Her Private Dancer
Her Private Dancer
Cami Dalton
Phoebe Devereaux could never forget Trace McGraw. In college he used his moves to give her a night she'd never forget.Now he's using those talents as a male stripper on the cruise ship where she works as a showgirl. But Phoebe can't afford to be distracted. She was hired to help the police nab some onboard mobsters. Still, Trace sure knows what turns her on….Undercover reporter Trace can't believe sweet, innocent Phoebe is now dancing on a ship in nothing more than feathers. Of course, he can't believe he is bumping and grinding in a thong for a story! He needs this scoop about a possible Mafia operation. But what he wants is to do a little private dancing with Phoebe….
“Take it off!” one of the women yelled
Despite the humiliation Trace felt, the thought of Phoebe being jealous cheered him up a bit.
In time with the music, he opened the buttons of his shirt. The crowd practically groaned as one. God, he loved these women. Their yelps were going to drive Phoebe crazy.
Holding Phoebe’s gaze, he kept his pelvis moving with the beat. He pictured her hands in place of his own and let that erotic image fill his eyes with hunger.
Trace watched the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Damn, he wanted her. He let his shirt fall to the ground, and the women screamed and whooped.
Adrenaline surged through his blood in spite of how stupid he felt dancing around the room like a gigolo. He gripped the front of his pants and let the anticipation build. From the corner of his eye he saw Phoebe staring. Purposely, Trace waited until their eyes met. Then he pulled.
Dear Reader,
I’ve always found it wildly attractive when a man knows how to dance. Bring me to a wedding reception or a New Year’s Eve party, and my gaze is automatically drawn to the fellow who’s effortlessly moving his body in rhythm with the beat. If the guy happens to be particularly talented at shaking his tail feathers, well, then, be still my beating heart. On these occasions, when I finally drag my eyes away and remember where I am, I inevitably discover that I’m not the only woman in the room gasping for breath. And this got me thinking….
Her Private Dancer is my first book and takes place in my home state of sunny Florida. I love romance and have been an avid reader for many years, but I’ve finally discovered something that I love even more—writing funny, steamy stories with quirky heroines and heart-pounding heroes. I hope you agree. Let me know what you think. You can write to me at P.O. Box 410787, Melbourne, FL 32941-0787. You can also send your e-mail to camidalton@earthlink.net or visit my Web site at www.camidalton.com.
Happy reading,
Cami Dalton
Her Private Dancer
Cami Dalton
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Brenda Chin and Leslie Kelly for acts of friendship and kindness too numerous to mention. Thanks for getting me here. You guys are the best.
Contents
Prologue (#u7d4b7e25-5dea-5f33-8c5e-602d1d9dc3c3)
Chapter 1 (#u2df72ee1-9066-5287-8623-2cfd0856f404)
Chapter 2 (#ue6efcceb-3ad8-536d-b0e4-f22852c07070)
Chapter 3 (#u36b6c946-1f25-57c4-922e-11ea2c52b2ba)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
TRACE MCGRAW FORCED his mouth into a smile as he tilted his spandex-covered pelvis toward the elderly woman, who bore a striking resemblance to Mrs. Rosenthal, his grandmother’s eighty-nine-year-old roommate at the Happy Vale Assisted Living Center. No sir, his second night on the job wasn’t turning out to be any less embarrassing than his first. Especially, with Mrs. Rosenthal’s twin staring at his package and all but licking her chops.
The look-alike briefly turned to the woman next to her and shouted over the wailing country-western song, “Ooh-wee. Get a gander of this one, Marge. Is that a gun in your drawers, cowboy,” she crowed to Trace, “or are you just happy to see me?” The old woman nudged her friend with her elbow then laughed mischievously.
Colored lights flicked wildly around the room while a haze of smoke hovered above the all-female audience. The din of their cheers and whoops of approval almost drowned out the bass beat pounding from the speakers like a dozen tribal drums. Trace surmised that unfortunately, the friend, Marge, had still been able to hear since she removed a five-dollar bill from her purse and said, “I don’t know, Delores. I think we’re gonna need a better look.” Then she wiggled her eyebrows.
After his first performance last night on board the Mirage, a casino ship out of Miami where twice a week the women of south Florida ruled the high seas, Trace knew what to expect. Even still, he wasn’t quite prepared for the speed and dexterity with which good old Delores moved. Before he could even blink, Delores had snatched up the money and started reaching for his costume.
Trace bit back a curse, but held his pose, not moving so much as a tassel on his fringed chaps. The fringed chaps that blatantly highlighted the bulge in his black briefs. Not easy considering the look in Delores’s eyes, but Trace couldn’t blow his cover now no matter how much he wanted to slap his hands over his groin and run back to the dressing room. Or jump off the ship. That would be fine, too, three-mile swim back to shore and all.
Five nights a week, the Mirage left port for international waters where the ship threw open its casino doors then aimlessly wandered the Atlantic for a few scheduled hours of gambling, drinking and watching Vegas-style reviews. Glitzy productions complete with showgirls. During the regular cruises, that is. On the Ladies Only nights, the entertainment distinctly veered into dangerous territory. At least for Trace McGraw, newest member of the dance troupe, the Ladies’ Knights. Miami’s answer to Chippendales.
He almost sneered at the apropos comparison, but somehow kept his stupid smile plastered in place. Damn, he hated this cover. And this story. And his editor, Manny….
Trace cast a quick glance at the other male dancers on the floor, and wondered if they’d ever felt the same bone-deep humiliation he was experiencing. Obviously not, if the guy dressed as Tonto and gyrating away with some woman’s hand down his thong was anyone to go by. Disgusted with just how far down his career had actually plummeted, Trace mentally hurried Delores along and shifted his stance to counter the floor’s subtle pitch and roll.
All things considered, though, he should probably look on the bright side. At least he didn’t have to get completely naked. Wearing this damn butt floss was definitely torture enough without being forced to show the full monty. Of course, his suede vest alone, worn open and shirtless, was sufficient to have him blushing like the proverbial virgin in a whorehouse—not to overdo the whole western theme here. The ten-gallon hat, chaps and thong were merely a bonus.
Delores finally finished slipping the bill into the spandex at his hip when Marge piped up, saying, “My turn. You’re not in any rush, are you, cowboy?”
“Of course not, ma’am,” Trace answered, hiding his grimace along with another healthy sigh, while Marge searched for more cash.
It wasn’t easy to pinpoint the exact moment that had led to this, but if he had to make a guess, he figured it was Christmas, fifth grade. The year his sister Gwen had given him the sound track to Saturday Night Fever. The same year Pittsburgh had its worst blizzard in history and the snow had fallen so hard he couldn’t go sledding or even build a damn snowman. The infamous year he’d caught disco fever.
Bored out of his mind, he remembered splashing on some Aqua Velva—another pitiful example of what the females in his family considered a Christmas present—and dancing around his room like John Travolta Jr. in training for the Solid Gold olympics. If Gwen had just given him the sports-magazine subscription with the free football phone as he’d asked, he wouldn’t be in this mess. Because if he’d never learned to dance, when his editor, Manny, had spotted him at a colleague’s wedding reception six weeks ago, Trace would’ve been just like every other rhythmless white guy in the place who froze in panic when the music started.
The waistband of Trace’s skimpy underwear snapped back into place like a rubber band and Trace snapped back to the present.
“Well. You’re a big one, aren’t you?” Delores glanced at her friend. “Did you see him, Marge?”
Marge rolled her eyes. “I’m old, not blind.” Turning to Trace she said, “So what do they call you, big guy?”
“Probably Big Guy,” Delores crowed, smacking her knee, and they both laughed uproariously.
Trace shook his head, and in spite of himself felt a grin tugging at his mouth. The frisky pair reminded him of the two old men from The Muppet Show. Watching them, he chuckled softly.
If any of his friends from the Herald could see him now he’d never live it down. Trace had been well on his way to becoming one of the paper’s top investigative reporters when he’d gotten fired. Unfairly, in his opinion, as well as that of every other hapless male who’d ever been cornered by the boss’s oversexed daughter, Jeanine. Now, thanks to his ex-editor and the vindictive Jeanine, Trace was lucky to even have his job at the Daily Intruder, which was saying a lot since he was presently employed in journalism hell.
Undercover as one of the dancers, Trace was investigating a tip Manny had gotten about male prostitutes on board the Mirage, and the middle-class suburban housewives who solicited them. Apparently a growing problem Manny felt would send the Daily Intruder’s circulation skyrocketing. Obviously Manny was an idiot. An idiot who knew his readership and who’d threatened to fire Trace if he refused the story.
As much as Trace hated the assignment, he found himself reluctant to give up the finer things in life like food and shelter. And after his first night on the job, he had a hunch there was a much bigger story taking place on the decks of the Mirage.
It was a well-known fact the Mirage was owned by the supposedly retired ex-Mafia boss Angelo Venzara. Or Mr. V., as he was called by his employees. But last night when Trace had gotten lost and wandered near the hold, he’d seen enough to have him reassessing Venzara’s supposedly reformed status. Specifically, the two armed thugs who’d been carrying an unmarked crate toward Angelo Venzara’s private area of the ship.
A couple of calls to some of Trace’s old sources confirmed that things onboard might not be all they seemed. In the past few months, the Mirage had made a number of hastily scheduled launches during its off-hours. And been spotted loading unmarked cargo during one of the cruise’s island stops in the Bahamas. Even without his journalistic instincts cranking up to full alert, Trace had come across enough evidence to know that Mr. V. was up to something. And with his much-hated cover already established, Trace was going to find out. Because if he was right, it was a chance to get his career back, and that was worth anything. Even doing the electric slide in his skivvies.
A group of young lovelies a few feet away tried to catch his attention, banging their drink glasses on the table top and waving money from their hands like little flags. Trace laughed softly. Maybe he needed to get a better attitude. He had to admit that whatever this cover cost his pride it was more than made up for in horny women. After all, what red-blooded male wouldn’t enjoy all these screaming females anxious for a chance to get him naked?
He tipped the brim of his hat to the two feisty seniors. “Thank you, ladies. It’s been a pleasure,” he said, genuinely smiling this time.
“I’ll say!” Delores sent him a wink.
Chuckling, he turned to leave, but before he’d made it more than half a step, he felt a hard smack across his semi-bare ass. His eyes widened.
“Great chaps!”
“Even greater buns!” His frisky friends hooted with laughter.
Trace sighed and shook his head. Then again, maybe his attitude had been just fine all along, not to mention a whole lot safer.
1
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, you don’t know when you’re coming back?” Phoebe Devereaux said into the phone. “How long can you just hang out in the Caribbean when you don’t have any money?” Phoebe managed to keep her voice one level below shouting. If she lost her temper now, she’d never get the whole story out of her little sister.
“I mean, I don’t know when it’ll be cool for me to come back. I told you, that cop, Alvarez, is going to be majorly pissed off when he finds out I skipped town. I keep telling him that Mr. V. is legit, but Alvarez won’t chill out,” Tiffany said. “And money’s not a problem. My boyfriend Tony’s going with me.”
Phoebe cradled the phone to her shoulder and massaged her throbbing temples. Since they were kids, Tiffany had been getting into trouble. Always the faithful big sister, Phoebe had rescued her from too many scrapes to count. Most of which, from the moment Tiffany had hit puberty, included a man. The no-good, love-’em-and-leave-’em bad-boy type that was Tiff’s favorite.
Phoebe shook her head, her gaze finding the open window across from her. The sound of the neighbor’s lawn mower floated inside her cozy little kitchen while a soft breeze ruffled the curtains. What had started out as a fairly perfect day lazing around at home, Tiffany had managed to destroy in less than five minutes. No surprise there, really, considering the source.
“Okay,” Phoebe finally said, plunking her glass of iced tea down onto the countertop and pushing it away. At the moment, she was a little too tempted to round up the one and only bottle of liquor in her house and spike the heck out of it. “I want you to start over at the beginning, and this time don’t leave out a single thing.”
“Oh, all right.” Tiffany heaved a sigh worthy of the stage. “But then I really have to leave, so pay attention this time.”
Phoebe didn’t respond. She was too busy grinding her teeth.
“Like I said before, there’s going to be a big meeting on the Mirage next Saturday night. Some guys who used to work with Tony’s uncle, Mr. V., are coming over from Vegas and New York and the whole ship is gonna be closed off for customers that night. Nothing illegal is going on, I’m sure, no matter what Alvarez says, but even still, the whole thing is pretty hush-hush. Me and a few of the girls happened to know about the private cruise because Mr. V. himself asked us to work special for the party. Hang out for dinner and drinks then do a shorter version of our show. And well—” Tiffany hesitated “—the cops want me to listen in on the meeting. They’ve tried before to get one of their own people on board, but Mr. V. likes things private and he hates cops. I mean really hates cops. His men can spot a plant a mile away.”
“But why you? Why not one of the other showgirls?”
“W-e-l-l,” Tiffany hedged, “the police have some stuff on me. If I do what they ask, they’ll cut a deal with me and forget about pressing charges. But if I don’t come through, I could do time.”
“Do time! Are you trying to say you might go to jail?” Phoebe wasn’t being naive. Tiffany’s antics had always more than crossed over the lines of propriety, and the men she hooked up with were blue collar at best, spiked collar at worst. She also took particular glee in trying to shock their dysfunctional parents into an early grave, though, as of yet, hadn’t been successful. Phoebe understood why her little sister did these things and in part felt responsible. But Tiffany wasn’t a criminal. She just liked to date them.
Tiffany snorted. “It’s so stupid, because they’ll never be able to make anything stick, Tony promised. Besides, Tony says Mr. V. has gone straight since he retired and that the cops will drop everything once they figure out he’s on the up-and-up.”
“Well, if Tony promised then I’m sure you’re fine.” Phoebe rolled her eyes. “But just so I know, what exactly do the police think they have?”
Tiffany hesitated. “Okay. But don’t freak out. A couple of times I went with Tony when he had to make a delivery for his uncle. Nothing major, I promise. A fake passport, I think. Maybe a couple of handguns, but only once. I swear.”
“Guns.” Phoebe sputtered the word. “You’re dating an arms dealer?”
“He’s not an arms dealer. Cripes, you exaggerate everything,” Tiffany grumbled. “He was only doing a favor for his uncle. You make it sound so serious.”
“It is serious. By the way, Tony’s family sounds great. I think I saw an episode about them on The Sopranos.” She squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose.
Once again Phoebe found herself forced into the role of Tiffany’s savior. Something she’d already sworn she’d done for the last time. Yet, even though Tiffany shouldn’t have ridden shotgun with her gangster boyfriend, Phoebe couldn’t bear to think of her little sister in a prison cell. Which meant that she had to get to Miami today if she wanted to stop Tiffany from making the biggest mistake of her life.
Spying the phone book, Phoebe grabbed it off the shelf and started flipping the pages. “All right, Tiffany, you’re going to listen to me and do exactly what I tell you. First off, break up with that mobster—”
“He’s not a mobster!”
“Of course not. He commits crimes and everyone in his family has names like Scarface or Luigi the Choker. What was I thinking?” Phoebe recognized her mother’s biting sarcasm in her words and immediately softened her voice. “I know you care about him, Tiff, but he’s no good for you.” Phoebe hesitated then forced herself to go on. “After you break up, go straight to the cops and tell them you’ll do whatever they say. I’ll call the airline right now. I’ll try to get a flight out tonight. It’s only six or seven hours from San Francisco to Miami, so I should be there by tomorrow morning. But get ready because when this is all done we’re packing you up and I’m bringing you home.”
