his eyes. It had been nine years. He was a full-grown man. Her denial of their attraction shouldn’t matter. Yet, he felt as if he were back on campus following her around like a puppy dog begging for a date because he was so damn crazy about her he couldn’t stay away.
The same old frustrations from the past, the ones demanding he force a response from her, raged through his body. He was not the only one affected here. Before he walked away, Phoebe Devereaux was going to admit what she had only once in the past, and then ruined by never speaking to him again. That she wanted him and wanted him bad. Though, Trace decided with a smile, he might not make her say it in those exact words.
He knew from personal experience the only way past Phoebe’s reserve involved annoying the heck out of her until she got screaming mad, and then man, oh, man, would he get a response. Despite the turmoil twisting his insides, he felt a surprising spark of excitement. Damn, this was going to be fun….
Trace crossed his arms and purposely put on his most cocky expression, which just so happened to be the one that had always riled her up the most. “Not that I mind the view, but maybe you should pull down your dress. Unless, of course, you want to pick up where we left off now that you know it’s me.” It was almost too easy, he thought wickedly.
Phoebe’s forehead wrinkled and she glanced down at herself. A strangled noise rushed past her lips before she scrambled to her feet, the whole while brushing down the front of her dress. “Oh, please,” she finally said, with a dramatic look heavenward. “As if I would ever want to pick up anything with you.” Her voice was a little too shaky to achieve the disdainful tone Trace knew she was going for.
“Hey—” he raised his hands “—you were the one wiggling around down there like you were doing the horizontal lambada. Not me.” He shook his head. “No sir, no matter how I begged, nothing could keep you still.”
She stiffened, bringing his attention back to the long, firm limbs he’d so intimately held only moments before. The same ones he remembered from nine years ago and had felt like heaven wrapped around his waist, around his back, his shoulders, his neck….
Aw, hell. His pants were never going to lie flat.
“Poor Trace. I see you’re still delusional. How sad.” She sniffed and turned away, clearly dismissing him as she presumably began to search for her missing shoe.
Trace scowled. Like hell would she blow him off that easily. “While you, it seems, have changed quite a bit. If memory serves correctly, you never used to wear underpants. Not that I’m complaining. They’re quite nice. You have excellent taste.”
She whipped her head back around to gape at him, her mouth hanging open.
Score one for the home team. He’d stunned Phoebe Devereaux silent. Now to really piss her off. “Why, Phoebe, I can think of only one other time I made you speechless. And here, I’m not even touching you….” He shook his head but couldn’t contain the wide smile that spread across his face at the direct hit.