HER PRIVATE DANCER

by Cami Dalton

  Not long after his and Phoebe's success down in the hold, the Mirage had docked and—his brain full of romantic images of all he had planned—Trace had gone home to shower and change. Thirty minutes later, with two dozen pale pink roses in hand and a diamond ring in the front pocket of his leather jacket, he'd headed straight for Phoebe's place. But that's where things had gotten tricky. Believing there was plenty of time, he'd decided to pick up some wine. What he hadn't planned to do was run over a broken beer bottle in the liquor-store parking lot. Unfortunately, he hadn't realized that he'd gotten a flat until a mile later when the thwumping noise from the front end of the car had grown loud enough to sound like a helicopter was landing on the roof.

  Next had come the fun and antics of trying to jerk the deflated tire free. The darn lug nuts wouldn't budge an inch even though Trace had tugged hard enough to pop every blood vessel in his brain. Realizing that he was now going to be inexcusably late, he'd pulled out his cell phone to call Phoebe then promptly dropped it when a group of young women had driven by whooping and yelling out, "Sea Stud." The phone had skittered into traffic where it had been immediately demolished by a passing tow truck, the oblivious driver unfazed by the irony.

  A mere two hours later and Trace was back on the road when he'd remembered the leaf. The leaf he'd accidentally left in his other pair of pants when he'd changed. But at that point, there was no way in hell he was going back to get it. As far as Trace was concerned, Alvarez could wait for his freaking evidence. After that, everything had been relatively easy. A quick break and enter, and here he was, standing outside Phoebe's bathroom door with her on the other side crying her heart out—if the sobs just barely audible over the pounding water from the shower were anything to go by.

  Trace dropped the bouquet onto the dresser and set down the wine. He called out her name, not wanting to scare her as he walked inside. But once there, he hesitated, staring at her blurry image through the steamy glass, his pulse racing.

  "Phoebe?" He cursed under his breath. Yep, she was crying, all right. Hard. And it was all his fault. Unable to take a second more, Trace shrugged off his jacket then opened the glass door. She looked tiny standing in the corner. Of course, the shower was ridiculously huge and clearly designed for more than one person. More around five. Maybe six. Seven if a few of them were small.

  Phoebe's eyes were red and swollen and Trace said, "Oh, kitten."

  Her voice broke. "Wha-what are you doing here?" Tears dripped down her cheeks and mixed with the water pelting her body from all sides. And those damn mirrors Tiffany was so fond of even covered the walls in here, though they were now fogged from the steam.

  Holy hell, he'd get good and soaked this time, but he couldn't let her cry over him a second more. Trying to smile, he teased her as he stepped inside, "Here as in, here with you in the shower, or here as in, here inside your apartment?"

  She answered, her voice oddly flat and quiet, "Both. I didn't think you'd bother."

  Trace frowned, making a tsking sound as he moved toward her, but she shrank from his touch and his stomach clenched. He hadn't fought for her nine years ago, but this time he'd make her listen. He crowded her to the wall, pressed himself against her from chest to hips. "I know it looks bad, but you have to let me explain."

  She wouldn't meet his eyes. "Please don't. It was silly for me to expect you to wait on your story. I'm not mad. I should never have asked." She sounded tired, defeated, and that scared him even more.

  "Don't do this. I know you, Phoebe. You wouldn't be so upset if you didn't care. I wanted everything to be perfect tonight, but instead everything went wrong. I didn't lie when I said I would help you. I'm not going to try to sell my article until you've done everything you have to for the police. I was just late, but I'm here now. Look at me." He could feel his heart pounding in his throat. "I got a flat tire and it took forever to change and then you wouldn't answer the door. I wasted another twenty minutes picking the damn lock. But I'll make it up to you. I promise."

  Her expression blank, she asked, "Why didn't you call?"

  Trace winced. "Well, uh, my cell phone got run over by a truck."

  Phoebe briefly jerked her gaze to his, clearly not expecting that answer. "Oh. Did you bring the leaf?"

