HER PRIVATE DANCER

by Cami Dalton

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Apparently not. And how do you know that I don't want the same things from marriage?"

  Phoebe sighed. "Give me a break, Trace. How many boring men do you know who'd take off their clothes in front of hundreds of women for a story? Being a showgirl was different for me. At least I was already a dancer and used to performing in front of an audience."

  Trace stood perfectly still. This was too much. Phoebe was rejecting him for supposedly not wanting the very things he'd dreamed of all his life. He scowled and held out his arms. "This is ridiculous. I'm the most boring guy I know. I haven't even been on a date for almost half a year."

  Phoebe pursed her lips. "Hmm? I guess that would have been back around the holidays, right? Back when you so boringly copulated with your editor's daughter on top of a copy machine. During the Christmas party, I believe." She nodded sarcastically. "You're right. It's hard to find a man much tamer than that."

  Trace narrowed his eyes. Pressure rose through him from his feet to the top of his head with enough force to make his hair blow off. "I did not have sex with that woman. Yes, I was drunk. Yes, she attacked me. Yes, I didn't feel I could fend her off by winding up and punching my editor's daughter." He turned away, unable to look at Phoebe without shaking her. Or begging. That was a big possibility, too.

  Phoebe lifted her hands to her head. "You can't just change who you are at the drop of a hat because you stick a ring on some woman's finger and say I do. Or decide to have a few Trace juniors running around." Her words stopped her and she blinked then looked away. "And then where would I be? The woman holding you back. Keeping you from being happy and fulfilled. Besides, you may want me now, but the feeling will go away. That's how it is with men. Especially men like you."

  He stilled and slowly turned his head toward her. No. Please, God, tell me I'm not hearing this, he thought. It would be too priceless that after all this time he was still being hung with the same frigging rope he'd been twisting from since he was old enough to know the difference between boys and girls. "What kind of man am I, Phoebe?" he asked softly.

  She waved her hand and looked away. "Please don't make me spell this out. You know you're every woman's fantasy come to life." Her cheeks flooded with color. "Jeesh, when you performed tonight, those screaming females all but rushed the stage. I've never seen so much cash all in one place. Heck, bank robbers don't even see that much cash in one place. And it was all being thrown at you. Keep dancing for a few more weeks and you'll be able to finance your own newspaper."

  Trace stared hard at a point over her shoulder. "I told you, I love you. I would never cheat on the person I love."

  "You love me now, but what about five years from now? Ten? Feelings are different for men. They fade over time and just go away…" Phoebe's mouth twisted bitterly. "A man can love his children one day and then, poof, he's got a blonde with boobs and now she's getting the bedtime stories, but not the kind he told to his little girls." Her movements jerky, she wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. "A decade from now you'll look even better than you do today while my backside will be down around my ankles. Trust me on this. I know. My father makes Cary Grant look like he didn't age well. He's just like you. Witty and charming. So handsome you could cry—and if you're part of his family, you will. I can't go through that again."

  Trade rubbed his jaw. His nostrils flared as he tried to slow his breathing. "Do you know why I became a reporter?"

  His question took her off guard. "No," she said hesitantly. "Not really. I guess because you like to write."

  "No." He narrowed his eyes and shook his head slowly. "I like the truth. Not what people want to hear, not what they want to believe, but cold, hard reality. Do you know why?" he bit out.

  Her expression leery, Phoebe shook her head.

  "You weren't the only kid with a father who screwed around. Except I had to face up to that fact every day of my life." He laughed harshly. "I can remember the folks in my hometown. I'd walk down the street and the rumors would start flying. 'There goes Pat McGraw's kid,' they'd say. 'Takes after his old man. Wild. A heartbreaker.' Never mind that my own heart had been broken before I was old enough to understand that my dad wasn't coming back. It didn't matter that I'd never seen the son of a bitch since I could walk. They just believed what they wanted and nothing I did would convince them otherwise."

