HER PRIVATE DANCER

by Cami Dalton

  Thankfully, Trace merely grunted at her comment. Meanwhile, she grabbed Tiffany's robe and wiggled into it, keeping the sheet in place then letting it fall in a pool of fabric at her feet. There wasn't time to find anything else. She yanked the belt tight, and after a deep breath, turned to him.

  Trace was studying her, a glass of water in his hand. "I brought you something for your headache." He handed her two white tablets. "The coffee will be ready in a minute."

  "Oh, thanks," she said. She tried to smile but her face felt too tense to make the proper expression.

  She popped the pills onto her tongue and had just lifted her drink to her lips when Trace asked, "Who were you talking to? It sounded pretty bad."

  Phoebe choked on her water, and after a violent coughing fit, which she tried to play off with a rather high-pitched laugh, she said, "Oh, that was Tiffany." Shrugging casually, she answered, "I'm always upset when I talk to my little sister."

  She ignored the sense of urgency compelling her to shove Trace out of Tiffany's condo bodily, and took her time walking to the dresser then setting down her drink. She picked up her hairbrush. Mercifully, her hands didn't shake. A dead giveaway. She decided that the old saying about catching more flies with honey than vinegar and all that junk was applicable, and Phoebe attempted another smile. "Listen, I really appreciate all your help this morning, but I'm sort of in a hurry. I forgot that I had an appointment."

  His expression serious, he moved closer. "Hey, kitten. Are you in some kind of trouble?"

  Her pulse leaped. "No. No, not at all. Of course not. No." She snatched up the glass of water and took another gulp before she could blurt out what had to be at least her fifth or sixth lame denial. Then she looked away. "Why would I be in any trouble? I just forgot that someone Tiffany knows is coming by and she called to remind me." Phoebe began twisting her hair up into a bun, and jabbed the pins off the dresser into the knot to keep it in place.

  Eyes narrowed, Trace crossed his arms, obviously making no effort to leave. "You're acting funny. Something's not right. What's going on, Phoebe?"

  Again, she glanced at the clock while pushing in yet more pins. "What's with you and the questions? I thought you weren't a reporter anymore."

  Trace smirked and pointed to her hair. "Unless you're planning on heading into a wind tunnel, I think you're done. And just because I'm not a reporter anymore doesn't mean I can't help."

  Phoebe lifted her chin—hoping to appear as if she'd purposely been going for the porcupine-on-the-back-of-the-head look—then left the bedroom, Trace following doggedly on her heels. She sent him a patronizing smile over her shoulder. "Great. If I need anyone to take off their clothes and dance around the room I'll be sure to let you know."

  "Hey—" he caught her arm, pulling her around to face him. Their eyes met, his snapping shards of blue "—I thought we were friends. Come on, I heard you on the phone with Tiffany. You're making me nervous, Phoebe."

  Phoebe froze, her heart jolting into a crazy rhythm. "My private conversations are none of your business. And you and I are hardly friends," she retorted. Her hands trembled and she fisted them together. With everything at stake, no one could know her real reasons for being on the Mirage. Especially an ex-reporter who claimed to be a male stripper and whom she didn't trust further than she could grand jeté. And on top of that she could all but hear the minutes ticking away until Alvarez would be knocking on her door.

  Trace took a step back as if she'd struck him. "We're not, huh? Why doesn't this surprise me? Phoebe the ice queen is back. But then, you love to play it hot and cold, don't you? What's your excuse this time, Phoebe? What horrible thing have I done?"

  She sooo didn't want to be having this argument right now, but it was as if a part of her was detached, standing back, watching her spin out of control. Phoebe couldn't stop herself and she sneered, "Well, I haven't caught you having sex with a redhead in the last ten minutes, but I think listening in on a person's private conversation is pretty bad." Then she froze. Ooh-wee, would she love to be able to suck those words back into her mouth.

  His face darkened. "Sex with a redhead? What the hell are you babbling about?"

  Phoebe wanted to smack him and then smack herself. Her and her big mouth. "Oh, never mind. Just leave." She waved her hand and began to turn away.

  Then he said, "Not a chance. You started this," and backed her up against the wall outside the kitchen, keeping her there with his weight. "What redhead?"

