HER PRIVATE DANCER Page 11

  Well, this certainly put any last-minute anxieties about performing as a showgirl into perspective. What was dancing in heels and a thong bikini in comparison to full, canine-position nudity? With that obvious answer in mind, Phoebe dropped her forehead to her knees and cried her humiliated heart out.

  * * *

  Trace stood outside the bathroom door, ready to bang it down if he had to. By the time he'd calmed down enough to leave the kitchen without killing her, Phoebe had turned chicken and fled the scene. Well, she owed him some answers and he wanted them now. Her conversation with that cop had all but given him a heart attack.

  Forced to sit silently and listen to Phoebe's proposal to Alvarez had been one of the worst moments of Trace's life. If it wouldn't have blown his cover as well as gotten her in trouble, he would have stormed into their meeting and told her to shut the hell up. Anything to stop the words spilling from her mouth as she laid out her dangerous proposition to get Tony Venzara and her good-for-nothing sister off the hook. The minute he finished strangling her, Phoebe was going to explain herself and then he was going to strangle her again.

  Trace lifted his hand to the door, but with his first knock it slipped open a crack. She was crying, all sniffles and gulps, and the sound brought him up short.

  He hesitated and this time tapped softly. "Phoebe, are you okay?"

  Her sobs broke off for a moment, but she didn't answer. Trace frowned, stymied. He rested his hands on either side of the door frame unsure how to go on. He didn't want to invade her privacy, yet her heartbreaking cries had his own heart pounding. But only an asshole would just storm in without permission. He thought about this for a minute then figured that pretty much freed him up and pushed open the door. He took one look at her and his anger immediately took a back seat.

  "Kitten? Honey, what is it? What's wrong?" As he squatted next to her, he caught a reflection of the same movement from the corner of his eye. He turned his head and stiffened, his jaw almost hitting the floor.

  It was like standing in a house of mirrors. There wasn't a single damn inch of her he couldn't see if he so chose and, oh, did he so want to choose. Unfortunately, now wasn't the time and Trace cursed under his breath then forced himself to look away.

  He kneeled on the bottom step and took her face in his hands. "Phoebe, look at me. What happened?"

  "I'm f-fine." She bit her lip and gave him a watery smile and it made his chest tighten. Another tear leaked out, dripping over his fingers. It stung, not on his skin, but inside where her pain had suddenly become his. Still sniffing and wiping, she said, "It's nothing, really," then added, "Honest."

  Trace snorted. "Give me a little credit. I may be a man, but even I can see right through that whopper." He let his hands slide down to her shoulders. "Jeez, kitten, you're freezing." In spite of the sheen of perspiration coating her body, she felt like ice. Her torso rose and fell erratically with her labored breathing, and Trace remembered from back in college just how bad one of her panic attacks could get.

  His gaze fell on the steam rising from the hot water filling the bath. Trace didn't waste time except to glance at his prized boots and say, "Screw it." Then he scooped Phoebe up, her body still curled like a pill bug, and stepped into the bathtub, clunky biker boots, stripper pants and all.

  * * *

  7

  « ^ »

  Phoebe gasped while Trace ignored the water filling his boots. "Wh-what are you do-doing?" she asked, her breath hitching as she cried, though he suspected that for the moment shock was winning out over panic attack.

  "Hush. You're too cold," he said, submerging them both. "I'm getting you warm."

  "B-b-but your pants—"

  "Are wet." He leaned back then slid down so they both sank deeper into the heat.

  She tried to struggle, difficult since she wouldn't let go of her legs, and she managed to choke out, "You're crazy … absolutely crazy."

  "That's me. Crazy Trace McGraw. Scourge of naked crying women everywhere."

  "You're doing it again," she said, tears obvious in her voice.

  "What's that?" He cupped a handful of water and poured it over her trembling shoulders.

  "Being nice."

  Trace's lips curved. "Sorry."

  "You should be." Then she lifted her right hand from its death grip around her calves and rubbed her eyes. But instead of returning her arm back to where it had circled her legs, she rested it on Trace's shoulder. Almost a hug of sorts as she leaned into him. He swore he felt something shift in his chest.

  Gradually, over time, she turned fluid in his arms, her tears drying up, and he heaved a mental sigh of relief. Now, he thought determinedly, to get to the bottom of this… A faint smile on his lips, Trace began to kiss his way down her neck.

  "Phoebe." He singsonged her name, dragging the syllables out against the sensitive flesh just behind her earlobe. He could feel where her mouth was pressed into his shoulder and it curved into a tiny smile. "Are you feeling better?"

  She nodded softly. "Yes, actually." Her voice hushed.