  Cursing, he rubbed the back of his neck. "No, I left it in my other pants. I wanted to wear something nicer than jeans though I shouldn't have bothered." He gestured to the streak of grease smeared down the front of his now see-through white shirt. "I know this all sounds like I'm making it up as I go, but I swear—"

  She shook her head then smiled sadly. "I told you before. I'm not mad." Phoebe laughed softly. "Part of me even thinks you're telling the truth. But it doesn't really matter."

  "The hell it doesn't." His voice rose. "How can you say that? If you love me it matters." She didn't respond and every muscle in his body tensed. "You meant it, didn't you? When you said that you loved me." This time he took her shoulders. "Phoebe?"

  "Yes. Of course I meant it." Her voice broke. "I love you, but it doesn't change a thing. It's not enough. We can't just turn away from—"

  "Not enough?" he interrupted, hugging her close, his body trembling. "You're crazy. It's more than enough. It's perfect." She tried to push away and then it dawned on him. "You silly thing. You want the words, don't you? You're not sure how I feel and want to hear them back." He laughed and hugged her tighter. "I love you, kitten." Trace kissed her hard, then smiling, said, "I've never said the words before to a woman who's not my mother. Well, maybe my sisters, but only on big holidays or their birthdays. But no one else. I haven't wanted to. I've been saving them for you. I love you." She groaned and shook her head, but he cupped her face. "I love you," he whispered, "so … damn … much…" Then Trace licked into her mouth. "Let me show you…" He spoke softly against her lips.

  Phoebe started to shake her head, but then groaned, suddenly blurting, "Show me." She sounded anxious, as if she didn't want to give herself time to change her mind. "Right now," she gasped. "Don't wait."

  But she wasn't acting right. He didn't want her desperate like this. "Shh," he quieted her, uneasy with all she wasn't saying. "There's no rush … I'm going to show you over, and over, and over," he chanted, punctuating each declaration with a long drugging kiss. Tonight was about her. He'd use every skill on Phoebe's body he'd wasted his time perfecting with other women. He'd worship her, drown her in pleasure, until nothing existed except them, together. One person. Because for him, nothing else mattered.

  * * *

  Phoebe panted through her mouth, her throat and eyes burning. His words echoed through her mind. He loved her, he loved her… But he didn't know her. Not really. The woman Trace believed he'd fallen in love with didn't even exist. Some brave and wild alter ego. Ready to live life for the moment and damn the consequences. But that was all an act. She'd only been able to pull this off because she'd known that eventually she'd go back to the same boring old Phoebe she was at home. "Don't cry," Trace whispered.

  She ducked her chin, and clung tightly to his chest. Phoebe knew that he believed they were going to be together, but knowing he loved her only made her more determined to end this now before it was too late. Dragging the pain out to the bitter end would be cruel to them both. Already she'd allowed herself to become too attached, their relationship no longer about some stupid plan to change herself and live wildly, but about love. The kind of love that could take over until nothing else mattered.

  "Please don't cry." He kissed her eyes, her nose, her chin. Frowning, he reached over to turn off the water. "Come on, let's dry you off." He took her hand and began to lead her from the shower, when he glanced down at himself. Grinning, he said, "You and this room are a deadly combination for my clothes." He kicked off his shoes. The rest soon followed, pushed aside into a wet clump on the tile.

  As he walked her to the towels, she devoured every inch of his damp skin with her gaze. This was their last time and she felt an almost frantic need to commit the ti
niest of details to memory so she could pull the images out later when she was alone.

  While he dried her off, their eyes met. He tapped her nose. "If I see one more tear, I'll bite you," he said, easily reading her.

  And Phoebe realized that she needed to get a grip on her emotions. Any second, he'd start questioning her, probing her for the truth behind why she was so upset, and she couldn't let that happen. She needed this last time with him too much. Phoebe took a shaky breath before turning for the bedroom. Over her shoulder, she taunted him, "And that's supposed to make me stop, right? Pretty poor incentive, McGraw. Why don't you come and make me…"

  "How about I just make you come?" was his quick response as he followed her to bed.

  * * *

  11

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  Trace pressed his lips to the button of flesh between her legs. His fingers dug into her thighs while she strained against his mouth, and with infinite care he bit down on her hood. "Damn, you're sweet."