  She pushed on his bare chest but it was like trying to move granite. His skin burned her hands, making her palms tingle. In spite of everything, her breath quickened at the feel of his body so close and heavy and right against her own and she blurted, "Oh, all right. Everything else is going wrong, we might as well get into this now, too. I'm referring to the redhead I found leaving your apartment less than twenty-four hours after I was in your bed."

  He tilted his head. "Are you talking about when we went out back in college?"

  "Don't play dumb with me you, you—" She couldn't think of a name strong enough to call him and settled with "—jerk. You've only brought up that night every other sentence since we ran into each other outside Barbie's place." She punched him in the shoulder, hard, and he grabbed her wrists then pinned them to the wall at her sides.

  "Hey, stop that and tell me what you think you saw."

  "I don't think I saw anything," she retorted. All the anger and hurt she'd carted around for the past nine years poured out of her. "I'm sure you don't remember, but I couldn't be with you the night after our date because I had practice for one of the student shows. Except I got out early and decided to come by and surprise you."

  "And…?" Trace prompted, when she said nothing else.

  The words were almost hard to get out. "I saw you, Trace. I saw you with that woman."

  "What woman?" He shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Huh," she snorted. "Why doesn't that surprise me? I'm sure you had a hard time keeping us all straight, but I'm talking about the busty redhead who kissed you outside your front door. I saw you with her, Trace. You didn't even pull away when she gave you that loud, ridiculous kiss. You thought it was funny and laughed. You even hugged her. Affectionately," she emphasized.

  He scowled and said incredulously, "And based on this foolproof evidence, you think I went to bed with this person?" He dropped her wrists and stepped back. "That's it?"

  Phoebe crossed her arms and lifted her chin. "For old On-the-Make-McGraw, aka the Sea Stud? You betcha. As far as I'm concerned, that's plenty." Apparently she'd pressed a hot button, because he looked ready to explode, but since she felt ready to explode herself, this didn't overly concern her.

  He pointed his finger at her and opened his mouth then paused. "Wait a second … I know who you're talking about. Damn." He shook his head and raked his fingers through his hair, making it rumple in funny angles. "Don't move," he commanded then turned and stalked into Tiffany's living room. Through the doorway, she saw him grab up his jacket and rifle through the pockets. He pulled out his wallet and came back.

  Flipping to a picture inside, he said, "Do you mean this redhead?"

  She glanced down. The woman's hair was longer than Phoebe remembered, but it was the floozy all right and she was still beautiful. Except there was a man with her and two little boys dressed in suits standing in front of the couple.

  Phoebe curled her upper lip. "How sweet. You still carry her picture. It's nice to know I wasn't replaced by a fling. I guess a husband and children don't keep you two from staying in touch, though."

  Trace's jaw tightened. "Shut up. As usual, you have no idea what the hell you're talking about. This is my sister Meg. She happened to be in town that night on a layover between flights and we spent a few hours together. I'd have asked you to join us but I thought you were busy."

  "Your sister…? But, I thought your family lived in Pittsburgh."

  "So? And this means none of them can fly on an airpl
ane? Give me a break. If you'd ever spoken to me again, I could have explained. Here, look." Trace started going through the pictures in his wallet and Phoebe saw four more similar faces. "I have five sisters total, but you know that. However, just in case, take a good look. You might have seen me with one of them, too. Who knows?"

  His eyes glittered with emotion and Phoebe put her hand to her stomach. "Oh, Trace." She paused and shook her head. "I … I don't know what to say. I thought…" She swallowed and tried to find the words to make it better, but what could she possibly say to make up for the way she'd ended their relationship? Back in college, she'd been so young and insecure and convinced she was right. And there were so many girls willing to take her place. Maybe if she'd had more experience with dating and boys she could have handled everything better. At least talked to him again.

  "Well, now at least I understand why you hated my guts. I never could figure it out." His laugh sounded hollow. "I thought maybe I'd hurt you. I mean, I knew it was your first time and tried to be careful, but…" His voice trailed off.