“Are you insane? I’d rather let the cops put me in jail than live back under the same roof with Mom and Dad. Besides, San Francisco isn’t home. Miami is. Heck, we grew up here. Just because you chose to buckle under Mom’s nagging and move out west after you left New York City doesn’t mean I’m stupid enough to be on the same side of the country as our parents. Not that they’d want me there, anyway.”
Phoebe winced. Truthfully, the thought of living with her parents sent chills up and down her own spine. Being within a thirty-minute drive was bad enough. But she wasn’t the one who’d ruined her life and couldn’t be trusted. Tiffany had done this to herself and it was about time good old Mom and Dad helped share the burden of keeping up with their crazy, younger daughter. Though they’d never bothered to concern themselves in the past. But Phoebe would fix that, too. Somehow…
“And I’m not breaking up with Tony,” her little sister continued. “Even though the police have no reason to harass Mr. V., he admitted that some of his uncle’s associates may be a little on the shady side. Tony doesn’t want me around that kind of stuff, especially now that I’m—” Tiffany broke off then finally said, “Well, I’ll get into that later, but he’s quitting the family business for now. And I’m leaving Miami. Only a person with a death wish would spy on Mr. V. and I’m not that stupid. If you want to help the police so much, you work at the Mirage. Hey—” Tiffany dragged out the word “—wait a second…I think I just came up with an idea.”
Phoebe recognized that particular sound in her sister’s voice and it made the little hairs at the back of her neck stand on end. “Whatever you’re plotting, forget it.”
“I really think this can work. Listen, we’re both dancers, right?”
Phoebe practically choked. “I’m a ballet teacher. You’re a showgirl. Big difference.”
“Meaning, I have a good time and get laid more than once a year?”
“Why sell yourself short?” Phoebe snorted. “You could probably get it every hour dancing at that stupid place.” Though truthfully, she didn’t really disapprove of Tiffany’s job as much as she’d just sounded. There were scores of serious dancers who worked on cruise ships. At casinos, as well, for that matter. Still, there was a mile of difference between a tutu and a thong. Yet, in spite of the ridiculousness of Tiffany’s suggestion, Phoebe actually tried to envision herself in one. A thong, that is, and immediately the image came into focus.
She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. Secretly, she’d always wished she could be more like her little sister. Less inhibited. Daring. Confident enough to embrace life and take what she wanted. See an attractive man and go for it—wait a second. The attractive man part of her internal ramblings brought her up short. Back in college, she’d learned her lesson about embracing life and attractive men the hard way, hadn’t she? So what on earth was wrong with her? The one and only time Phoebe had ignored her head and followed her libido instead, she’d ended up losing her heart. She didn’t want to go through that again, did she? Sure, Tiffany had more fun. Just too much of it. Without any thought of the consequences.
“Stop bitching. You’re just jealous because I’m happy and like what I do,” Tiffany said, hitting the nail smack-dab on the head. “Just hear me out. If you got a job on board the Mirage then you could listen in on Mr. V.’s meeting. It’s perfect.” Her little sister’s voice rose with enthusiasm. “Officer Alvarez won’t care who gets the information as long as someone does.”
Phoebe’s mouth fell open. “I thought you said only a person with a death wish would spy on this Mr. V. person.”
Tiffany made a scoffing sound. “I was exaggerating. All right, Mr. V.’s pretty anal about his privacy, but other than that he’s very sweet. Now, his bodyguard, Sonny, can be a little creepy at times, but as long as you don’t let him catch you, you’ll be fine. Come on, Phoebe, help me out here. It’s not like you’re doing anything else. You don’t even have a job.”
Phoebe made a face and stuck her tongue out at the phone. It wasn’t the words themselves that pierced so much, but the sentiment behind them. As if her life only existed to make Tiffany’s easier. “Forget it, Tiffany. It will never happen. And for your information, I still have my job. My knee is fine now. I should be back at the studio any day.” Phoebe wasn’t about to admit that she’d put off giving the prestigious ballet academy where she worked an actual return date. Before Phoebe had reinjured her knee a couple of months ago, she’d already begun to lose interest in her classes.
With the big 3-0 bearing down on her with all the surety of a SCUD missile, Phoebe found herself more than just a little tired of teaching moody teenagers the finer points of the Vaganova method. Especially when said teenagers were constantly harassing Phoebe to ditch the classics and teach them more fun stuff like Who Let the Swans Out? Call her selfish, but there had to be more to life than this.
Then again, if her knee hadn’t given out seven years ago, Phoebe would already have a real life. She scowled down at her leg. The New York City Ballet had been sympathetic yet adamant when they’d let her go from the company. A principal dancer with a bum knee wasn’t in their repertoire.
“Come on, Phoebes,” Tiffany wheedled, using the nickname she’d given Phoebe when they were kids. “Just think about how pissed off Mom will be when she finds out you danced as a showgirl.”
“Tiffany, I’m a little old to be enticed into one of your harebrained schemes simply to annoy our mother.”
“No, you’re not. Besides, you’re going to take my place on the Mirage because you love me and want to help me. Sending Mom over the edge is just a happy coincidence.”
The corner of Phoebe’s mouth curved upward. Sometimes she didn’t know why she bothered trying. Winning an argument with Tiffany was impossible, and for a brief moment, Phoebe actually allowed herself to consider Tiffany’s request. It wasn’t as if Phoebe couldn’t do any form of dance. The stress of dancing in toe shoes was the actual culprit that aggravated her weakened knee. Unfortunately, ballet was all she’d been taught. Her mother, Madeline Devereaux, had never allowed anything else.
Phoebe frowned. Maybe Tiffany was right and pissing off their mother was motivation enough.
While Tiffany blathered on in the background, Phoebe pictured herself in one of her sister’s outrageous getups and, not surprisingly, a frisson of excitement pulsed low in her belly. She pressed her hand to her stomach. Her imagination went to town and she could almost see her body undulating to a throbbing beat under a row of hot stage lights. She licked her lips and envisioned a gorgeous man in the audience, all his senses focused on her while she swayed her hips and…doggonit! How did Tiffany plant these crazy ideas in her brain?
Phoebe narrowed her eyes and slammed the phone book shut. Fantasizing about being a sexy showgirl and actually trying to be one were two different things. No matter how enticing the prospect seemed, if she ever actually had to go onstage and perform half-naked like that, she’d probably have the worst panic attack of her life.
Tiffany must have sensed a negative answer coming her way because she jumped in before Phoebe could speak, and said, “I know the Mirage isn’t exactly your kind of place, Phoebe, but you’ve got nothing to lose. Face the facts, you’re in a rut, and now’s your chance to get out of it. Listen, there’s more to life than what you’re living. It’s time to decide what you want and go for it. Take me, for example. I look at life like sex. You can either lie back and get screwed or climb on top and ride the hell out of it. That’s my motto.”
Phoebe almost dropped the phone. After a minute of pure speechlessness, she cleared her throat then said, “How beautiful. Truly touching, and I mean that. You should cross-stitch it on a pillow.” She wiped her hand over her face then shook her head. “Unfortunately, I don’t view infiltrating the Mafia the same as riding the hell out of life. Look, Tiffany, I think it’s about time you swung down from the, er, saddle, so to speak, and learned to clean up one of your own messes. I’ll come to Miami and stand by your side.” Phoebe’s voice rose as she picked up steam. “But there is no way I’m going to dance on that ship in a sequined bikini so you can sun yourself on some darn beach. So, save your breath. There’s not a single thing you can say that will make me change my mind.”
Tiffany remained silent until Phoebe felt she’d scream. Finally, her little sister spoke. “Phoebe, I know you think I’m being a jerk, but, honest, it’s not me I’m trying to protect.”
Phoebe slumped against the wall and rubbed the back of her neck. “Tiffany, what are you trying to tell me?”
Her sister then spoke the two words guaranteed to change Phoebe’s mind. “I’m pregnant.”
PHOEBE’S ANKLES wobbled precariously in her three-and-a-half inch high heels and she cursed under her breath. It wasn’t easy to run in screw-me shoes while balancing a tray of deviled eggs and a gift-wrapped Crock-Pot, but it had taken her forty minutes longer to navigate through the Miami traffic than she’d planned and she couldn’t mess this up by being late.
One of the showgirls, Candy, was getting married and Phoebe had been invited to the bachelorette party. Oddly enough, after only three days, she seemed to be fitting in better with the showgirls than she ever had at her previous jobs. Probably because she was Tiffany’s sister. And probably because, for the first time in her life, she was the worst dancer of the bunch.
Phoebe grinned and thought to herself, “I’m a showgirl.” There were times when the absurdity of it almost made her laugh out loud. So far, she was enjoying herself, too. She’d only been in town a couple of days but things were going remarkably well. Exactly as she’d planned.
Thanks to Tiffany’s grossly exaggerated reference, the Mirage had hired Phoebe on the spot. Of course, not surprisingly, she hadn’t been asked yet to join Mr. V. on his Mafia Reunion Cruise next Saturday, but she wasn’t alarmed. It was one thing for Mr. V. to make Phoebe a showgirl on the spur of the moment. Another for him to welcome her right in with open arms to witness his illegal activities. Besides, she still had plenty of time. Well, a week to be exact, but her first performance was in two nights and Phoebe knew that Mr. V. and his right-hand man, Sonny were waiting to see how she held up onstage.
She’d also spoken with Officer Carlos Alvarez. Though he’d been understandably angered at Tiffany’s impromptu honeymoon, he’d agreed to present Phoebe’s offer to his captain. Which reminded her that she had an appointment with Alvarez in the morning to discuss the specifics of the case. They were meeting at Tiff’s condo, where Phoebe was staying. As a precaution, Alvarez had told her not to risk coming down to the police station a second time. Though the detective doubted Phoebe was being watched, he’d told her not to underestimate Sonny Martorelli.
She fought back a chill, the thought of being watched at any time in her future enough to make Phoebe want to pirouette herself right around and onto the first plane back to San Francisco. But she’d come too far to wimp out now. Besides, she had no reason to be nervous. She was an intelligent, capable woman. She could do this. Actually wanted to do this. And not just for Tiffany.
Phoebe had come to Miami as much for herself as to protect her new little niece or nephew from any potential harm. She’d allowed Tiffany to believe that it was her pregnancy that had changed Phoebe’s mind, and in a way it had. But it was more the reality of Tiff getting married suddenly and starting a family that had really knocked Phoebe’s world off kilter. Her whole life Phoebe had played it safe, and yet Tiffany was the one with a husband and a new baby on the way. In three months Phoebe would be thirty years old and had nothing to show for it. The men she dated were boring. Her job was boring. Her life was boring. She was in a rut. Tiffany had been right. Go figure.
Well, no more. Phoebe had made a decision. For once, she would take control of her future. She’d always wanted to be more like her little sister and now she could. Performing on the Mirage was a chance to spread her wings. Try a new form of dance. Experience some excitement. Some danger.
Phoebe almost stumbled at this and her chest grew tight. All right, she thought, and steadied her breathing. So she wasn’t completely sold on the danger part. But she liked everything else. Phoebe frowned again. And maybe comparing the bumps and grinds executed onstage at the Mirage to a dance form might be a bit liberal, but she was tired of playing it safe. Always being responsible. Always thinking things through. Tiffany hadn’t, and look at her. Granted, the whole Mafia thing was a drawback, but maybe Tony and Tiffany were right and the police were wrong.
Phoebe had met Mr. V. when she’d first arrived, and the Godfather he wasn’t. Oddly enough, finally seeing Tony’s uncle had been a bit of letdown. A short, round little man, Mr. V. had seemed to be more interested in talking to Phoebe about his special tomatoes than her new job on the Mirage. He’d asked if she liked Italian food and offered to make her a spaghetti feast with his own homemade sauce once she’d settled in. Heck, it had been kinda hard to remain scared of a guy who’d talked about tomato sauce for ten minutes running and wanted to know whether she personally preferred bay leaves or cilantro in her marinara.
Remembering the funny conversation, Phoebe grinned and already felt better. Now was not the time to let one of her panic attacks sneak up on her. Though her primary reason for attending Candy’s bachelorette party was to get a foot in with the other dancers, she couldn’t let the technicalities of her mission distract her from her own private goals. Important private goals. To grab life by the balls and wring every last drop from them. After all, she thought with a grin, why should Tiffany be the only one with a fun motto?
Finally coming to a stop, Phoebe stood before the long row of apartments and squinted, trying to make out the number over the entrance. It was so dang dark out here she could barely see a thing. The one and only street lamp in the entire complex stood beside the last building where a half dozen or so balloons were tied to the door. Bingo, she thought in relief, and took off toward it.
As she hobbled along the sidewalk, she wondered fleetingly whether the sense of camaraderie she felt with the showgirls would last and was surprised at how much she hoped it would. Growing up, Phoebe had always been painfully self-conscious around her peers and—oh, all right, so she’d been more like a tongue-tied mess, though she’d tried hard to relax and be herself, which had only made matters worse.
Add this in with the combination of Phoebe’s success in dance, her top placement grade point average, and a mother who’d never let her do anything that even remotely resembled fun—including wasting time with boyfriends or, heck, even regular friends—and the other kids had all come to the conclusion that Phoebe was one stuck-up prima donna. Throw in a few panic attacks for fun, and it was easy to see why she hadn’t exactly been voted the most popular person in her school. Looking back on it, she was lucky they hadn’t thrown rocks at her in the streets.
However, with age and enough therapy to help even the most screwed-up of Hollywood starlets, Phoebe had overcome the worst of her introversion. Yet, there were still times when she fought the odd twinges of anxiety. Oh, like, say, whenever she let herself think about all the different ways that she could fail in the next few hours being the perfect example. Phoebe grimaced, eyeing the tastefully wrapped present in her arms. Somehow, she doubted giving Candy a Crock-Pot would convince the showgirls that she lived life on the edge. The deviled eggs didn’t exactly say bad to the bone either.
Darn it. Already she was doing this wrong and the realization made her breath hitch. But before Phoebe could get herself more worked up, one of her ridiculous heels caught in the pavement and she tripped forward. The Crock-Pot and eggs flew from her arms and for a brief moment her body seemed to fly along, too.
As if in slow motion she pictured herself landing on her bad knee, injuring it permanently, all of her plans for Tiffany and herself ruined, but there was nothing she could do to stop herself. Until her body mercifully slammed into rock-solid man. Not about to question her good fortune, Phoebe clung tight.
“WHAT THE—oof!” The air whooshed from Trace’s lungs as the crazy woman careened into him.
“Help,” she squeaked.
Trace managed to get out a quick “Whoa, careful,” while he staggered backward from the force of her momentum. Instinctively, he brought up his arms to catch her, then decided this might not have been such a good idea.
Her long, wriggling body molded perfectly to his and he suddenly found his hands filled with her well-rounded bottom. A tingling feeling, almost like an itch, spread through his palms, yet Trace forced himself to ignore the writhing bounty in his hands and reminded his overactive hormones that after the fiasco with Jeanine, he’d sworn off women for good. At least he thought he had. It all seemed pretty vague to him right now with this particular woman’s legs clamped tightly on his thighs and her high, firm breasts pressed into his chest, prodding his skin like two hot brands and making him remember how much he enjoyed being prodded by two hot brands. Especially, when those brands were moving and jiggling around with the rest of her.