  Panting, Phoebe gasped for breath. "Okay, I'm sorry I teased you. You were right. Your bite is torture."

  He laughed then nipped her again before licking away the sting, and she groaned. "I think I've proved my point," he said, chuckling softly. He slid up her body, catching his elbows beneath her knees.

  "Yes," she panted, "you certainly did. Four times over by my last count."

  Trace grunted. "Five," he said, thinking a certain amount of smugness on his part was deserved.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and tried to tug his weight down on top of her. "Only if you count that last one as two."

  "Cripes, woman. That two-for-one deal was nothing short of heroic. I deserve a medal for time and effort given in the line of duty."

  She shivered and licked his lower lip. "You certainly do. As a matter of fact, I'm done with keeping score. I'll never catch up."

  Laughing, he capped himself in her heat and her eyes flared. He gritted his teeth as her tight sheath trembled around the head of his arousal. "Now, let's see if we can try to end this together." And Trace slid so deep, he swore he could touch her heart. They moved and strained together for what could have been minutes but felt like hours until he knew he'd burst. A tear trembled on her lashes and right when it spilled over she arched her back and cried out, "I love you," and Trace swallowed her words with his mouth as if he could trap them inside him. Then he felt his own body tense in release, and reality simply fell away.

  Moments later, he panted for air, his head hanging between his shoulders as he slowly returned to earth. He told himself this was the right time, yet his pulse bolted like a runaway horse. Do it. Do it. While you're still buried deep inside her and her scream is ringing in your ear…

  "Marry me," Trace blurted, then held his breath. All right. So that proposal probably wouldn't go down in the annals of history as the most romantic or well thought out. But he'd meant it. Forget the wine and the flowers. The fancy jewelry box in his coat. He didn't want it choreographed, didn't want to churn out some contrived declaration. He wanted her to agree to be his wife while the sweat dried on their skin from the most incredible experience of their lives. It sure as hell had been for him and he refused to believe it had been anything less for her.

  She mumbled something indecipherable from beneath him.

  Trace lifted his head and flicked his hair from his eyes. "Was that a yes?" He tried to laugh. "Because I should probably tell you that it's the only answer I'm willing to except."

  "Thank you," she said through her yawn. "You're heavy, hon. Do you mind moving?"

  He gritted his teeth. "You're welcome. Yes, I'll move. And answer my question."

  She blinked sleepily. "Hmm? What are you talking about?"

  Anxiety and the sheer terror of rejection made him abrupt. "I just proposed. You slept through it. You're a woman and probably wouldn't have thought much of my delivery anyway, so I won't bother repeating it. But the deal's still on the table. What'll it be?"

  Her eyes snapped open. "You proposed?"

  His shoulders tensed and any lethargy that might have remained from his phenomenal orgasm flew out the window.

  She gave him a funny smile while her hands fluttered at his shoulders. Her laugh sounded forced. "I'm a little confused here. Are you saying that you asked me to marry you and that if I was a man I'd find your proposal acceptable?"

  Trace scowled. "Not funny. Unless you turn me down." His entire nervous system went haywire waiting for her response, and as he stared down at Phoebe, her bottom lip began to tremble. Then quiver. Then shake out of control. And before he could convince himself that this was a good thing and what every woman probably does before saying, yes, darling, of course I'll marry you. You've made me the happiest woman in the world, she burst into tears. Big noisy sobs that shattered any illusions he'd had left.

  "Why do I get the feeling these aren't tears of joy?" he asked flatly. Probably because he'd been dumped on his whole life and by this point was pretty well able to gauge the signs. He rolled off her, wincing as he pulled out. Hands shaking, he removed his condom and walked into the bathroom. His lungs wouldn't expand. She was going to say no and he could hardly fathom the reality of it. He ground the heels of his palms into his eyes. Why? Why would she do this?

  Anger was his only defense, a relief from the betrayal searing his chest. When he got back to her, he tossed a wad of toilet paper on the sheets. "Blow your nose and tell me what the hell is going on."

  "Oh, Trace, I can't marry you." She sat up and wiped her eyes.