  Phoebe made a distressed noise then raised her fingers to her lips. "No. Not at all. Please don't think that." No matter how angry she'd been with Trace, never for a moment did he deserve to question the way he'd treated her physically. "You were wonderful and patient. You made everything perfect." She could feel her face growing hot and looked away, unable to meet the intensity of his gaze.

  "Really?" He was quiet for a moment and finally, she risked a glance back. His expression had softened and he had a stupid, endearing grin on his face. He scratched his jaw. "Wonderful? And perfect, huh?"

  Her face cranked hotter. To cover up her embarrassment she snorted and rolled her eyes. "As if you've never heard that before."

  Trace lifted his eyebrows. "Oh, no. Let's not start that up again." He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Listen, I never claimed to be a monk, Phoebe, but I'm not exactly the Don Juan of Greater Miami that you keep making me out to be."

  Ha! she wanted to say, but held her tongue. It wasn't completely her fault she'd jumped to the wrong conclusion. Jeesh, women had flocked to him in droves. And Trace had never discouraged them. Had sex with them, yes. Discouraged them, no. Not according to the many satisfied females cruising the campus, and Phoebe retorted, "Of course not. He wasn't as successful as you."

  Trace pulled back and frowned. "I don't know whether to be flattered or angry, but knock it off."

  Phoebe scowled, trying not to be childish and petty yet failing miserably. "Oh, flattered, by all means. Why should I be the only one angry?"

  "How about because you're the only one wrong?"

  Phoebe opened her mouth to blast him then stopped. "Good point." She sighed heavily. In the silence, her eyes grew wet and she blinked rapidly. She was angry … at Tiffany for expecting the impossible, and Trace for being so darn handsome and right, and, well, mostly at herself for being so darn wrong and insecure. She sniffed noisily then stared down at her feet.

  Suddenly she remembered that Alvarez was going to be here any minute and her heart almost fibrillated. "Oh my gosh, what time is it? Never mind, it doesn't matter. I can't explain, but I have so much to do before next Saturday, and I need you to leave. Please."

  Trace gave her a funny look. "Leave? Right now, in the middle of this?" he asked, clearly flummoxed, but then his gaze sharpened. "Did you say next Saturday?" he asked.

  Phoebe nodded and tried to grab his shoulders so she could push him out the door, but he turned away before she could get a good hold and shrugged off her hands. A flush had crept up his neck and the muscles in his back were so tense he could have stood demonstration for an anatomy class. "Damn it … I knew you were somehow involved with Angelo Venzara. Christ, as if I don't have enough to worry about." He turned back around then lowered his face until they were only inches apart and she could feel his breath fan her eyelashes. He took hold of her arms, his fingers tightened painfully. "I don't know what you're doing, Phoebe, but you need to tell me everything. Now."

  Phoebe's lips parted and she blinked. Her earlier suspicions that Trace was still hiding something from her roared to life. How the heck would a newly hired male stripper know anything about Angelo Venzara and Saturday night? "What are you talking about?" she asked tentatively, not about to reveal more than she needed.

  "What am I talking about?" He narrowed his eyes, his gaze boring into hers. After a few seconds, he appeared to have come to a decision, and went back to his jacket to exchange his wallet for a thin little notepad. In front of her, he flipped it open and started reading aloud. "The Mirage started picking up unmarked crates from the Bahamas two months ago. No one knows what they're carrying and there are no records of those crates with Customs. Next Saturday night, Mr. V. and two other ex-Mafia bosses, Robert Renaldo and Lorenzo Delefluente, are getting together in person for the first time in fifteen years. So far the police haven't been able to place one of their own people on the ship. Should I go on?"

  Phoebe shook her head, her eyes wide. "But how … how do you know so much?"

  Trace snorted. "How do you think?"

  She closed her eyes and whispered, "I knew you weren't really a stripper."

  "And I knew you weren't really a showgirl," he said, his voice flat.

  A knock sounded at the front door and she flinched. Trace looked into the foyer while Phoebe brought her fingers to her mouth. "Oh, no, Trace. You can't be here. You need to leave."

  Trace slowly looked back at Phoebe, his eyes so dark she could hardly see the blue anymore. "Why?"