Suddenly the bachelorette party he was on his way to perform at seemed rife with possibilities. A concept that made him question his sanity, but he couldn’t afford to waste another second on his wayward thoughts. Not if he wanted to get rid of the human suction cup in his arms before they both went down for the count.
“Hey, hold still,” he warned, scowling. He tried to catch his balance and adjust his footing but this somehow only made everything worse because she squeaked and shockingly started to climb him like a monkey up a tree. He cursed, wondering what the hell was the matter with her and opened his mouth to ask, except a yelp came out instead. She’d stabbed the back of his leg with what had to be one of the most wicked high heels in creation, and his knees buckled forward.
Trace tripped off the sidewalk and they went down hard. Or rather she did. His face landed on something soft and plump, well, actually two somethings soft and plump—oh, all right, technically right smack-dab between two somethings soft and plump—and if he wasn’t mistaken, her knee was shoved up under his armpit.
“I can’t breathe. Get up, please.” The voice beneath him sounded strangled.
You and me both, lady, he wanted to say, but couldn’t since speaking required air and there was none left in his lungs. He tried to move. However, turning his face wasn’t an option either. Not with her long, dark hair tangled around his head as if someone had thrown a net over him, and for a few very long seconds Trace feared he was going to suffocate with his face mashed tightly to her breasts.
All in all, he supposed there were worse ways to go.
The woman squeaked. “I mean it—get up.” Her pelvis pushed against his, trying to buck him off. Their limbs were so jumbled it must have looked as if they were playing a bizarre, 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 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.
Of course, she didn’t stay silent for long. In his experience, she never had. Not with him anyway. It had always been a source of amazement to him that the same painfully shy woman who could barely make small talk with the other students, became a screaming virago at the least of his taunts. The dichotomy of her behavior had been the biggest turn-on of his life. It had gotten to the point that by his senior year, she’d say one mean or argumentative thing and his favorite body part would pop up like one of those plastic thermometers on a turkey. For a while there, he’d been afraid that he’d never be able to get an erection without having a whopping argument first.
Phoebe narrowed her eyes. “Crude egomaniacs tend to have that effect on me. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She started to lift her cute little nose in the air, but he spoke before she could turn away again.
“You don’t have to explain, Phoebe. I know exactly how I affect you.” He purposely made his voice low and suggestive. “But, I was thinking about our night together. You remember, Phoebe, right? The night when we—”
“It was nothing.” She actually growled and he could just make out the telltale flush on her cheeks.
“Bull.” Not one of the most original comebacks but he was riding the edge here and deserved a little slack.
She waved her hand. “We had some fun. Well, at least you did, anyway. It wasn’t a big deal.”
Trace merely crossed his arms and raised his eyebrow. Why argue something so patently false? Besides, if he opened his mouth, he might do something stupid. Like tell her exactly how much that night had meant to him.
She rolled her eyes then pretended great interest in her fingernails which, in this light, he knew doggone well she could barely see. “All right,” she said grudgingly, “it was pleasant.”
His other eyebrow joined the first and they both crept higher.
Phoebe clenched her jaw and fisted her hands at her sides. “Fine, I really enjoyed myself.”
Since she was doing so good on her own, Trace still said nothing, and she bit out, “Okay. I had as much fun as you, if not more. The heavens moved, the earth shook.” She smiled sweetly. “But if you recall, I got over it.” While steam all but poured from his ears, she shrugged, no longer meeting his eyes. “I can’t believe you’re making such a big deal over this. For that matter, I’m shocked you even remember.”
He cursed. “Oh, I remember all right….” As if he could forget.
Twenty-one years old and in love for the first time in his life, Trace had held her in his arms and watched her come.
He’d slid into the hot, delicate flesh between her legs until her beautiful thighs had begun to quiver on either side of his hips and she’d exploded in release. Though she’d never told him, Trace had known that she was a virgin. Phoebe had willingly given him a gift no other would have, and at that moment, he’d felt as if it had been his first time, too. There was no way in hell he’d let her brush off that night as unimportant. On a physical level alone it had been one for the history books even if she had completely rejected him the next day.
Phoebe scoffed. “Oh, please. If you remember anything about me or that night it’s because I was just another conquest. One of many for you, I’m sure, but still true.”
Jerked 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.
The corner of his mouth curved up, but there was no humor in his expression. Then he leaned down and his breath feathered her ear, the sensation enough to stop her lungs from working. “I don’t believe you,” he whispered. “You remember exactly how good it was between us. You’re lying, Phoebe, and I know why. Because you’re just as hot for me now as you were back in college and for some reason that really ticks you off.”
Phoebe took a step back from him, her movements jerky. She lifted her chin. “How charmingly put. And untrue. Besides, there are more important things than physical attraction.” Though at the moment she couldn’t think of a single one.
“Really? Name one.”
Rats. He would zero in on that particular problem. “Okay,” she said, then licked her lips again. “Um, mutual interests.”
His smile widened. He moved toward her, closing the space she’d put between them. “Believe me, sweetheart, the interest here is definitely mutual.” His hand stroked down her bare arm. The little hairs on her skin rose in his wake.
“Yes, well—” she cleared her throat “—I seem to recall that your interest had a much shorter shelf life than mine.” She took another step away but he kept pace, all but stalking her.
Trace shook his head and lifted his thumb to her bottom lip. “Now, that’s where you’ve always been wrong, Phoebe.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “But I guess since you’re still not ready to believe me, I’ll just have to prove it.” He lowered his mouth and Phoebe panicked. If he kissed her, she couldn’t be held responsible for her actions. Specifically, throwing herself at him and howling at the moon.
“No, no,” she said, still backing up. “That’s okay. Let’s just call a truce here and agree to disagree.”
Trace grinned. “Nah. I’d rather be right.”
“No.” Her eyes going wide, she stumbled backward when pain shot through her bare foot. “Ouch!” she wailed, bending down.
In less than a heartbeat, Trace knelt at her side. “What happened?” he asked. “Are you okay?” Then he curled those devastating fingers of his around her ankle and a charge raced up her leg as if she’d become a live wire. Instantaneous electricity.
Phoebe scowled. “I’m fine,” she said, though her voice wobbled. Next the words “I don’t need your help” somehow came out of her mouth when what she really wanted to say was, “Please, if you have an ounce of mercy, don’t touch me.”
“Hush.” He gently turned her foot. A small line of blood ran from her pinkie toe. “Hey, you’ve really hurt yourself,” he said, his voice gruff. “You’re bleeding.”
Oh, why couldn’t the creep be consistent? One minute he was the ex-boyfriend from hell and the next all sensitivity. Of course, she shouldn’t have been surprised. Trace had always played by his own rules. In other words, he didn’t mind driving her nuts, but if she ever needed anything he was first in line and always came through.
Except at the end when he’d turned out to be a two-timing pig just as she’d always feared. Then again, the sexually deprived voice chimed back in and said, maybe it’s about time to let all those pesky little bygones be bygones. After all, nobody’s perfect, he was too young to know how much he hurt you, yada yada yada. Think of whatever excuse it’ll take for you to have wild monkey sex with him at the earliest possible opportunity—as a matter of fact, right here and now seems to be available.
“I’m fine,” she blurted. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“You’re not fine. You have a cut,” he said, and before she could argue, he stood and scooped her into his arms in one motion.
Phoebe’s stomach rolled and she braced her hand on his chest. His muscles were hard and lean beneath her fingers. His shoulders wide and—she noticed where her thoughts were going. No! Absolutely not. No wild monkey sex. She didn’t care how good he felt. Or smelled. Or sounded. Or whatever other freakishly attractive characteristics the man possessed that made her want to copulate with him on the spot.
Trace set her down on the steps leading into the apartment building and when he spoke, he sounded angry. “This is my fault. I should have found your shoe right away instead of letting you walk around like this in the dark.” He pulled her foot onto his lap.
Distance seemed to be the key here, and she somewhat gently tried to kick his hand loose. “How’s it your fault?” she complained. “I could’ve looked for my own darn shoe. Besides, I’m the one who ran into you.” Trace tightened his hold until she stilled. Other than that, he ignored her. Phoebe sighed and finally gave in. If the man wanted to turn heroic, far be it from her to interfere. The sheer pleasure of his touch also weighed heavily in his favor, but she hated to admit to herself such a major personal weakness.
Forcing herself to look away from him, since drooling was a very real possibility, she noticed something glinting from his shirt.
“Is that the thing that kept poking me?” she asked.
He started to jerk her foot away from his groin, then caught himself. His cheeks turning red, he frowned up at her. “What are you talking about?”
Fighting a grin, she pointed to his chest and was about to clarify her question, when she realized he was wearing a badge. And a dark blue uniform. Phoebe made a startled sound then shook her head. “Oh, my gosh, you’re a police officer. I can’t believe it.”
He made a strange face. “Me neither,” he answered on a sigh.
She stared, unsure how to respond. Trace McGraw…a police officer? Her mind fundamentally rejected the idea. Though law enforcement was certainly a noble profession, he’d been a wonderful journalist. For Trace to have given up his writing, even if it was to become a cop, just didn’t seem right. Actually it seemed wrong, and made Phoebe sad in a way she hadn’t even felt at her own ruined ambitions. “Why? I thought you were going to become a reporter. You were so good.”
Traced snorted. “And how would you know?” he asked, not bothering to lift his head.
Without thinking, she said, “Because I used to read your column in the school paper, of course.” Phoebe smiled and leaned back on her hands. “I was always excited when the next edition came out. I couldn’t wait to see what you were going to write about next.” She stopped and shrugged. “But even if I’d only read one issue, it would have been enough to recognize your talent.”
“Oh, really?” He looked up, a cocky grin spread across his mouth.
Heat crept over her cheeks. Oh, that was nice. She sounded like an adolescent girl waiting for the next issue of Tiger Beat to hit the stands. “Well, it wasn’t just me. Everyone did. You were constantly uncovering some injustice around campus,” she said, lifting her chin. “Like the time you wrote about that lecherous professor who tried to seduce most of his female students into earning extra credits in his bed.” Phoebe shuddered. “By the way, your story couldn’t have come at a better time for me. I was registered to take his class as soon as we got back from Christmas break.”
Trace’s smile slipped away. “I know.”
Phoebe paused again, brought up short. “You knew?” she asked. “But how? What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “I read your schedule. It slipped out of your purse in the library.”
Phoebe raised her eyebrows and Trace sighed. “It’s not like you didn’t know I made a habit of doing my homework in the library at the same time as you. Anyway, when I saw Professor Eiken’s name on your list, I just about sh—” He broke off, not finishing the crude expression. “I hadn’t really heard much about him until then, but one of my friends was dating a girl who’d been all but raped by the man a week or two before.” Trace’s jaw had hardened and he suddenly seemed to stare at Phoebe as if, well, it didn’t make sense, but he stared at her possessively. As if she were his to protect so that’s what he’d done. But that couldn’t be right.
Trace McGraw was not possessive over women. There were too darn many of them, for one thing. And for another, he didn’t need to be. She doubted that there’d ever been a single female in his entire life who’d willingly left his side without having to be physically shoved along first. Phoebe looked away and rubbed her forehead. Obviously, she’d misread Trace’s expression and he must still get angry when he thought about all the problems that article had created for him. Even after all this time, she could understand why he’d be upset.
With only a semester to go before graduation, Trace had exposed one of the most powerful faculty members on staff and the ensuing scandal had been huge. Professor Eiken had tried to have Trace expelled and almost succeeded. The man had even started a lawsuit against Trace and the university, but dropped it when a shocking number of abuse claims started pouring in.
And Trace had gone through all of that to keep her safe? Phoebe’s pulse fluttered. She was shocked and, well…amazingly flattered. He’d written that article for her. She had no doubt he’d been concerned for the other girls as well, but still…he’d been so generous. And he’d never even told her. Phoebe paused and bit her lip. These were not exactly the actions of a man who’d only been trying to get her into bed. The risk he’d taken spoke of a level of caring that she’d never given Trace credit for. But if he’d cared so much then why had he cheated on her?
Phoebe glanced away, unsure what to believe. Instead she asked, “So why didn’t you stay with it? Reporting, I mean.”
Trace shot her a look. “I did,” he said after a minute, rubbing the back of his neck. “But let’s just say it didn’t exactly turn out as I expected.” At Phoebe’s silence, he grudgingly added, “I got fired. It’s a long story and I’d rather not go into it right now.” He shrugged. “Listen, that platter you were carrying must have broken when you fell. I think you stepped on some glass. There’s not enough light for me to take it out down here.”
“Oh,” Phoebe said, suddenly self-conscious. “That’s okay,” she smiled. “I can do it myself once I get upstairs.”
“Not likely,” he snorted. Then he scooped her back into his arms and stood. “Relax. It’s my job to serve and protect.” Trace smiled, his teeth a white slash against his bronze skin. “And that’s exactly what I plan to do.”
“ARE YOU SURE this is the right place?” Trace asked with a scowl.
Though he’d spoken loudly, Phoebe had just been able to hear him over the music and feminine laughter floating from behind Barbie’s front door into the hallway. He was standing rigid, staring at the shiny brass numbers and holding Phoebe against his chest. And the more Trace stared and listened, the tenser he grew until his fingers were all but squeezing her legs and side.
Phoebe’s lips twitched and she nodded. “Yep, 701. This is it.”
A spark flared in his eyes but he quickly lowered them and she almost snickered. Obviously, he couldn’t believe Phoebe was going to a party that made Animal House sound genteel. Grinning smugly, Phoebe reached out to knock on the door but he stepped back.
“You know what? We forgot your present. We better go back down before somebody steals it. It’ll be gone. I’m a cop. I know these things.” He began to turn toward the elevator.
“Wait,” she protested, putting her hand on his chest, which made them both freeze for a moment and look down at her hand and his chest. Slowly, she slid her fingers away. “It’ll be fine. Believe me. Anybody who wants that Crock-Pot or the smooshed deviled eggs can have them.”
“You mean, that present you brought is a Crock-Pot?”
“Yes. Why?”
He paused for a minute then shook his head and laughed. “It’s stupid, really. For a second, I thought you might have gotten the wrong address or something. You know—” Trace shrugged “—right building, wrong party.” Strangely, he sounded relieved and his expression had brightened significantly. “Listen, why don’t I get you inside then run down and grab that gift for your friend?” He grinned down at her. “No happy homemaker should be without a Crock-Pot.”
Phoebe wrinkled her nose. “Which is exactly why we can leave it downstairs. I doubt Candy would ever use it,” she said, and Trace flinched then almost dropped her.
She clutched at his arms. “Oh, gosh. I’m sorry.” Heat crept over her cheeks. “Thanks, but really, you can put me down now. I have to be heavy.”
“You’re not heavy. How did you say you got invited to this party?” he asked without missing a beat.
On the elevator ride upstairs, Phoebe noticed Trace seemed intent on poking and prodding into each and every detail of her life since they’d last seen each other. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been much to tell—or much that she’d been willing to tell. After all, her life seemed to her unfathomably boring and pitiful—especially when she shared it with the ex-boyfriend she hoped to turn bitter with regret for having let her slip away. So, all too soon, Phoebe had found herself explaining her return to Miami. Call it pride, vanity or sheer humiliation, but she hadn’t told him about her new job on the Mirage as a showgirl.