  Hearing her come out and say it was like getting punched in the stomach. His knees felt ready to give out and he couldn't seem to breathe past the lump in his throat. He slumped down on the side of the bed, his elbows on his knees, his head heavy between his shoulders. He had to clear his throat twice. "Why not?"

  "I should have talked to you earlier," she choked out. "Let me clean up. I'll be right back." And there was nothing for him to say to that.

  When Phoebe returned, she'd brushed her hair and put on a thick chenille robe. He snorted. As if he didn't know exactly what she looked like down to the tiniest detail under that mountain of bulk. Her eyes were even puffier than before and she kept sniffing into her tissue. She cast him a quick glance. "This would probably be a bit easier if you'd put on some clothes."

  He didn't sound very nice when he answered her, but then, at the moment, he didn't feel very nice. "I ruined mine back in the shower. I'm down another pair of shoes, too."

  Her voice was hoarse. "I'm sorry."

  He rubbed his hands over his face and laughed. If he didn't, he was afraid he'd cry even harder than Phoebe. "I'm out another heart, too. This is the second time you've stomped mine into the ground."

  "Oh, Trace. You don't understand."

  "There's a news flash." A muscle ticked in his jaw and then he rose to his feet and began pacing the length of the room. "Explain to me what the hell is going on here, kitten, because I'm jumping to conclusions and none of them are pretty." He wasn't, but that was only because he was incapable of thought.

  She twisted her hands together and gave him a pleading look.

  Trace had to turn away from her. "Save the puppy-dog eyes. I may be a lot of things but I don't screw with people's heads. Stop messing with mine." His voice caught and he swallowed before going on. "Do you enjoy this? Is this some kind of payback for whatever you think I did to you in college?"

  "No." She sucked in her breath. "It's nothing like that. Oh, Tr—"

  "If you say 'oh, Trace' one more time…"

  Phoebe's hand brushed his back. She'd sneaked up on him unnoticed and he turned and pulled her into his arms. He buried his face in her neck. "Why are you doing this to me? To yourself? Hell, kitten, even I can see you're miserable. What do you want me to do? What can I say?"

  Gently she twisted free. She walked to the dresser where the roses sat wilting in the crisp florist paper. When he'd seen the blooms they'd immediately brought to mind a little girl's ballet sl
ippers, the same subtle yet pure shade of pink, and he'd bought every stem.

  Phoebe shook her head. "The woman you love doesn't exist," she said, and though he had no idea where she was going with this crazy line of thought, he was afraid to interrupt.

  Clearly agitated, she tugged and twisted with the belt on her robe as she spoke. "I pretended to be so different than I was in college, you know—" she waved her hand "—wild and impulsive. That's why I let Tiffany talk me into this whole mess. Helping out with the police and everything because the idea sounded kind of exciting. But after this is all over, I'll go back to being the same old Phoebe." She laughed hoarsely. "Maybe not so uptight and nervous, but still pretty unexciting. Normally I'm a ballet teacher, nowhere close to the showgirl I've been these past few days. You probably wouldn't even like me, really."

  "Of course I would, kitten." Trace raised his hands to his hair, all but tugging the stuff out at the roots as he roughly ran his fingers through. "I've all but begged you to stop dancing on that damn ship. I'm thrilled that you don't want to be a showgirl. You're not making sense."

  Phoebe groaned and turned away. "I'm not saying this right. It's not just the dancing, it's who I really am. You'd hate me within a week. Your feelings are based on a person who doesn't exist. I mean, come on, Trace—" she faced him, her eyes pleading with his "—you know how much I drove you crazy when we were in college. My idea of a fun Saturday night is renting a movie and eating too much chocolate. Yours involves multiple women and undercover writing."

  She scowled at her multiple women accusation, then looked away, rubbing her forehead. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't know I'd fall so hard or so fast." She turned toward him, her gaze imploring him to understand. "Don't you see? Eventually it won't work. I want a family. Kids. A husband who'll be around all the time. You know, fight over Wheel of Fortune with me or rent stupid movies at the video store. These last few days aside, I'm basically a very boring person. You're not." She laughed helplessly and shrugged. "I don't even know why you're with me in the first place. You could have any woman you want."