  Trace made a harsh sound in his throat. "And sure enough, some girl would end up pregnant and the whispers would start. Of course, the kid was mine. It had to be. After all, my father nailed every willing female that came across his path. What did it matter that I was twelve years old the first time I was accused? Or fourteen? Or sixteen? Or every frigging year thereafter? That I had to work full-time because my mother slaved to take care of her six kids and she needed every scrap of money to help? That I'd rather die than leave a woman to face what my mother lived through? What I lived through. Hell, I'm handsome. I'll take whatever piece of tail I can get." He sneered, his anger ice cold. "The main reason I hated working at the Intruder wasn't just the stupid stories. What really ate at me was knowing that my hard work at the Herald went down the toilet because some woman decided she wanted to score. I never touched her, but what did that matter? Her daddy didn't care. Hell, she didn't care, either. And the whole load of garbage was swallowed by anyone who'd listen because of who I am. How I look."

  Phoebe stood frozen, her eyes wide. He had no idea if his words had gotten through to her or not, but in this case the truth behind Phoebe's rejection disgusted him. Frankly, he would rather have faced a lie. He felt sick to his stomach and, turning away, went into the bathroom and got his wet pants from the floor of the shower. He forced his legs into the ice-cold fabric, ignoring the chills puckering his skin. Swiping his keys off the counter, he saw his jacket on the floor. He put it on then fingered the square box in the pocket. Hell, he still just might cry after all. She was determined to throw away the best thing that had ever happened to him.

  On the way out, their eyes met one last time. Trace spoke softly, ignoring the tears streaming down her face. "I thought you were different. I thought you knew me. But then I guess I thought a lot of stupid things. Sorry to have wasted your time, kitten." Then he walked away and out of her life—for good this time.

  * * *

  Phoebe stared into the darkness as the phone rang in the background. She knew it was Tiffany checking to see if she'd learned anything important earlier tonight during the shipment. The answering machine picked up and Tiffany's voice filled the darkened bedroom.

  "All right, Phoebe. Where the heck are you? I've called three times. If you're screening your calls this is your last chance. If you don't answer, I'll know you're either dead in a ditch somewhere or in the hospital, and I'm calling Mom."

  Phoebe picked up the phone. "How about I don't feel like talking because I just ruined my life?"

  "You are there."

  Phoebe could hear the relief in Tiffany's voice and felt a moment's guilt.

  "So what's Mr. V. doing down in that room?" Tiffany asked. "Wait, don't tell me. You found out he's growing petunias in his basement."

  Phoebe blew her nose. "Not exactly. But I know for sure Mr. V. is growing plants. Plants that are being guarded twenty-four hours a day."

  "Then what's the problem? You're on the final stretch here."

  "Nothing," she said on a drawn-out sigh.

  Tiffany gasped. "Wait a second. I recognize that melancholy sound. You've met a man. I'm right, aren't I?" Her voice practically quivered with excitement. "What did you do to ruin it?"

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

  "Don't pout. I'm just good at what I know, and I know men. I also know you. So how did you screw it up?"

  Phoebe bit her lip. "I fell in love with him."

  "Fell in love with him? That was fast. But in your case fast is good. Keeps you from having too much time to think. Now, you just tell Tiff all about it and we'll come up with a way to make Mr. Wonderful fall
madly in love."

  Sniffing, Phoebe ran her wadded tissue under her nose. "That's not the problem. He's already told me he loves me. He even asked me to marry him. It's the worst thing that's ever happened."

  "All right. Back it up. If you love him and he loves you then what's the holdup? Marry him and live happily ever after. Get pregnant and have babies. Our children can play together. You are aware of the fact that you're rapidly approaching the big 3-0, right?"

  Phoebe took a deep breath, ignoring the reference to her status as a fossil, and said, "Well, for one, he's fallen in love with the person I've been pretending to be, not the real me." When Tiffany didn't appear suitably impressed, Phoebe added, "And he's handsome," she made this pronouncement as if Trace suffered from a deadly disease.

  Tiffany sucked in her breath. "What a jerk. The nerve of the man. Falling in love with you when obviously you deserve a hideous troll." After this sarcastic bit, she said pleadingly, "Tell me you really didn't tell this guy to hit the road because he's easy on the eyes."