Somehow, going from prima ballerina to showgirl seemed sort of shallow and pathetic after he’d chosen to become a cop when his own pursuits in journalism hadn’t been successful. Instead Phoebe had stammered her way through an awkward lie about a lagging dance production she was helping to get back on its feet. Then she’d told him about her new friends and the bridal shower tonight.
She should’ve just said she was in town on vacation, but against her better judgment she’d wanted him to believe her return was more permanent. Just in case. It was a ridiculous waste of time that could only lead to trouble, yet the discovery that all those years ago Trace’s feelings for her might have been stronger than she’d believed made her chest go all hot and fluttery. Not to mention the ball of warmth that spread through her lower regions whenever she even happened to glance at him. Jeesh, it was all she could do not to throw herself down on the ground and toss her skirt back over her head. Phoebe almost laughed. Tiffany would be so proud.
Trace turned his head toward her, his gaze snaring hers. “Well?”
All thought fled her brain the moment their eyes met. “Well, what?” she asked like a total dolt.
“The party?”
She tried to sound normal, but it took all her concentration just to breathe properly, his lips barely inches from her own. “Yes. I’m going to a party.”
The muscles in his neck and shoulders tensed under her arms. “Did you say you worked with the women at the party? Danced with them?”
“Um, I think so.” Phoebe gave up trying to focus on his questions. His eyebrows were lowered. Funny how she’d never noticed they were a shade lighter than his hair and perfectly arched. Perfectly perfect. A sigh welled in her chest.
“And this friend is getting married?”
Little sparklers flared to life down low in Phoebe’s body every time his lips formed a word, and she nodded. Anything to keep those supple lines of flesh moving.
“Phoebes—earth to Phoebe?” His silky voice speaking her name was an act of God. He shook his head, his fantabulous mouth grinning sinfully.
Sin…Yes. She wanted sinning. Lots of sinning.
He chuckled softly. “You know you’re killing me, don’t you? Here…” He gave her a hard kiss, his lips firm and warm, but he pulled back aeons too soon. “Now, pay attention, kitten, and if you’re good we’ll try that again.” His eyes darkened. “Only longer. Much longer.” Trace stared at her mouth for a moment before he shook his head and lowered his eyebrows determinedly. “I want you to tell me who invited you here.”
The longer version definitely sounded good but she couldn’t remember what she had to do to get it. Something about listening. Or answering. Oh, why hadn’t she just sucked face with him when she’d had the chance?
“Phoebe—” He shook her.
Couldn’t he tell that she was having a major hormonal breakthrough here? Phoebe sounded cross but didn’t care and said, “I told you in the elevator. Some of my new friends at work invited me. If you must have specifics, I think Barbie was the one who officially asked.”
His lips parted and a startled huff of air escaped. She inhaled his sweet breath. She couldn’t take it a second longer, and just when he opened his mouth to say, “Barbie! Good Chr—” Phoebe cupped his face with her hands and yanked him to her, cutting off his words. Blood pounded in her veins. Oceans roared in her ears. Phoebe couldn’t believe it. All on her own she’d reached out and kissed him. She was an animal!
Fortunately, it didn’t take much to refocus him, because as soon as they connected, Trace made a muffled grunt then jumped into the fray. He licked into her mouth, and with the first warm swipe of his tongue she could swear that goose bumps rose on every square inch of her skin. Then he moaned, the sound pained and rough. The noise vibrated her lips and started a quivering sensation arrowing straight to the tips of her breasts.
Unbelievably, he still held her, and she shifted in his arms, tilted her hips until she’d twisted and they were stomach to stomach. It was like rolling over into a fire. Ready to incinerate on the spot, Phoebe began to rub her nipples against the pressure of his chest when, with a jarring return to reality, the apartment door next to them jerked open.
Trace wrenched his mouth free and Phoebe almost wailed. Much slower to recover, she finally followed his line of vision to the doorway. One of the showgirls, Barbie—the hostess for Candy’s party—stood just inside.
“Well, it’s about time,” Barbie said, before turning her head and yelling over her shoulder to the women inside the apartment, “Hey everybody, get your money out. Tiffany’s big sister found the stripper! It’s show time!”
3
TRACE FROZE. He wanted to move, but couldn’t. If only to clap his hand over top of Barbie’s blabbering mouth. It was like watching a car accident he couldn’t prevent. In slow motion.
Phoebe cocked her head, her expression clearly confused. “Stripper?”
Barbie chuckled and shook her head. “As if you didn’t know. And I thought Tiffany was the wild sister.”
Phoebe frowned and looked toward him.
He refused to meet Phoebe’s gaze—not easy since he was still holding her, and her face was only inches from his own. Barbie said, “Come on in.” The buxom showgirl smiled and waved for him to follow, but his feet felt as if they’d been trapped in hardened cement. “Good thing you finally got here. The girls were getting a little rowdy. But I’m sure they’ll be much happier now that the ‘Sea Stud’ is here.” She stopped and ran her gaze over him from head to toe.
Trace cringed and thought, damn Barbie and her big mouth, anyway. Of all the demeaning things he’d been through in the last couple of weeks, the stupid nickname the customers on the ship had come up with had to be the worst. Unfortunately, the Mirage had been only too happy to cash in on the situation and had started hanging posters of him in costume from the neck down all over the ship. And while he was mostly glad they hadn’t used his face, he was also disgusted to realize that some small part of himself balked at the idea of being just a body. As if he were a piece of meat.
“Sea Stud?” Phoebe’s voice came out a squeak. “You mean that guy in all those posters on the Mirage?”
Barbie nodded. “You didn’t know that was Trace?”
Phoebe merely shook her head, though he could feel her body go stiff as a poker in his arms.
Trace’s mind churned. How the hell was he supposed to get himself out of this one? And how much truth should he tell her? That he wasn’t even a male stripper but really a reporter for a tabloid rag because he’d lost his job at the Herald?
He could just picture himself trying to explain that particular fall from grace. You see, Phoebe, it’s like this. I got fired from the Herald because I wouldn’t sleep with the boss’s daughter in the supply closet during the annual work Christmas party. Unfortunately, I’d imbibed a little too much yuletide cheer, and between the alcohol and the shock of being dragged into the dark little room on my way back from the john, Jeanine had my pants open and zipper down before I could wrestle her off me. Now wait, this is the really funny part. Jeanine’s dad, my editor, walked in on us and she blamed the whole thing on me. Not only did he fire me on the spot, he started a smear campaign that pretty much killed any chances of me getting hired by the sort of newspaper a person would read outside of a line at the grocery store. Frankly, Phoebe believing he was a male stripper was less embarrassing.
Phoebe swallowed. “So, that’s your body in those posters.” Her cheeks turned rosy. “Uh, it’s a good shot. Nice abs.”
Those same abs tightened, but for the moment Trace was saved from having to give an explanation when the bride-to-be, Candy, walked into the small foyer. She placed her hands on her hips. “Hey, what’s the holdup?” Candy asked.
“Yeah, you two.” Barbie reached out and grabbed his sleeve, which left him with no choice but to let her pull him inside.
“Wait a minute.” Candy winked at Phoebe. “If anyone should be carried over the threshold it’s me. I’m the one getting married.”
“Candy’s right,” Phoebe said. She pushed against his chest. “You can put me down now.”
Automatically he tightened his hold. “Sorry, ladies. No can do. Phoebe’s hurt.” Hurt and nuts if she thought he’d give her up that easily. Not after that lip lock she’d just given him back in the hallway. For her, that kiss was nothing short of a proposition and it was one he intended to take her up on.
Trace ignored Phoebe’s huffy exhale and shook his head at the other two women. “She stepped on some glass outside and can’t walk. If one of you would tell me where the bathroom is, I’ll carry her there. Oh, and I’ll need some tweezers. Maybe some first-aid stuff, too.”
“Oh, brother,” Phoebe mumbled as she crossed her arms over her chest. She turned her face away from him and studied the wall.
“Are you okay?” Candy asked her, stepping closer. “I hope it’s not bad.”
“I’m fine, really, but thank you. It’s just a cut. He refuses to listen.” Phoebe jerked her thumb toward him.
“Are you sure?” Barbie asked. “Right now your dancing’s not so great, kid. The last thing you need is an injury.” She lowered her voice, “Especially if you’re still hoping to get in on the extra money Saturday night.”
Wait a second, Trace thought, frowning. In the midst of worrying about his own lies, he seemed to have forgotten that Phoebe had told a few humdingers of her own. A sinking feeling settled in his stomach, like when an informant took back everything he’d said only an hour before the paper went to bed, and his heart pounded. How the hell did she know Barbie and Candy? And what the hell was she doing on the Mirage? “What the hell are you guys talking about?” he interrupted, his voice overly loud, but apparently this didn’t matter since none of them listened to him anyway.
Candy nodded to Phoebe as if he hadn’t spoken. “You’ve got the right equipment—you just need to learn how to use it better.” Candy quirked her mouth. “A lot better. No offence, Devereaux.”
Phoebe laughed, sounding genuinely amused at the insult. “None taken.” Then she hesitated. “But you think I’ll be good eventually, right? I mean, I’m not a lost cause or anything?”
The two women shared a look then Barbie said, “You’ll have to work your fanny off before Tuesday, but me and the girls can help you.”
Phoebe beamed. “I was hoping you’d say that. Thanks. You guys are the best.”
Barbie and Candy laughed. “Hey, you’re Tiffany’s big sister. We’re all family on the Mirage.”
The muscles over Trace’s ribs tightened until he could barely breathe. “Hey,” he interrupted again, giving Phoebe a quick shake. He was going to get her attention this time no matter what, except now that Trace had it, he couldn’t speak because the thoughts swirling inside his head were so ridiculous he felt like an idiot to even ask. “You’re gonna think I’m crazy, but, well, you’re not—I mean, this is so stupid, because there’s no way—” He stumbled over his words while Phoebe’s eyes glittered with a certain malicious satisfaction that made his stomach clench. “Tell me you’re not a showgirl on the Mirage….”
Phoebe lifted her pert nose in the air, her lips curving smugly. “Sorry, Stud of the Sea. No can do—”
“Sea Stud,” Barbie and Candy corrected in unison.
Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” She flicked her finger under his chin. “Looks like you and I’ll be working together. I can’t wait to see you do your little routine. Who knows? Maybe I can even pick up a few pointers.”
“HERE WE GO, kids.” Barbie flipped on the light then stepped aside for him to enter the bathroom. “You can set her down then I’ll show you where the stereo is. You brought a tape for your music, right?”
Phoebe patted him on the shoulder. “Trace is a professional. Of course he brought his tape.”
Heat crept over his face. “I’ll check out the sound system in a minute. She’s going to need some help—”
“No, I don’t,” Phoebe cut him off, then fiercely whispered into his ear, “Put me down.”
Trace dumped her cute butt onto the rim of the tub, his lips twisting at her muffled grunt, then closed the door in Barbie’s startled face. He turned the lock, not about to let anything or anyone interrupt him.
“Well, okay,” Barbie’s muffled voice spoke from the other side. “But hurry it up. The crowd is getting restless. Especially Angie.”
Trace winced. He’d mostly agreed to dance at this little shindig because of Venzara’s niece, Angie. Rumor had it she used the male dancers on the Mirage like her own personal stud service. Not that Trace was interested in joining her stable, but at this point he’d date the stage manager, Phil, if it meant getting enough information so he could write a real story. Trace sighed. At the moment, Angie was the least of his worries.
He turned around and faced Phoebe. There was really no place to go in the small room, so he leaned back against the door and crossed his arms. She was smoothing down her hair, looking into the mirror above the sink from her perch on the tub. She pretended to ignore him, but he’d caught her sneaking glances his way more than once. Pursing his mouth, he stewed over the load of garbage she’d fed him in the elevator. Lagging dance production, his ass. He’d pictured her helping some struggling inner-city troupe, charitably promoting the arts. Not shimmying around a casino ship in feathers and heels.
“You lied,” he said flatly.
She jumped at his voice then dropped her arms. “I thought that was my line, Officer McGraw.”
Trace narrowed his eyes. “Touché. But then that shouldn’t be much of a surprise to you since you’ve always accused me of being a liar.”
She lifted her chin. “Only to juggle all of your women. I should have realized the habit would leak into other areas of your life.”
“Then what’s your excuse?”
She looked away and busied herself with her skirt, pressing out the wrinkles. “I told you the truth. The Mirage, er, needed my expertise and I agreed to help with choreography and things like that, as well as, um, giving the girls a few pointers on technique.”
“That’s not what it sounded like when you were talking out there to Candy and Barbie. In fact, it seemed like, if anything, you needed their help.”
“I guess you misunderstood. Could you hand me the supplies from the medicine cabinet? We better be getting out there.” She gave him a cool smile. “It seems your adoring fans are pretty anxious to see you.” She raked him with her gaze, narrowing in on the fly of his pants before shrugging her delicate shoulders. “As I said before, I barely remember our time together in college. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see what all the fuss is about.”
He leisurely stroked his thumb over the handcuffs dangling from his belt. “You’re lying again, kitten. Don’t push me. Unless you want to play a round of bad cop captures naughty showgirl.” But just referring to Phoebe as a showgirl was too much for him, and he clenched his jaw until the bone all but throbbed, then blurted, “Since when are you a dancer on the Mirage?”
She raised her eyebrows to a haughty angle. “Not as long as you, I’m sure, oh great Stud of the Sea. I only started a few days ago.”
“Sea Stud,” he mumbled.
She tucked a fall of silky hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry. What was that?”
He gritted his teeth. “Sea Stud. You keep saying, Stud of the Sea. It makes me sound like some kind of sick cartoon logo for a weird brand of tuna.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, right. Sea Stud is much more dignified.”
Trace took a deep breath and forced himself to let it out slowly. “Never mind. Let’s talk about something more important. Like why you’re a showgirl.”
“Why are you a stripper?”
He felt pretty confident one of the blood vessels near his temple was going to burst if she didn’t answer him soon. “You first.”
Trace had no doubt that Phoebe was purposely goading him. She peeked from beneath her lashes and said, “You mean something along the lines of, you’ll show me yours if I show you mine?”
Trace swore under his breath. The thought of her showing him anything was enough to make his hands shake. “Thanks, but a few answers will be just fine for now. I’ll show you whatever you want afterward.”
She snorted, switching tracks. “I’m sure I won’t be interested.”
He gave her a look that said he knew better. “I could prove you wrong, but I’ll wait. Hell, I might not even have to. Who knows when you’ll get the urge to plant one on me again. You’ve gotten pretty aggressive in the last nine years, Phoebes.”
Her back shot ramrod straight at his taunt. Of course, he probably shouldn’t have gone so far, since it was his fondest hope that she’d plant one on him again and soon.
Face flushed, she said, “You’re right. I have changed. Which is exactly why I’m now at the Mirage.” Then Phoebe cocked her head, her expression becoming baffled. “I don’t know why you’re carrying on like this. I am a professional dancer, you know.”
Yes, but there were professionals, and then there were professionals. Trace conjured up an image of Phoebe wearing nothing but the tiny scraps of fabric the Mirage passed off as a costume while she kicked and pranced in front of a roomful of drunks from the casino. He clenched his fists, his voice almost a growl when he said, “Because you do not belong on that damn ship.”