  Phoebe swallowed and forced herself to meet his gaze. "You were very thorough but your information was wrong on one point. The police were able to place someone inside the Mirage." She shrugged and lifted her hands, palms up. "Me."

  * * *

  6

  « ^ »

  Trace could only gape at Phoebe. The knock on the door sounded louder and she looked up at him, her expression imploring. "Please, just do what I ask. Go wait in Tiffany's bedroom and I'll explain everything when Detective Alvarez leaves." She grabbed his hand and brought it to her chest. Her fingers squeezed his, her eyes pleaded, and Trace was almost ashamed to admit that even as angry and confused as he was, some small part of him registered the weight of her breasts against the back of his hand.

  Oh, all right, a big part of him registered the weight of her breasts against the back of his hand, but she'd nestled his lucky appendage right there in her sweet cleavage. What the hell was a man supposed to do? And okay, so maybe he'd taken a quick peek at her tight little nipples puckered beneath her robe. And there was a slight possibility that he'd glanced at her plump mouth, red and moist and swollen from licking it over and over again, something he'd noticed she had a habit of doing whenever she was nervous.

  But none of that mattered, because mostly, he sensed the desperation pouring off her in waves. He wanted to argue but said, "Fine. I'll make myself scarce, but I'll be right around the corner listening to every word you say."

  "Just stay out of sight. I don't want Alvarez to know you're here." She ran to the other room then came back, shoving his boots and fake police jacket and shirt into his arms. Then she pushed at Trace's chest and he ducked around the corner, still within hearing distance.

  His body felt numb and his mind raced as he listened to Phoebe greet the police detective. Why on earth would the cops use Phoebe Devereaux as their inside plant on the Mirage? Trace knew from overhearing Phoebe's phone call that Tiffany and her husband were in some sort of trouble and obviously responsible for Phoebe's current situation. But what sort of hold were they using on her, and why would she ever agree to something so colossally stupid as well as dangerous?

  His stomach churned. He was so angry and scared for Phoebe he felt like killing her himself and saving Venzara's thugs the hassle of fitting her with a pair of concrete boots. Speaking of boots, Trace's own pair had almost shifted out of his arms when he wasn't paying attention, and as quietly as possible he tugged the
m on, leaving the rest of his things rolled together on the floor. If Trace was caught by this Alvarez person, he'd rather not be found impersonating a police officer. Wearing a rip-away uniform, no less.

  Trace leaned back against the wall and waited while Phoebe exchanged pleasantries with the cop. Running over all the possible scenarios for her predicament, he happened to glance at the picture hanging across from him and grimaced. He wished Tiffany hadn't been quite so obvious in her choice of decor. It was hard enough not to pounce on Phoebe without the added passionate reminders everywhere he looked. And from what he'd seen during his brief stay, there wasn't a single damn room in the entire place that didn't scream sex. Sometimes subtly, sometimes not. This picture was a perfect example.

  At first glimpse the print of swirling colors seemed innocent enough. Until he'd gotten a better look and the image of a couple entwined in a carnal act that required the flexibility of an Olympic gymnast had all but leaped out from behind the glass. Now he couldn't even glance at the darn thing without sweating. Or wincing. And mirrors. Lord, were there mirrors. Strategically placed on walls, tabletops, even bookshelves so a couple could see their reflection standing or sitting or doing whatever from just about every angle.

  Trace sighed. Maybe Phoebe's sister just had funky taste in decorating and he was horny. He pulled himself away from his lustful fantasies involving Phoebe and the mirrors, and tried to concentrate on Phoebe and the cop. She was walking Alvarez into the living room now, her voice relatively calm as she offered the detective something to drink.

  While Phoebe clanked around the small kitchen playing hostess, Trace replayed their argument in his mind. Hell if he wasn't still reeling from the truth of why Phoebe had turned on him like a she-devil nine years ago. Obviously, Phoebe didn't know Trace at all if she believed he was capable of nailing the first woman to cross his path the moment her back was turned. The irony of course being that he'd rather chop off his own arm than end up anything like his old man—a two-timing son of a bitch who'd screwed his way through most of the female population in their small town before he'd left his family one night to buy a pack of cigarettes and never returned.