  "Apparently I didn't explain myself. He's not just attractive. He's a hunk. One hundred percent gorgeous. Testosterone on the hoof." When Tiffany still didn't respond, Phoebe sighed and said, "Let's put it this way. He's better-looking than Dad."

  "Holy crap. It's a wonder the poor guy got as far with you as he did. Where did you meet this doomed man?"

  "On the Mirage. But I know him from college. I sort of used to have a crush on him."

  "Are we talking about that young god who for some reason ignored the fact that you're a lamebrain and chased you for four straight years?"

  "No. The other guy I had a crush on," Phoebe said dryly.

  Tiffany grunted. "This is no time for jokes unless I'm telling them. What was he doing on the Mirage?"

  "Trace is a reporter. He's trying to get information for a story on Mr. V. Sort of like me, except Trace is actually good at his cover."

  "Which is?"

  "He's one of the male strippers."

  Tiffany choked. "No way. Tell me he's not this Sea Stud person the girls keep talking about."

  "All right, I won't."

  Tiffany huffed. "I swear, Phoebes, sometimes you make me so mad I could kill you. Why on earth are you home crying when you could be in bed with this guy?"

  "I was the first two times you called. Then he asked me to marry him. I said no and he left."

  Her little sister groaned. "Phoebe, Phoebe … what am I going to do with you?"

  "Eat chocolate with me. You're pregnant and I'm depressed. For the first time in our lives we should be in complete munchy agreement."

  "I was thinking something more along the lines of a good swift kick in the butt."

  "I'd prefer the chocolate."

  "I'm sure you would. Then you could go on pretending that you're not a walking case study of the Oedipus complex."

  Phoebe stiffened. "What on earth are you talking about?"

  "I assume you gave this Trace person some cock-and-bull line about how you don't want to end up with a man like Dad."

  Phoebe's lips parted. "How did you know that?"

  "Oh, please. You're painfully predictable on this. Your only relationships have been with men who could've served as founding members of Middle-Aged Dorks Anonymous. Meanwhile, you're beautiful and funny. A bit of a dork yourself, but nothing that the right man wouldn't overlook. Phoebe, you don't want a husband, you want a father. But that will never work because eventually you'll take what you need, mature and grow, then wish you had a mate, not a parent."

  Phoebe pulled the phone away from her ear then stared at it. When she brought it back to her mouth, she said, "Who the hell is this I'm talking to?"

  Tiffany ignored her. "The fact is, Phoebe, you've been hiding your head in the sand over Mom and Dad for a long time and I haven't bothered to correct you because I know how upset you get. But Dad loves us and would be a completely different person if Mom wasn't insanely jealous of her own daughters. Why do you think Dad was always so scared to pay any attention to us? Still is, for that matter?"

  Phoebe opened her mouth then closed it. After a moment she said, "But that's not right. If he loves us he should stand up to her."

  Tiffany sighed. "I didn't say that he isn't screwed up himself. In spite of what you may think, he loves her, too. Why else would he stay with her?"

  "Mom's a convenience. A hostess for his parties—"

  "Yeah, that's Mommie Dearest all right. So warm and approachable to her guests. Especially the female ones. Not!" Tiffany gave a frustrated growl. "The point of telling you all this is to make you realize that Mom and Dad have created their own mess. Not because Dad didn't love us but because Mom's a neurotic she-wolf who never should have reproduced."

  "Well, thanks for clearing that up. I feel much better."

  Tiffany snorted. "You'll feel much better when you realize that loving a man who has the ability to get a date other than yourself is a good thing. You wouldn't know since you haven't tried it but, believe me, it's not to be underestimated. And as far as this guy only being interested because you've become such a wild woman…" Tiffany said this last part with such disbelief there was no mistaking her meaning. "If I recall, he was crazy about you back in college when you were a confirmed loser. What did he say when you explained how boring you really are, and that he'd have to be an idiot not to despise you?"

  Phoebe stared at her lap, worrying her bottom lip. "He claimed that he was boring, too. Something about not having a date in ages, and junk like that. But I think he knew it was what I wanted to hear."