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Cami Dalton
Phoebe Devereaux could never forget Trace McGraw. In college he used his moves to give her a night she'd never forget.Now he's using those talents as a male stripper on the cruise ship where she works as a showgirl. But Phoebe can't afford to be distracted. She was hired to help the police nab some onboard mobsters. Still, Trace sure knows what turns her on….Undercover reporter Trace can't believe sweet, innocent Phoebe is now dancing on a ship in nothing more than feathers. Of course, he can't believe he is bumping and grinding in a thong for a story! He needs this scoop about a possible Mafia operation. But what he wants is to do a little private dancing with Phoebe….
“Take it off!” one of the women yelled
Despite the humiliation Trace felt, the thought of Phoebe being jealous cheered him up a bit.
In time with the music, he opened the buttons of his shirt. The crowd practically groaned as one. God, he loved these women. Their yelps were going to drive Phoebe crazy.
Holding Phoebe’s gaze, he kept his pelvis moving with the beat. He pictured her hands in place of his own and let that erotic image fill his eyes with hunger.
Trace watched the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Damn, he wanted her. He let his shirt fall to the ground, and the women screamed and whooped.
Adrenaline surged through his blood in spite of how stupid he felt dancing around the room like a gigolo. He gripped the front of his pants and let the anticipation build. From the corner of his eye he saw Phoebe staring. Purposely, Trace waited until their eyes met. Then he pulled.
Dear Reader,
I’ve always found it wildly attractive when a man knows how to dance. Bring me to a wedding reception or a New Year’s Eve party, and my gaze is automatically drawn to the fellow who’s effortlessly moving his body in rhythm with the beat. If the guy happens to be particularly talented at shaking his tail feathers, well, then, be still my beating heart. On these occasions, when I finally drag my eyes away and remember where I am, I inevitably discover that I’m not the only woman in the room gasping for breath. And this got me thinking….
Her Private Dancer is my first book and takes place in my home state of sunny Florida. I love romance and have been an avid reader for many years, but I’ve finally discovered something that I love even more—writing funny, steamy stories with quirky heroines and heart-pounding heroes. I hope you agree. Let me know what you think. You can write to me at P.O. Box 410787, Melbourne, FL 32941-0787. You can also send your e-mail to camidalton@earthlink.net or visit my Web site at www.camidalton.com.
Happy reading,
Cami Dalton
Her Private Dancer
Cami Dalton
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Brenda Chin and Leslie Kelly for acts of friendship and kindness too numerous to mention. Thanks for getting me here. You guys are the best.
Contents
Prologue (#u7d4b7e25-5dea-5f33-8c5e-602d1d9dc3c3)
Chapter 1 (#u2df72ee1-9066-5287-8623-2cfd0856f404)
Chapter 2 (#ue6efcceb-3ad8-536d-b0e4-f22852c07070)
Chapter 3 (#u36b6c946-1f25-57c4-922e-11ea2c52b2ba)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
TRACE MCGRAW FORCED his mouth into a smile as he tilted his spandex-covered pelvis toward the elderly woman, who bore a striking resemblance to Mrs. Rosenthal, his grandmother’s eighty-nine-year-old roommate at the Happy Vale Assisted Living Center. No sir, his second night on the job wasn’t turning out to be any less embarrassing than his first. Especially, with Mrs. Rosenthal’s twin staring at his package and all but licking her chops.
The look-alike briefly turned to the woman next to her and shouted over the wailing country-western song, “Ooh-wee. Get a gander of this one, Marge. Is that a gun in your drawers, cowboy,” she crowed to Trace, “or are you just happy to see me?” The old woman nudged her friend with her elbow then laughed mischievously.
Colored lights flicked wildly around the room while a haze of smoke hovered above the all-female audience. The din of their cheers and whoops of approval almost drowned out the bass beat pounding from the speakers like a dozen tribal drums. Trace surmised that unfortunately, the friend, Marge, had still been able to hear since she removed a five-dollar bill from her purse and said, “I don’t know, Delores. I think we’re gonna need a better look.” Then she wiggled her eyebrows.
After his first performance last night on board the Mirage, a casino ship out of Miami where twice a week the women of south Florida ruled the high seas, Trace knew what to expect. Even still, he wasn’t quite prepared for the speed and dexterity with which good old Delores moved. Before he could even blink, Delores had snatched up the money and started reaching for his costume.
Trace bit back a curse, but held his pose, not moving so much as a tassel on his fringed chaps. The fringed chaps that blatantly highlighted the bulge in his black briefs. Not easy considering the look in Delores’s eyes, but Trace couldn’t blow his cover now no matter how much he wanted to slap his hands over his groin and run back to the dressing room. Or jump off the ship. That would be fine, too, three-mile swim back to shore and all.
Five nights a week, the Mirage left port for international waters where the ship threw open its casino doors then aimlessly wandered the Atlantic for a few scheduled hours of gambling, drinking and watching Vegas-style reviews. Glitzy productions complete with showgirls. During the regular cruises, that is. On the Ladies Only nights, the entertainment distinctly veered into dangerous territory. At least for Trace McGraw, newest member of the dance troupe, the Ladies’ Knights. Miami’s answer to Chippendales.
He almost sneered at the apropos comparison, but somehow kept his stupid smile plastered in place. Damn, he hated this cover. And this story. And his editor, Manny….
Trace cast a quick glance at the other male dancers on the floor, and wondered if they’d ever felt the same bone-deep humiliation he was experiencing. Obviously not, if the guy dressed as Tonto and gyrating away with some woman’s hand down his thong was anyone to go by. Disgusted with just how far down his career had actually plummeted, Trace mentally hurried Delores along and shifted his stance to counter the floor’s subtle pitch and roll.
All things considered, though, he should probably look on the bright side. At least he didn’t have to get completely naked. Wearing this damn butt floss was definitely torture enough without being forced to show the full monty. Of course, his suede vest alone, worn open and shirtless, was sufficient to have him blushing like the proverbial virgin in a whorehouse—not to overdo the whole western theme here. The ten-gallon hat, chaps and thong were merely a bonus.
Delores finally finished slipping the bill into the spandex at his hip when Marge piped up, saying, “My turn. You’re not in any rush, are you, cowboy?”
“Of course not, ma’am,” Trace answered, hiding his grimace along with another healthy sigh, while Marge searched for more cash.
It wasn’t easy to pinpoint the exact moment that had led to this, but if he had to make a guess, he figured it was Christmas, fifth grade. The year his sister Gwen had given him the sound track to Saturday Night Fever. The same year Pittsburgh had its worst blizzard in history and the snow had fallen so hard he couldn’t go sledding or even build a damn snowman. The infamous year he’d caught disco fever.
Bored out of his mind, he remembered splashing on some Aqua Velva—another pitiful example of what the females in his family considered a Christmas present—and dancing around his room like John Travolta Jr. in training for the Solid Gold olympics. If Gwen had just given him the sports-magazine subscription with the free football phone as he’d asked, he wouldn’t be in this mess. Because if he’d never learned to dance, when his editor, Manny, had spotted him at a colleague’s wedding reception six weeks ago, Trace would’ve been just like every other rhythmless white guy in the place who froze in panic when the music started.
The waistband of Trace’s skimpy underwear snapped back into place like a rubber band and Trace snapped back to the present.
“Well. You’re a big one, aren’t you?” Delores glanced at her friend. “Did you see him, Marge?”
Marge rolled her eyes. “I’m old, not blind.” Turning to Trace she said, “So what do they call you, big guy?”
“Probably Big Guy,” Delores crowed, smacking her knee, and they both laughed uproariously.
Trace shook his head, and in spite of himself felt a grin tugging at his mouth. The frisky pair reminded him of the two old men from The Muppet Show. Watching them, he chuckled softly.
If any of his friends from the Herald could see him now he’d never live it down. Trace had been well on his way to becoming one of the paper’s top investigative reporters when he’d gotten fired. Unfairly, in his opinion, as well as that of every other hapless male who’d ever been cornered by the boss’s oversexed daughter, Jeanine. Now, thanks to his ex-editor and the vindictive Jeanine, Trace was lucky to even have his job at the Daily Intruder, which was saying a lot since he was presently employed in journalism hell.
Undercover as one of the dancers, Trace was investigating a tip Manny had gotten about male prostitutes on board the Mirage, and the middle-class suburban housewives who solicited them. Apparently a growing problem Manny felt would send the Daily Intruder’s circulation skyrocketing. Obviously Manny was an idiot. An idiot who knew his readership and who’d threatened to fire Trace if he refused the story.
As much as Trace hated the assignment, he found himself reluctant to give up the finer things in life like food and shelter. And after his first night on the job, he had a hunch there was a much bigger story taking place on the decks of the Mirage.
It was a well-known fact the Mirage was owned by the supposedly retired ex-Mafia boss Angelo Venzara. Or Mr. V., as he was called by his employees. But last night when Trace had gotten lost and wandered near the hold, he’d seen enough to have him reassessing Venzara’s supposedly reformed status. Specifically, the two armed thugs who’d been carrying an unmarked crate toward Angelo Venzara’s private area of the ship.
A couple of calls to some of Trace’s old sources confirmed that things onboard might not be all they seemed. In the past few months, the Mirage had made a number of hastily scheduled launches during its off-hours. And been spotted loading unmarked cargo during one of the cruise’s island stops in the Bahamas. Even without his journalistic instincts cranking up to full alert, Trace had come across enough evidence to know that Mr. V. was up to something. And with his much-hated cover already established, Trace was going to find out. Because if he was right, it was a chance to get his career back, and that was worth anything. Even doing the electric slide in his skivvies.
A group of young lovelies a few feet away tried to catch his attention, banging their drink glasses on the table top and waving money from their hands like little flags. Trace laughed softly. Maybe he needed to get a better attitude. He had to admit that whatever this cover cost his pride it was more than made up for in horny women. After all, what red-blooded male wouldn’t enjoy all these screaming females anxious for a chance to get him naked?
He tipped the brim of his hat to the two feisty seniors. “Thank you, ladies. It’s been a pleasure,” he said, genuinely smiling this time.
“I’ll say!” Delores sent him a wink.
Chuckling, he turned to leave, but before he’d made it more than half a step, he felt a hard smack across his semi-bare ass. His eyes widened.
“Great chaps!”
“Even greater buns!” His frisky friends hooted with laughter.
Trace sighed and shook his head. Then again, maybe his attitude had been just fine all along, not to mention a whole lot safer.
1
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, you don’t know when you’re coming back?” Phoebe Devereaux said into the phone. “How long can you just hang out in the Caribbean when you don’t have any money?” Phoebe managed to keep her voice one level below shouting. If she lost her temper now, she’d never get the whole story out of her little sister.
“I mean, I don’t know when it’ll be cool for me to come back. I told you, that cop, Alvarez, is going to be majorly pissed off when he finds out I skipped town. I keep telling him that Mr. V. is legit, but Alvarez won’t chill out,” Tiffany said. “And money’s not a problem. My boyfriend Tony’s going with me.”
Phoebe cradled the phone to her shoulder and massaged her throbbing temples. Since they were kids, Tiffany had been getting into trouble. Always the faithful big sister, Phoebe had rescued her from too many scrapes to count. Most of which, from the moment Tiffany had hit puberty, included a man. The no-good, love-’em-and-leave-’em bad-boy type that was Tiff’s favorite.
Phoebe shook her head, her gaze finding the open window across from her. The sound of the neighbor’s lawn mower floated inside her cozy little kitchen while a soft breeze ruffled the curtains. What had started out as a fairly perfect day lazing around at home, Tiffany had managed to destroy in less than five minutes. No surprise there, really, considering the source.
“Okay,” Phoebe finally said, plunking her glass of iced tea down onto the countertop and pushing it away. At the moment, she was a little too tempted to round up the one and only bottle of liquor in her house and spike the heck out of it. “I want you to start over at the beginning, and this time don’t leave out a single thing.”
“Oh, all right.” Tiffany heaved a sigh worthy of the stage. “But then I really have to leave, so pay attention this time.”
Phoebe didn’t respond. She was too busy grinding her teeth.
“Like I said before, there’s going to be a big meeting on the Mirage next Saturday night. Some guys who used to work with Tony’s uncle, Mr. V., are coming over from Vegas and New York and the whole ship is gonna be closed off for customers that night. Nothing illegal is going on, I’m sure, no matter what Alvarez says, but even still, the whole thing is pretty hush-hush. Me and a few of the girls happened to know about the private cruise because Mr. V. himself asked us to work special for the party. Hang out for dinner and drinks then do a shorter version of our show. And well—” Tiffany hesitated “—the cops want me to listen in on the meeting. They’ve tried before to get one of their own people on board, but Mr. V. likes things private and he hates cops. I mean really hates cops. His men can spot a plant a mile away.”
“But why you? Why not one of the other showgirls?”
“W-e-l-l,” Tiffany hedged, “the police have some stuff on me. If I do what they ask, they’ll cut a deal with me and forget about pressing charges. But if I don’t come through, I could do time.”
“Do time! Are you trying to say you might go to jail?” Phoebe wasn’t being naive. Tiffany’s antics had always more than crossed over the lines of propriety, and the men she hooked up with were blue collar at best, spiked collar at worst. She also took particular glee in trying to shock their dysfunctional parents into an early grave, though, as of yet, hadn’t been successful. Phoebe understood why her little sister did these things and in part felt responsible. But Tiffany wasn’t a criminal. She just liked to date them.
Tiffany snorted. “It’s so stupid, because they’ll never be able to make anything stick, Tony promised. Besides, Tony says Mr. V. has gone straight since he retired and that the cops will drop everything once they figure out he’s on the up-and-up.”
“Well, if Tony promised then I’m sure you’re fine.” Phoebe rolled her eyes. “But just so I know, what exactly do the police think they have?”
Tiffany hesitated. “Okay. But don’t freak out. A couple of times I went with Tony when he had to make a delivery for his uncle. Nothing major, I promise. A fake passport, I think. Maybe a couple of handguns, but only once. I swear.”
“Guns.” Phoebe sputtered the word. “You’re dating an arms dealer?”
“He’s not an arms dealer. Cripes, you exaggerate everything,” Tiffany grumbled. “He was only doing a favor for his uncle. You make it sound so serious.”
“It is serious. By the way, Tony’s family sounds great. I think I saw an episode about them on The Sopranos.” She squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose.
Once again Phoebe found herself forced into the role of Tiffany’s savior. Something she’d already sworn she’d done for the last time. Yet, even though Tiffany shouldn’t have ridden shotgun with her gangster boyfriend, Phoebe couldn’t bear to think of her little sister in a prison cell. Which meant that she had to get to Miami today if she wanted to stop Tiffany from making the biggest mistake of her life.
Spying the phone book, Phoebe grabbed it off the shelf and started flipping the pages. “All right, Tiffany, you’re going to listen to me and do exactly what I tell you. First off, break up with that mobster—”
“He’s not a mobster!”
“Of course not. He commits crimes and everyone in his family has names like Scarface or Luigi the Choker. What was I thinking?” Phoebe recognized her mother’s biting sarcasm in her words and immediately softened her voice. “I know you care about him, Tiff, but he’s no good for you.” Phoebe hesitated then forced herself to go on. “After you break up, go straight to the cops and tell them you’ll do whatever they say. I’ll call the airline right now. I’ll try to get a flight out tonight. It’s only six or seven hours from San Francisco to Miami, so I should be there by tomorrow morning. But get ready because when this is all done we’re packing you up and I’m bringing you home.”
“Are you insane? I’d rather let the cops put me in jail than live back under the same roof with Mom and Dad. Besides, San Francisco isn’t home. Miami is. Heck, we grew up here. Just because you chose to buckle under Mom’s nagging and move out west after you left New York City doesn’t mean I’m stupid enough to be on the same side of the country as our parents. Not that they’d want me there, anyway.”
Phoebe winced. Truthfully, the thought of living with her parents sent chills up and down her own spine. Being within a thirty-minute drive was bad enough. But she wasn’t the one who’d ruined her life and couldn’t be trusted. Tiffany had done this to herself and it was about time good old Mom and Dad helped share the burden of keeping up with their crazy, younger daughter. Though they’d never bothered to concern themselves in the past. But Phoebe would fix that, too. Somehow…
“And I’m not breaking up with Tony,” her little sister continued. “Even though the police have no reason to harass Mr. V., he admitted that some of his uncle’s associates may be a little on the shady side. Tony doesn’t want me around that kind of stuff, especially now that I’m—” Tiffany broke off then finally said, “Well, I’ll get into that later, but he’s quitting the family business for now. And I’m leaving Miami. Only a person with a death wish would spy on Mr. V. and I’m not that stupid. If you want to help the police so much, you work at the Mirage. Hey—” Tiffany dragged out the word “—wait a second…I think I just came up with an idea.”
Phoebe recognized that particular sound in her sister’s voice and it made the little hairs at the back of her neck stand on end. “Whatever you’re plotting, forget it.”
“I really think this can work. Listen, we’re both dancers, right?”
Phoebe practically choked. “I’m a ballet teacher. You’re a showgirl. Big difference.”
“Meaning, I have a good time and get laid more than once a year?”
“Why sell yourself short?” Phoebe snorted. “You could probably get it every hour dancing at that stupid place.” Though truthfully, she didn’t really disapprove of Tiffany’s job as much as she’d just sounded. There were scores of serious dancers who worked on cruise ships. At casinos, as well, for that matter. Still, there was a mile of difference between a tutu and a thong. Yet, in spite of the ridiculousness of Tiffany’s suggestion, Phoebe actually tried to envision herself in one. A thong, that is, and immediately the image came into focus.
She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. Secretly, she’d always wished she could be more like her little sister. Less inhibited. Daring. Confident enough to embrace life and take what she wanted. See an attractive man and go for it—wait a second. The attractive man part of her internal ramblings brought her up short. Back in college, she’d learned her lesson about embracing life and attractive men the hard way, hadn’t she? So what on earth was wrong with her? The one and only time Phoebe had ignored her head and followed her libido instead, she’d ended up losing her heart. She didn’t want to go through that again, did she? Sure, Tiffany had more fun. Just too much of it. Without any thought of the consequences.
“Stop bitching. You’re just jealous because I’m happy and like what I do,” Tiffany said, hitting the nail smack-dab on the head. “Just hear me out. If you got a job on board the Mirage then you could listen in on Mr. V.’s meeting. It’s perfect.” Her little sister’s voice rose with enthusiasm. “Officer Alvarez won’t care who gets the information as long as someone does.”
Phoebe’s mouth fell open. “I thought you said only a person with a death wish would spy on this Mr. V. person.”
Tiffany made a scoffing sound. “I was exaggerating. All right, Mr. V.’s pretty anal about his privacy, but other than that he’s very sweet. Now, his bodyguard, Sonny, can be a little creepy at times, but as long as you don’t let him catch you, you’ll be fine. Come on, Phoebe, help me out here. It’s not like you’re doing anything else. You don’t even have a job.”
Phoebe made a face and stuck her tongue out at the phone. It wasn’t the words themselves that pierced so much, but the sentiment behind them. As if her life only existed to make Tiffany’s easier. “Forget it, Tiffany. It will never happen. And for your information, I still have my job. My knee is fine now. I should be back at the studio any day.” Phoebe wasn’t about to admit that she’d put off giving the prestigious ballet academy where she worked an actual return date. Before Phoebe had reinjured her knee a couple of months ago, she’d already begun to lose interest in her classes.
With the big 3-0 bearing down on her with all the surety of a SCUD missile, Phoebe found herself more than just a little tired of teaching moody teenagers the finer points of the Vaganova method. Especially when said teenagers were constantly harassing Phoebe to ditch the classics and teach them more fun stuff like Who Let the Swans Out? Call her selfish, but there had to be more to life than this.
Then again, if her knee hadn’t given out seven years ago, Phoebe would already have a real life. She scowled down at her leg. The New York City Ballet had been sympathetic yet adamant when they’d let her go from the company. A principal dancer with a bum knee wasn’t in their repertoire.
“Come on, Phoebes,” Tiffany wheedled, using the nickname she’d given Phoebe when they were kids. “Just think about how pissed off Mom will be when she finds out you danced as a showgirl.”
“Tiffany, I’m a little old to be enticed into one of your harebrained schemes simply to annoy our mother.”
“No, you’re not. Besides, you’re going to take my place on the Mirage because you love me and want to help me. Sending Mom over the edge is just a happy coincidence.”
The corner of Phoebe’s mouth curved upward. Sometimes she didn’t know why she bothered trying. Winning an argument with Tiffany was impossible, and for a brief moment, Phoebe actually allowed herself to consider Tiffany’s request. It wasn’t as if Phoebe couldn’t do any form of dance. The stress of dancing in toe shoes was the actual culprit that aggravated her weakened knee. Unfortunately, ballet was all she’d been taught. Her mother, Madeline Devereaux, had never allowed anything else.
Phoebe frowned. Maybe Tiffany was right and pissing off their mother was motivation enough.
While Tiffany blathered on in the background, Phoebe pictured herself in one of her sister’s outrageous getups and, not surprisingly, a frisson of excitement pulsed low in her belly. She pressed her hand to her stomach. Her imagination went to town and she could almost see her body undulating to a throbbing beat under a row of hot stage lights. She licked her lips and envisioned a gorgeous man in the audience, all his senses focused on her while she swayed her hips and…doggonit! How did Tiffany plant these crazy ideas in her brain?
Phoebe narrowed her eyes and slammed the phone book shut. Fantasizing about being a sexy showgirl and actually trying to be one were two different things. No matter how enticing the prospect seemed, if she ever actually had to go onstage and perform half-naked like that, she’d probably have the worst panic attack of her life.
Tiffany must have sensed a negative answer coming her way because she jumped in before Phoebe could speak, and said, “I know the Mirage isn’t exactly your kind of place, Phoebe, but you’ve got nothing to lose. Face the facts, you’re in a rut, and now’s your chance to get out of it. Listen, there’s more to life than what you’re living. It’s time to decide what you want and go for it. Take me, for example. I look at life like sex. You can either lie back and get screwed or climb on top and ride the hell out of it. That’s my motto.”
Phoebe almost dropped the phone. After a minute of pure speechlessness, she cleared her throat then said, “How beautiful. Truly touching, and I mean that. You should cross-stitch it on a pillow.” She wiped her hand over her face then shook her head. “Unfortunately, I don’t view infiltrating the Mafia the same as riding the hell out of life. Look, Tiffany, I think it’s about time you swung down from the, er, saddle, so to speak, and learned to clean up one of your own messes. I’ll come to Miami and stand by your side.” Phoebe’s voice rose as she picked up steam. “But there is no way I’m going to dance on that ship in a sequined bikini so you can sun yourself on some darn beach. So, save your breath. There’s not a single thing you can say that will make me change my mind.”
Tiffany remained silent until Phoebe felt she’d scream. Finally, her little sister spoke. “Phoebe, I know you think I’m being a jerk, but, honest, it’s not me I’m trying to protect.”
Phoebe slumped against the wall and rubbed the back of her neck. “Tiffany, what are you trying to tell me?”
Her sister then spoke the two words guaranteed to change Phoebe’s mind. “I’m pregnant.”
PHOEBE’S ANKLES wobbled precariously in her three-and-a-half inch high heels and she cursed under her breath. It wasn’t easy to run in screw-me shoes while balancing a tray of deviled eggs and a gift-wrapped Crock-Pot, but it had taken her forty minutes longer to navigate through the Miami traffic than she’d planned and she couldn’t mess this up by being late.
One of the showgirls, Candy, was getting married and Phoebe had been invited to the bachelorette party. Oddly enough, after only three days, she seemed to be fitting in better with the showgirls than she ever had at her previous jobs. Probably because she was Tiffany’s sister. And probably because, for the first time in her life, she was the worst dancer of the bunch.
Phoebe grinned and thought to herself, “I’m a showgirl.” There were times when the absurdity of it almost made her laugh out loud. So far, she was enjoying herself, too. She’d only been in town a couple of days but things were going remarkably well. Exactly as she’d planned.
Thanks to Tiffany’s grossly exaggerated reference, the Mirage had hired Phoebe on the spot. Of course, not surprisingly, she hadn’t been asked yet to join Mr. V. on his Mafia Reunion Cruise next Saturday, but she wasn’t alarmed. It was one thing for Mr. V. to make Phoebe a showgirl on the spur of the moment. Another for him to welcome her right in with open arms to witness his illegal activities. Besides, she still had plenty of time. Well, a week to be exact, but her first performance was in two nights and Phoebe knew that Mr. V. and his right-hand man, Sonny were waiting to see how she held up onstage.
She’d also spoken with Officer Carlos Alvarez. Though he’d been understandably angered at Tiffany’s impromptu honeymoon, he’d agreed to present Phoebe’s offer to his captain. Which reminded her that she had an appointment with Alvarez in the morning to discuss the specifics of the case. They were meeting at Tiff’s condo, where Phoebe was staying. As a precaution, Alvarez had told her not to risk coming down to the police station a second time. Though the detective doubted Phoebe was being watched, he’d told her not to underestimate Sonny Martorelli.
She fought back a chill, the thought of being watched at any time in her future enough to make Phoebe want to pirouette herself right around and onto the first plane back to San Francisco. But she’d come too far to wimp out now. Besides, she had no reason to be nervous. She was an intelligent, capable woman. She could do this. Actually wanted to do this. And not just for Tiffany.
Phoebe had come to Miami as much for herself as to protect her new little niece or nephew from any potential harm. She’d allowed Tiffany to believe that it was her pregnancy that had changed Phoebe’s mind, and in a way it had. But it was more the reality of Tiff getting married suddenly and starting a family that had really knocked Phoebe’s world off kilter. Her whole life Phoebe had played it safe, and yet Tiffany was the one with a husband and a new baby on the way. In three months Phoebe would be thirty years old and had nothing to show for it. The men she dated were boring. Her job was boring. Her life was boring. She was in a rut. Tiffany had been right. Go figure.
Well, no more. Phoebe had made a decision. For once, she would take control of her future. She’d always wanted to be more like her little sister and now she could. Performing on the Mirage was a chance to spread her wings. Try a new form of dance. Experience some excitement. Some danger.
Phoebe almost stumbled at this and her chest grew tight. All right, she thought, and steadied her breathing. So she wasn’t completely sold on the danger part. But she liked everything else. Phoebe frowned again. And maybe comparing the bumps and grinds executed onstage at the Mirage to a dance form might be a bit liberal, but she was tired of playing it safe. Always being responsible. Always thinking things through. Tiffany hadn’t, and look at her. Granted, the whole Mafia thing was a drawback, but maybe Tony and Tiffany were right and the police were wrong.
Phoebe had met Mr. V. when she’d first arrived, and the Godfather he wasn’t. Oddly enough, finally seeing Tony’s uncle had been a bit of letdown. A short, round little man, Mr. V. had seemed to be more interested in talking to Phoebe about his special tomatoes than her new job on the Mirage. He’d asked if she liked Italian food and offered to make her a spaghetti feast with his own homemade sauce once she’d settled in. Heck, it had been kinda hard to remain scared of a guy who’d talked about tomato sauce for ten minutes running and wanted to know whether she personally preferred bay leaves or cilantro in her marinara.
Remembering the funny conversation, Phoebe grinned and already felt better. Now was not the time to let one of her panic attacks sneak up on her. Though her primary reason for attending Candy’s bachelorette party was to get a foot in with the other dancers, she couldn’t let the technicalities of her mission distract her from her own private goals. Important private goals. To grab life by the balls and wring every last drop from them. After all, she thought with a grin, why should Tiffany be the only one with a fun motto?
Finally coming to a stop, Phoebe stood before the long row of apartments and squinted, trying to make out the number over the entrance. It was so dang dark out here she could barely see a thing. The one and only street lamp in the entire complex stood beside the last building where a half dozen or so balloons were tied to the door. Bingo, she thought in relief, and took off toward it.
As she hobbled along the sidewalk, she wondered fleetingly whether the sense of camaraderie she felt with the showgirls would last and was surprised at how much she hoped it would. Growing up, Phoebe had always been painfully self-conscious around her peers and—oh, all right, so she’d been more like a tongue-tied mess, though she’d tried hard to relax and be herself, which had only made matters worse.
Add this in with the combination of Phoebe’s success in dance, her top placement grade point average, and a mother who’d never let her do anything that even remotely resembled fun—including wasting time with boyfriends or, heck, even regular friends—and the other kids had all come to the conclusion that Phoebe was one stuck-up prima donna. Throw in a few panic attacks for fun, and it was easy to see why she hadn’t exactly been voted the most popular person in her school. Looking back on it, she was lucky they hadn’t thrown rocks at her in the streets.
However, with age and enough therapy to help even the most screwed-up of Hollywood starlets, Phoebe had overcome the worst of her introversion. Yet, there were still times when she fought the odd twinges of anxiety. Oh, like, say, whenever she let herself think about all the different ways that she could fail in the next few hours being the perfect example. Phoebe grimaced, eyeing the tastefully wrapped present in her arms. Somehow, she doubted giving Candy a Crock-Pot would convince the showgirls that she lived life on the edge. The deviled eggs didn’t exactly say bad to the bone either.
Darn it. Already she was doing this wrong and the realization made her breath hitch. But before Phoebe could get herself more worked up, one of her ridiculous heels caught in the pavement and she tripped forward. The Crock-Pot and eggs flew from her arms and for a brief moment her body seemed to fly along, too.
As if in slow motion she pictured herself landing on her bad knee, injuring it permanently, all of her plans for Tiffany and herself ruined, but there was nothing she could do to stop herself. Until her body mercifully slammed into rock-solid man. Not about to question her good fortune, Phoebe clung tight.
“WHAT THE—oof!” The air whooshed from Trace’s lungs as the crazy woman careened into him.
“Help,” she squeaked.
Trace managed to get out a quick “Whoa, careful,” while he staggered backward from the force of her momentum. Instinctively, he brought up his arms to catch her, then decided this might not have been such a good idea.
Her long, wriggling body molded perfectly to his and he suddenly found his hands filled with her well-rounded bottom. A tingling feeling, almost like an itch, spread through his palms, yet Trace forced himself to ignore the writhing bounty in his hands and reminded his overactive hormones that after the fiasco with Jeanine, he’d sworn off women for good. At least he thought he had. It all seemed pretty vague to him right now with this particular woman’s legs clamped tightly on his thighs and her high, firm breasts pressed into his chest, prodding his skin like two hot brands and making him remember how much he enjoyed being prodded by two hot brands. Especially, when those brands were moving and jiggling around with the rest of her.
Suddenly the bachelorette party he was on his way to perform at seemed rife with possibilities. A concept that made him question his sanity, but he couldn’t afford to waste another second on his wayward thoughts. Not if he wanted to get rid of the human suction cup in his arms before they both went down for the count.