  "Oh, yeah. Men usually come up with all sorts of lies to get women to marry them. The needy fools, so anxious to settle down and give up their freedom. If this jerk is telling you that he wants you over all the other women that throw themselves at him, then don't listen. It's the oldest line in the book."

  Stunned, Phoebe could only gape silently. Then finally, no longer able to hide or avoid the truth, Phoebe groaned, her eyes stinging painfully. "Oh, Tiffany, how'd you get so smart? And why aren't you locked up in a rubber room somewhere after the childhood from hell?"

  "Because of you, Phoebe. All because of you. So if you love Trace then trust yourself."

  Phoebe groaned. "I really think I blew it this time."

  "Then fix it. Now. And for heaven's sake, do not wear your nerd clothes when you chase him down and beg his forgiveness. Look in my closet and wear the tightest thing you can find. Remember, nothing says I love you like a short spandex skirt."

  "Last week you said that nothing says I love you like going without underwear."

  Tiffany laughed. "Use the underwear trick with a spandex skirt and he'll be singing 'here comes the bride' before the poor man knows what hit him."

  * * *

  Two days later, Phoebe slammed down the phone. Trace was either dead or avoiding her. And after an unbearably long forty-eight hours she didn't know which possibility was worse. He'd tended bar again last night, but by the time she'd gotten off the stage he'd disappeared. Other than the plain envelope slipped under her door yesterday, containing the infamous leaf, Trace might as well have slipped off the face of the earth.

  She'd taken the stupid piece of greenery to Alvarez this morning and should soon have some sort of results. Otherwise, the last two days had been painfully uneventful. Yes, Renaldo and Delefluente had arrived with their men, but like Mr. V., neither of the pair were the scariest of fellows. Both short and round with bushy mustaches, they more resembled a real-life Super Mario and his brother, Luigi.

  Phoebe was tired of worrying about the whole mess, so, her stomach growling, she headed for the kitchen. She hadn't been to the grocery store recently, and rooted through Tiffany's cabinets hoping to find a can of soup or maybe some macaroni and cheese that she could whip up, boxed or canned foods being the extent of her culinary abilities.

  Shoving packages aside, her hand landed on a mason jar of Mr. V.'s deep red sauce. Phoebe grinned and wrinkled her nose, the thought of
another serving of Mr. V.'s homemade marinara more than she could stomach at the moment. Poor Bobby hadn't been the only one over the last two days who'd been forced to eat a few plates of spaghetti. Angelo Venzara cornered anyone and everyone who worked on his ship to try his latest recipe. But as she went to move the jar aside, her gaze landed on the paper label glued to the back of the glass, the words Filleto Di Pomodoro leaping out at her. Filleto Di Pomodoro. Phoebe's hands stilled and she shook her head.

  "No, it couldn't be," she whispered. "Filleto Di Pomodoro … Isola Pomodoro…" The words, the names, were so similar. Inexplicably excited, Phoebe knew that she was on to something. Especially when she considered all the batches of homemade sauce Mr. V. had been so frantic to perfect.

  A few minutes later, Phoebe sat in front of Tiffany's computer, staring at the screen. Her eyes were wide as she reread the words on the Italian vocabulary site she'd found on the Web. The pieces clicked together as Phoebe forced herself to acknowledge the truth. Slowly, her smile grew until her face actually hurt. And then she let herself laugh, a wave of relief sweeping through her. Hallelujah! Tiffany and Tony had been right. Go figure.

  A few minutes later, her tears of laughter all but finally stopped, Phoebe picked up the phone. "Yes, could I please speak to Detective Alvarez?" she asked the dispatch operator. Alvarez was going to be livid when he heard her theory, but in her heart, she knew she was right.

  Then she realized what this could mean for her and Trace, and a plan began to take shape in her mind. Maybe it was about time to acquaint herself with Tiffany's new sister-in-law. Strangely enough, Angie Venzara might be just the person to help Phoebe fix the mess she'd made of her life. The few times she'd spoken to Angie on the ship, the woman had actually been very nice. And she loved her brother Tony to distraction, that much was obvious. If Phoebe could enlist Angie's aid, then Trace would be forced to listen. After that, it would be up to God and Tiffany's miniskirt…