“Hey, hold still,” he warned, scowling. He tried to catch his balance and adjust his footing but this somehow only made everything worse because she squeaked and shockingly started to climb him like a monkey up a tree. He cursed, wondering what the hell was the matter with her and opened his mouth to ask, except a yelp came out instead. She’d stabbed the back of his leg with what had to be one of the most wicked high heels in creation, and his knees buckled forward.
Trace tripped off the sidewalk and they went down hard. Or rather she did. His face landed on something soft and plump, well, actually two somethings soft and plump—oh, all right, technically right smack-dab between two somethings soft and plump—and if he wasn’t mistaken, her knee was shoved up under his armpit.
“I can’t breathe. Get up, please.” The voice beneath him sounded strangled.
You and me both, lady, he wanted to say, but couldn’t since speaking required air and there was none left in his lungs. He tried to move. However, turning his face wasn’t an option either. Not with her long, dark hair tangled around his head as if someone had thrown a net over him, and for a few very long seconds Trace feared he was going to suffocate with his face mashed tightly to her breasts.
All in all, he supposed there were worse ways to go.
The woman squeaked. “I mean it—get up.” Her pelvis pushed against his, trying to buck him off. Their limbs were so jumbled it must have looked as if they were playing a bizarre, 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 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.
Of course, she didn’t stay silent for long. In his experience, she never had. Not with him anyway. It had always been a source of amazement to him that the same painfully shy woman who could barely make small talk with the other students, became a screaming virago at the least of his taunts. The dichotomy of her behavior had been the biggest turn-on of his life. It had gotten to the point that by his senior year, she’d say one mean or argumentative thing and his favorite body part would pop up like one of those plastic thermometers on a turkey. For a while there, he’d been afraid that he’d never be able to get an erection without having a whopping argument first.
Phoebe narrowed her eyes. “Crude egomaniacs tend to have that effect on me. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She started to lift her cute little nose in the air, but he spoke before she could turn away again.
“You don’t have to explain, Phoebe. I know exactly how I affect you.” He purposely made his voice low and suggestive. “But, I was thinking about our night together. You remember, Phoebe, right? The night when we—”
“It was nothing.” She actually growled and he could just make out the telltale flush on her cheeks.
“Bull.” Not one of the most original comebacks but he was riding the edge here and deserved a little slack.
She waved her hand. “We had some fun. Well, at least you did, anyway. It wasn’t a big deal.”
Trace merely crossed his arms and raised his eyebrow. Why argue something so patently false? Besides, if he opened his mouth, he might do something stupid. Like tell her exactly how much that night had meant to him.
She rolled her eyes then pretended great interest in her fingernails which, in this light, he knew doggone well she could barely see. “All right,” she said grudgingly, “it was pleasant.”
His other eyebrow joined the first and they both crept higher.
Phoebe clenched her jaw and fisted her hands at her sides. “Fine, I really enjoyed myself.”
Since she was doing so good on her own, Trace still said nothing, and she bit out, “Okay. I had as much fun as you, if not more. The heavens moved, the earth shook.” She smiled sweetly. “But if you recall, I got over it.” While steam all but poured from his ears, she shrugged, no longer meeting his eyes. “I can’t believe you’re making such a big deal over this. For that matter, I’m shocked you even remember.”
He cursed. “Oh, I remember all right….” As if he could forget.
Twenty-one years old and in love for the first time in his life, Trace had held her in his arms and watched her come.
He’d slid into the hot, delicate flesh between her legs until her beautiful thighs had begun to quiver on either side of his hips and she’d exploded in release. Though she’d never told him, Trace had known that she was a virgin. Phoebe had willingly given him a gift no other would have, and at that moment, he’d felt as if it had been his first time, too. There was no way in hell he’d let her brush off that night as unimportant. On a physical level alone it had been one for the history books even if she had completely rejected him the next day.
Phoebe scoffed. “Oh, please. If you remember anything about me or that night it’s because I was just another conquest. One of many for you, I’m sure, but still true.”
Jerked 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.
The corner of his mouth curved up, but there was no humor in his expression. Then he leaned down and his breath feathered her ear, the sensation enough to stop her lungs from working. “I don’t believe you,” he whispered. “You remember exactly how good it was between us. You’re lying, Phoebe, and I know why. Because you’re just as hot for me now as you were back in college and for some reason that really ticks you off.”
Phoebe took a step back from him, her movements jerky. She lifted her chin. “How charmingly put. And untrue. Besides, there are more important things than physical attraction.” Though at the moment she couldn’t think of a single one.
“Really? Name one.”
Rats. He would zero in on that particular problem. “Okay,” she said, then licked her lips again. “Um, mutual interests.”
His smile widened. He moved toward her, closing the space she’d put between them. “Believe me, sweetheart, the interest here is definitely mutual.” His hand stroked down her bare arm. The little hairs on her skin rose in his wake.
“Yes, well—” she cleared her throat “—I seem to recall that your interest had a much shorter shelf life than mine.” She took another step away but he kept pace, all but stalking her.
Trace shook his head and lifted his thumb to her bottom lip. “Now, that’s where you’ve always been wrong, Phoebe.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “But I guess since you’re still not ready to believe me, I’ll just have to prove it.” He lowered his mouth and Phoebe panicked. If he kissed her, she couldn’t be held responsible for her actions. Specifically, throwing herself at him and howling at the moon.
“No, no,” she said, still backing up. “That’s okay. Let’s just call a truce here and agree to disagree.”
Trace grinned. “Nah. I’d rather be right.”
“No.” Her eyes going wide, she stumbled backward when pain shot through her bare foot. “Ouch!” she wailed, bending down.
In less than a heartbeat, Trace knelt at her side. “What happened?” he asked. “Are you okay?” Then he curled those devastating fingers of his around her ankle and a charge raced up her leg as if she’d become a live wire. Instantaneous electricity.
Phoebe scowled. “I’m fine,” she said, though her voice wobbled. Next the words “I don’t need your help” somehow came out of her mouth when what she really wanted to say was, “Please, if you have an ounce of mercy, don’t touch me.”
“Hush.” He gently turned her foot. A small line of blood ran from her pinkie toe. “Hey, you’ve really hurt yourself,” he said, his voice gruff. “You’re bleeding.”
Oh, why couldn’t the creep be consistent? One minute he was the ex-boyfriend from hell and the next all sensitivity. Of course, she shouldn’t have been surprised. Trace had always played by his own rules. In other words, he didn’t mind driving her nuts, but if she ever needed anything he was first in line and always came through.
Except at the end when he’d turned out to be a two-timing pig just as she’d always feared. Then again, the sexually deprived voice chimed back in and said, maybe it’s about time to let all those pesky little bygones be bygones. After all, nobody’s perfect, he was too young to know how much he hurt you, yada yada yada. Think of whatever excuse it’ll take for you to have wild monkey sex with him at the earliest possible opportunity—as a matter of fact, right here and now seems to be available.
“I’m fine,” she blurted. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“You’re not fine. You have a cut,” he said, and before she could argue, he stood and scooped her into his arms in one motion.
Phoebe’s stomach rolled and she braced her hand on his chest. His muscles were hard and lean beneath her fingers. His shoulders wide and—she noticed where her thoughts were going. No! Absolutely not. No wild monkey sex. She didn’t care how good he felt. Or smelled. Or sounded. Or whatever other freakishly attractive characteristics the man possessed that made her want to copulate with him on the spot.
Trace set her down on the steps leading into the apartment building and when he spoke, he sounded angry. “This is my fault. I should have found your shoe right away instead of letting you walk around like this in the dark.” He pulled her foot onto his lap.
Distance seemed to be the key here, and she somewhat gently tried to kick his hand loose. “How’s it your fault?” she complained. “I could’ve looked for my own darn shoe. Besides, I’m the one who ran into you.” Trace tightened his hold until she stilled. Other than that, he ignored her. Phoebe sighed and finally gave in. If the man wanted to turn heroic, far be it from her to interfere. The sheer pleasure of his touch also weighed heavily in his favor, but she hated to admit to herself such a major personal weakness.
Forcing herself to look away from him, since drooling was a very real possibility, she noticed something glinting from his shirt.
“Is that the thing that kept poking me?” she asked.
He started to jerk her foot away from his groin, then caught himself. His cheeks turning red, he frowned up at her. “What are you talking about?”
Fighting a grin, she pointed to his chest and was about to clarify her question, when she realized he was wearing a badge. And a dark blue uniform. Phoebe made a startled sound then shook her head. “Oh, my gosh, you’re a police officer. I can’t believe it.”
He made a strange face. “Me neither,” he answered on a sigh.
She stared, unsure how to respond. Trace McGraw…a police officer? Her mind fundamentally rejected the idea. Though law enforcement was certainly a noble profession, he’d been a wonderful journalist. For Trace to have given up his writing, even if it was to become a cop, just didn’t seem right. Actually it seemed wrong, and made Phoebe sad in a way she hadn’t even felt at her own ruined ambitions. “Why? I thought you were going to become a reporter. You were so good.”
Traced snorted. “And how would you know?” he asked, not bothering to lift his head.
Without thinking, she said, “Because I used to read your column in the school paper, of course.” Phoebe smiled and leaned back on her hands. “I was always excited when the next edition came out. I couldn’t wait to see what you were going to write about next.” She stopped and shrugged. “But even if I’d only read one issue, it would have been enough to recognize your talent.”
“Oh, really?” He looked up, a cocky grin spread across his mouth.
Heat crept over her cheeks. Oh, that was nice. She sounded like an adolescent girl waiting for the next issue of Tiger Beat to hit the stands. “Well, it wasn’t just me. Everyone did. You were constantly uncovering some injustice around campus,” she said, lifting her chin. “Like the time you wrote about that lecherous professor who tried to seduce most of his female students into earning extra credits in his bed.” Phoebe shuddered. “By the way, your story couldn’t have come at a better time for me. I was registered to take his class as soon as we got back from Christmas break.”
Trace’s smile slipped away. “I know.”
Phoebe paused again, brought up short. “You knew?” she asked. “But how? What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “I read your schedule. It slipped out of your purse in the library.”
Phoebe raised her eyebrows and Trace sighed. “It’s not like you didn’t know I made a habit of doing my homework in the library at the same time as you. Anyway, when I saw Professor Eiken’s name on your list, I just about sh—” He broke off, not finishing the crude expression. “I hadn’t really heard much about him until then, but one of my friends was dating a girl who’d been all but raped by the man a week or two before.” Trace’s jaw had hardened and he suddenly seemed to stare at Phoebe as if, well, it didn’t make sense, but he stared at her possessively. As if she were his to protect so that’s what he’d done. But that couldn’t be right.
Trace McGraw was not possessive over women. There were too darn many of them, for one thing. And for another, he didn’t need to be. She doubted that there’d ever been a single female in his entire life who’d willingly left his side without having to be physically shoved along first. Phoebe looked away and rubbed her forehead. Obviously, she’d misread Trace’s expression and he must still get angry when he thought about all the problems that article had created for him. Even after all this time, she could understand why he’d be upset.
With only a semester to go before graduation, Trace had exposed one of the most powerful faculty members on staff and the ensuing scandal had been huge. Professor Eiken had tried to have Trace expelled and almost succeeded. The man had even started a lawsuit against Trace and the university, but dropped it when a shocking number of abuse claims started pouring in.
And Trace had gone through all of that to keep her safe? Phoebe’s pulse fluttered. She was shocked and, well…amazingly flattered. He’d written that article for her. She had no doubt he’d been concerned for the other girls as well, but still…he’d been so generous. And he’d never even told her. Phoebe paused and bit her lip. These were not exactly the actions of a man who’d only been trying to get her into bed. The risk he’d taken spoke of a level of caring that she’d never given Trace credit for. But if he’d cared so much then why had he cheated on her?
Phoebe glanced away, unsure what to believe. Instead she asked, “So why didn’t you stay with it? Reporting, I mean.”
Trace shot her a look. “I did,” he said after a minute, rubbing the back of his neck. “But let’s just say it didn’t exactly turn out as I expected.” At Phoebe’s silence, he grudgingly added, “I got fired. It’s a long story and I’d rather not go into it right now.” He shrugged. “Listen, that platter you were carrying must have broken when you fell. I think you stepped on some glass. There’s not enough light for me to take it out down here.”
“Oh,” Phoebe said, suddenly self-conscious. “That’s okay,” she smiled. “I can do it myself once I get upstairs.”
“Not likely,” he snorted. Then he scooped her back into his arms and stood. “Relax. It’s my job to serve and protect.” Trace smiled, his teeth a white slash against his bronze skin. “And that’s exactly what I plan to do.”
“ARE YOU SURE this is the right place?” Trace asked with a scowl.
Though he’d spoken loudly, Phoebe had just been able to hear him over the music and feminine laughter floating from behind Barbie’s front door into the hallway. He was standing rigid, staring at the shiny brass numbers and holding Phoebe against his chest. And the more Trace stared and listened, the tenser he grew until his fingers were all but squeezing her legs and side.
Phoebe’s lips twitched and she nodded. “Yep, 701. This is it.”
A spark flared in his eyes but he quickly lowered them and she almost snickered. Obviously, he couldn’t believe Phoebe was going to a party that made Animal House sound genteel. Grinning smugly, Phoebe reached out to knock on the door but he stepped back.
“You know what? We forgot your present. We better go back down before somebody steals it. It’ll be gone. I’m a cop. I know these things.” He began to turn toward the elevator.
“Wait,” she protested, putting her hand on his chest, which made them both freeze for a moment and look down at her hand and his chest. Slowly, she slid her fingers away. “It’ll be fine. Believe me. Anybody who wants that Crock-Pot or the smooshed deviled eggs can have them.”
“You mean, that present you brought is a Crock-Pot?”
“Yes. Why?”
He paused for a minute then shook his head and laughed. “It’s stupid, really. For a second, I thought you might have gotten the wrong address or something. You know—” Trace shrugged “—right building, wrong party.” Strangely, he sounded relieved and his expression had brightened significantly. “Listen, why don’t I get you inside then run down and grab that gift for your friend?” He grinned down at her. “No happy homemaker should be without a Crock-Pot.”
Phoebe wrinkled her nose. “Which is exactly why we can leave it downstairs. I doubt Candy would ever use it,” she said, and Trace flinched then almost dropped her.
She clutched at his arms. “Oh, gosh. I’m sorry.” Heat crept over her cheeks. “Thanks, but really, you can put me down now. I have to be heavy.”
“You’re not heavy. How did you say you got invited to this party?” he asked without missing a beat.
On the elevator ride upstairs, Phoebe noticed Trace seemed intent on poking and prodding into each and every detail of her life since they’d last seen each other. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been much to tell—or much that she’d been willing to tell. After all, her life seemed to her unfathomably boring and pitiful—especially when she shared it with the ex-boyfriend she hoped to turn bitter with regret for having let her slip away. So, all too soon, Phoebe had found herself explaining her return to Miami. Call it pride, vanity or sheer humiliation, but she hadn’t told him about her new job on the Mirage as a showgirl.
Somehow, going from prima ballerina to showgirl seemed sort of shallow and pathetic after he’d chosen to become a cop when his own pursuits in journalism hadn’t been successful. Instead Phoebe had stammered her way through an awkward lie about a lagging dance production she was helping to get back on its feet. Then she’d told him about her new friends and the bridal shower tonight.
She should’ve just said she was in town on vacation, but against her better judgment she’d wanted him to believe her return was more permanent. Just in case. It was a ridiculous waste of time that could only lead to trouble, yet the discovery that all those years ago Trace’s feelings for her might have been stronger than she’d believed made her chest go all hot and fluttery. Not to mention the ball of warmth that spread through her lower regions whenever she even happened to glance at him. Jeesh, it was all she could do not to throw herself down on the ground and toss her skirt back over her head. Phoebe almost laughed. Tiffany would be so proud.
Trace turned his head toward her, his gaze snaring hers. “Well?”
All thought fled her brain the moment their eyes met. “Well, what?” she asked like a total dolt.
“The party?”
She tried to sound normal, but it took all her concentration just to breathe properly, his lips barely inches from her own. “Yes. I’m going to a party.”
The muscles in his neck and shoulders tensed under her arms. “Did you say you worked with the women at the party? Danced with them?”
“Um, I think so.” Phoebe gave up trying to focus on his questions. His eyebrows were lowered. Funny how she’d never noticed they were a shade lighter than his hair and perfectly arched. Perfectly perfect. A sigh welled in her chest.
“And this friend is getting married?”
Little sparklers flared to life down low in Phoebe’s body every time his lips formed a word, and she nodded. Anything to keep those supple lines of flesh moving.
“Phoebes—earth to Phoebe?” His silky voice speaking her name was an act of God. He shook his head, his fantabulous mouth grinning sinfully.
Sin…Yes. She wanted sinning. Lots of sinning.
He chuckled softly. “You know you’re killing me, don’t you? Here…” He gave her a hard kiss, his lips firm and warm, but he pulled back aeons too soon. “Now, pay attention, kitten, and if you’re good we’ll try that again.” His eyes darkened. “Only longer. Much longer.” Trace stared at her mouth for a moment before he shook his head and lowered his eyebrows determinedly. “I want you to tell me who invited you here.”
The longer version definitely sounded good but she couldn’t remember what she had to do to get it. Something about listening. Or answering. Oh, why hadn’t she just sucked face with him when she’d had the chance?
“Phoebe—” He shook her.
Couldn’t he tell that she was having a major hormonal breakthrough here? Phoebe sounded cross but didn’t care and said, “I told you in the elevator. Some of my new friends at work invited me. If you must have specifics, I think Barbie was the one who officially asked.”
His lips parted and a startled huff of air escaped. She inhaled his sweet breath. She couldn’t take it a second longer, and just when he opened his mouth to say, “Barbie! Good Chr—” Phoebe cupped his face with her hands and yanked him to her, cutting off his words. Blood pounded in her veins. Oceans roared in her ears. Phoebe couldn’t believe it. All on her own she’d reached out and kissed him. She was an animal!
Fortunately, it didn’t take much to refocus him, because as soon as they connected, Trace made a muffled grunt then jumped into the fray. He licked into her mouth, and with the first warm swipe of his tongue she could swear that goose bumps rose on every square inch of her skin. Then he moaned, the sound pained and rough. The noise vibrated her lips and started a quivering sensation arrowing straight to the tips of her breasts.
Unbelievably, he still held her, and she shifted in his arms, tilted her hips until she’d twisted and they were stomach to stomach. It was like rolling over into a fire. Ready to incinerate on the spot, Phoebe began to rub her nipples against the pressure of his chest when, with a jarring return to reality, the apartment door next to them jerked open.
Trace wrenched his mouth free and Phoebe almost wailed. Much slower to recover, she finally followed his line of vision to the doorway. One of the showgirls, Barbie—the hostess for Candy’s party—stood just inside.
“Well, it’s about time,” Barbie said, before turning her head and yelling over her shoulder to the women inside the apartment, “Hey everybody, get your money out. Tiffany’s big sister found the stripper! It’s show time!”
3
TRACE FROZE. He wanted to move, but couldn’t. If only to clap his hand over top of Barbie’s blabbering mouth. It was like watching a car accident he couldn’t prevent. In slow motion.
Phoebe cocked her head, her expression clearly confused. “Stripper?”
Barbie chuckled and shook her head. “As if you didn’t know. And I thought Tiffany was the wild sister.”
Phoebe frowned and looked toward him.
He refused to meet Phoebe’s gaze—not easy since he was still holding her, and her face was only inches from his own. Barbie said, “Come on in.” The buxom showgirl smiled and waved for him to follow, but his feet felt as if they’d been trapped in hardened cement. “Good thing you finally got here. The girls were getting a little rowdy. But I’m sure they’ll be much happier now that the ‘Sea Stud’ is here.” She stopped and ran her gaze over him from head to toe.
Trace cringed and thought, damn Barbie and her big mouth, anyway. Of all the demeaning things he’d been through in the last couple of weeks, the stupid nickname the customers on the ship had come up with had to be the worst. Unfortunately, the Mirage had been only too happy to cash in on the situation and had started hanging posters of him in costume from the neck down all over the ship. And while he was mostly glad they hadn’t used his face, he was also disgusted to realize that some small part of himself balked at the idea of being just a body. As if he were a piece of meat.
“Sea Stud?” Phoebe’s voice came out a squeak. “You mean that guy in all those posters on the Mirage?”
Barbie nodded. “You didn’t know that was Trace?”
Phoebe merely shook her head, though he could feel her body go stiff as a poker in his arms.
Trace’s mind churned. How the hell was he supposed to get himself out of this one? And how much truth should he tell her? That he wasn’t even a male stripper but really a reporter for a tabloid rag because he’d lost his job at the Herald?
He could just picture himself trying to explain that particular fall from grace. You see, Phoebe, it’s like this. I got fired from the Herald because I wouldn’t sleep with the boss’s daughter in the supply closet during the annual work Christmas party. Unfortunately, I’d imbibed a little too much yuletide cheer, and between the alcohol and the shock of being dragged into the dark little room on my way back from the john, Jeanine had my pants open and zipper down before I could wrestle her off me. Now wait, this is the really funny part. Jeanine’s dad, my editor, walked in on us and she blamed the whole thing on me. Not only did he fire me on the spot, he started a smear campaign that pretty much killed any chances of me getting hired by the sort of newspaper a person would read outside of a line at the grocery store. Frankly, Phoebe believing he was a male stripper was less embarrassing.
Phoebe swallowed. “So, that’s your body in those posters.” Her cheeks turned rosy. “Uh, it’s a good shot. Nice abs.”
Those same abs tightened, but for the moment Trace was saved from having to give an explanation when the bride-to-be, Candy, walked into the small foyer. She placed her hands on her hips. “Hey, what’s the holdup?” Candy asked.
“Yeah, you two.” Barbie reached out and grabbed his sleeve, which left him with no choice but to let her pull him inside.
“Wait a minute.” Candy winked at Phoebe. “If anyone should be carried over the threshold it’s me. I’m the one getting married.”
“Candy’s right,” Phoebe said. She pushed against his chest. “You can put me down now.”
Automatically he tightened his hold. “Sorry, ladies. No can do. Phoebe’s hurt.” Hurt and nuts if she thought he’d give her up that easily. Not after that lip lock she’d just given him back in the hallway. For her, that kiss was nothing short of a proposition and it was one he intended to take her up on.
Trace ignored Phoebe’s huffy exhale and shook his head at the other two women. “She stepped on some glass outside and can’t walk. If one of you would tell me where the bathroom is, I’ll carry her there. Oh, and I’ll need some tweezers. Maybe some first-aid stuff, too.”
“Oh, brother,” Phoebe mumbled as she crossed her arms over her chest. She turned her face away from him and studied the wall.
“Are you okay?” Candy asked her, stepping closer. “I hope it’s not bad.”
“I’m fine, really, but thank you. It’s just a cut. He refuses to listen.” Phoebe jerked her thumb toward him.
“Are you sure?” Barbie asked. “Right now your dancing’s not so great, kid. The last thing you need is an injury.” She lowered her voice, “Especially if you’re still hoping to get in on the extra money Saturday night.”
Wait a second, Trace thought, frowning. In the midst of worrying about his own lies, he seemed to have forgotten that Phoebe had told a few humdingers of her own. A sinking feeling settled in his stomach, like when an informant took back everything he’d said only an hour before the paper went to bed, and his heart pounded. How the hell did she know Barbie and Candy? And what the hell was she doing on the Mirage? “What the hell are you guys talking about?” he interrupted, his voice overly loud, but apparently this didn’t matter since none of them listened to him anyway.
Candy nodded to Phoebe as if he hadn’t spoken. “You’ve got the right equipment—you just need to learn how to use it better.” Candy quirked her mouth. “A lot better. No offence, Devereaux.”
Phoebe laughed, sounding genuinely amused at the insult. “None taken.” Then she hesitated. “But you think I’ll be good eventually, right? I mean, I’m not a lost cause or anything?”
The two women shared a look then Barbie said, “You’ll have to work your fanny off before Tuesday, but me and the girls can help you.”
Phoebe beamed. “I was hoping you’d say that. Thanks. You guys are the best.”
Barbie and Candy laughed. “Hey, you’re Tiffany’s big sister. We’re all family on the Mirage.”
The muscles over Trace’s ribs tightened until he could barely breathe. “Hey,” he interrupted again, giving Phoebe a quick shake. He was going to get her attention this time no matter what, except now that Trace had it, he couldn’t speak because the thoughts swirling inside his head were so ridiculous he felt like an idiot to even ask. “You’re gonna think I’m crazy, but, well, you’re not—I mean, this is so stupid, because there’s no way—” He stumbled over his words while Phoebe’s eyes glittered with a certain malicious satisfaction that made his stomach clench. “Tell me you’re not a showgirl on the Mirage….”
Phoebe lifted her pert nose in the air, her lips curving smugly. “Sorry, Stud of the Sea. No can do—”
“Sea Stud,” Barbie and Candy corrected in unison.
Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” She flicked her finger under his chin. “Looks like you and I’ll be working together. I can’t wait to see you do your little routine. Who knows? Maybe I can even pick up a few pointers.”
“HERE WE GO, kids.” Barbie flipped on the light then stepped aside for him to enter the bathroom. “You can set her down then I’ll show you where the stereo is. You brought a tape for your music, right?”
Phoebe patted him on the shoulder. “Trace is a professional. Of course he brought his tape.”
Heat crept over his face. “I’ll check out the sound system in a minute. She’s going to need some help—”
“No, I don’t,” Phoebe cut him off, then fiercely whispered into his ear, “Put me down.”
Trace dumped her cute butt onto the rim of the tub, his lips twisting at her muffled grunt, then closed the door in Barbie’s startled face. He turned the lock, not about to let anything or anyone interrupt him.
“Well, okay,” Barbie’s muffled voice spoke from the other side. “But hurry it up. The crowd is getting restless. Especially Angie.”
Trace winced. He’d mostly agreed to dance at this little shindig because of Venzara’s niece, Angie. Rumor had it she used the male dancers on the Mirage like her own personal stud service. Not that Trace was interested in joining her stable, but at this point he’d date the stage manager, Phil, if it meant getting enough information so he could write a real story. Trace sighed. At the moment, Angie was the least of his worries.
He turned around and faced Phoebe. There was really no place to go in the small room, so he leaned back against the door and crossed his arms. She was smoothing down her hair, looking into the mirror above the sink from her perch on the tub. She pretended to ignore him, but he’d caught her sneaking glances his way more than once. Pursing his mouth, he stewed over the load of garbage she’d fed him in the elevator. Lagging dance production, his ass. He’d pictured her helping some struggling inner-city troupe, charitably promoting the arts. Not shimmying around a casino ship in feathers and heels.
“You lied,” he said flatly.
She jumped at his voice then dropped her arms. “I thought that was my line, Officer McGraw.”
Trace narrowed his eyes. “Touché. But then that shouldn’t be much of a surprise to you since you’ve always accused me of being a liar.”
She lifted her chin. “Only to juggle all of your women. I should have realized the habit would leak into other areas of your life.”
“Then what’s your excuse?”
She looked away and busied herself with her skirt, pressing out the wrinkles. “I told you the truth. The Mirage, er, needed my expertise and I agreed to help with choreography and things like that, as well as, um, giving the girls a few pointers on technique.”
“That’s not what it sounded like when you were talking out there to Candy and Barbie. In fact, it seemed like, if anything, you needed their help.”
“I guess you misunderstood. Could you hand me the supplies from the medicine cabinet? We better be getting out there.” She gave him a cool smile. “It seems your adoring fans are pretty anxious to see you.” She raked him with her gaze, narrowing in on the fly of his pants before shrugging her delicate shoulders. “As I said before, I barely remember our time together in college. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see what all the fuss is about.”
He leisurely stroked his thumb over the handcuffs dangling from his belt. “You’re lying again, kitten. Don’t push me. Unless you want to play a round of bad cop captures naughty showgirl.” But just referring to Phoebe as a showgirl was too much for him, and he clenched his jaw until the bone all but throbbed, then blurted, “Since when are you a dancer on the Mirage?”
She raised her eyebrows to a haughty angle. “Not as long as you, I’m sure, oh great Stud of the Sea. I only started a few days ago.”
“Sea Stud,” he mumbled.
She tucked a fall of silky hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry. What was that?”
He gritted his teeth. “Sea Stud. You keep saying, Stud of the Sea. It makes me sound like some kind of sick cartoon logo for a weird brand of tuna.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, right. Sea Stud is much more dignified.”
Trace took a deep breath and forced himself to let it out slowly. “Never mind. Let’s talk about something more important. Like why you’re a showgirl.”
“Why are you a stripper?”
He felt pretty confident one of the blood vessels near his temple was going to burst if she didn’t answer him soon. “You first.”
Trace had no doubt that Phoebe was purposely goading him. She peeked from beneath her lashes and said, “You mean something along the lines of, you’ll show me yours if I show you mine?”
Trace swore under his breath. The thought of her showing him anything was enough to make his hands shake. “Thanks, but a few answers will be just fine for now. I’ll show you whatever you want afterward.”
She snorted, switching tracks. “I’m sure I won’t be interested.”
He gave her a look that said he knew better. “I could prove you wrong, but I’ll wait. Hell, I might not even have to. Who knows when you’ll get the urge to plant one on me again. You’ve gotten pretty aggressive in the last nine years, Phoebes.”
Her back shot ramrod straight at his taunt. Of course, he probably shouldn’t have gone so far, since it was his fondest hope that she’d plant one on him again and soon.
Face flushed, she said, “You’re right. I have changed. Which is exactly why I’m now at the Mirage.” Then Phoebe cocked her head, her expression becoming baffled. “I don’t know why you’re carrying on like this. I am a professional dancer, you know.”
Yes, but there were professionals, and then there were professionals. Trace conjured up an image of Phoebe wearing nothing but the tiny scraps of fabric the Mirage passed off as a costume while she kicked and pranced in front of a roomful of drunks from the casino. He clenched his fists, his voice almost a growl when he said, “Because you do not belong on that damn ship.”
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Cami Dalton
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Phoebe Devereaux could never forget Trace McGraw. In college he used his moves to give her a night she′d never forget.Now he′s using those talents as a male stripper on the cruise ship where she works as a showgirl. But Phoebe can′t afford to be distracted. She was hired to help the police nab some onboard mobsters. Still, Trace sure knows what turns her on….Undercover reporter Trace can′t believe sweet, innocent Phoebe is now dancing on a ship in nothing more than feathers. Of course, he can′t believe he is bumping and grinding in a thong for a story! He needs this scoop about a possible Mafia operation. But what he wants is to do a little private dancing with Phoebe….