  Needing to comfort her, and reassure her, and willing to offer just about anything to make certain she didn't go through one of these attacks again, Trace hugged her tight and said, "I know it's been a rough morning, but we'll work it out. All that stuff you agreed to with Alvarez … I'm not thrilled but I'll help. I won't let anything happen to you. I promise. You don't need to be scared or upset. We'll come up with something, okay?"

  Phoebe sniffed. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, we'll talk about the details later, but you just scared the hell out of me and I never want to go through that again. I forgot you had panic attacks."

  Phoebe nodded, her voice still small. "Mostly when I was younger. I only get them now when I'm really stressed out."

  Trace grunted. "Well, I guess if anything was going to trigger one, I'd say you had a pretty good excuse. But I don't want you to worry about the cops or your sister or this thing with Mr. V., okay? Maybe we can talk to Alvarez and work out a deal where I can get him the information he needs." Trace sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm on the Mirage anyway. Once I get my story and find a paper where I can sell the article, I don't mind telling the police whatever I know."

  Phoebe popped up like a jack-in-the-box and looked at him, cool air rushing between their skin. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying except now they were also wary.

  "No." She wiped the back of her hand under her nose like a child, and Trace almost smiled. "That's very nice of you, but I can't let you do that." And though she still sounded a bit shaky, her stubbornness was certainly coining across loud and clear. "This is my responsibility," she went on, "and I won't—"

  "No, it's not." Trace interrupted, ignoring her naked breasts, which she'd apparently forgotten about and were right there in front of him, and said, "I may not have all the details yet, but I know that this is your sister's mess."

  Phoebe huffed. "Yes, but now that I'm here I couldn't just dump my problems on someone else—"

  "Tiffany did." As much as he tried not to, his eyes started to wander and he figured staring at her breasts was okay as long as he held off touching until they were done with their argument.

  She scowled. "That's beside the point. I'm here and I'm staying and I'm seeing this through. Your offer is very thoughtful, but—"

  "Oh, yeah? Then what are you going to do the next time you get like this?" Then again, he reconsidered, maybe it was time to move on to the touching part since apparently their argument wouldn't be over anytime soon. "I'm not trying to be mean here, kitten, but how the hell are you going to play spy when you're hypothermic and hyperventilating? If you're this upset just from talking to Alvarez, I can guarantee that you'll freak out when you start sneaking around that damn ship. And if you think—"

  Phoebe yelled over top of his tirade, "If you interrupt me one more time, I'm going to hit you and my panic attack had nothing to do with Detective Alvarez." She stopped suddenly. "Well, I mean,
" she hedged, her face turning red, "that's not what started it, anyway."

  Trace looked away from her breasts, though he was still thinking about them, and met her gaze. "Then what the hell brought that on?"

  Phoebe's expression became distinctly uncomfortable and she started to shift awkwardly on his lap and just that small movement almost made his eyes cross. She stammered for a few seconds and then, shocking him near out of his skin, she slid back into his arms and dropped her face into the crook of his neck—which pressed her bare breasts into his bare chest—and wailed, "Oh, Trace, I'm soooo embarrassed."

  He stared at his stunned reflection in the mirror across from him. "Embarrassed?" He frowned down at her head.

  "I don't want to talk about it," she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

  "Tough. You're talking. Explain."

  She said no, and he said yes, until finally Phoebe moaned, "I don't want to," and curled back into a ball, turning her face to her knees and hugging them tight, and Trace realized he was insane because he was pushing her right back into the same situation he'd walked in on and that his stupidity had also lost him all contact with her breasts.

  "Shh," he soothed, backtracking in his mind at top speed. "I'm sorry. Don't get upset again, okay? I just want to help." He took a deep breath, his cheeks puffing out as he exhaled. "You know," he spoke softly, skimming his fingers over the delicate ridges of her spine, "I can't make it all better unless you tell me the problem."

  She kept her head tucked. "Even you can't go back and erase the last twenty-four hours."

  "The last twenty-four hours, huh? Was seeing me again so bad?" Originally he'd only meant the question as a joke, but his heart skipped a beat and he held his breath as the silence dragged out.

  Finally, she lifted her gaze to his. "No." She shook her head. "It's not that at all." She sighed then went on reluctantly. "Okay, all this stuff with Tiffany and the police already had me pretty shaky, but it's more what you saw of me that got the ball rolling. Specifically, what you saw this morning."

  He cocked his head, and she looked heavenward and said, "When I answered the phone. This morning … and you walked in." Phoebe met his eyes while a blush spread across her skin all the way down her neck and headed toward those darn breasts again that he was so fixated on. Trace couldn't help but grin.

  "Now, why would you want to go and deprive me of one of the highlights of my life?"

  "Don't laugh at me."

  He smiled wider. "I'm not laughing at you, kitten."

  "Yes, you are." She looked away. "Though I guess I can't really blame you. You must have thought I looked so stupid."

  "I can honestly say that stupid is a word that never even entered my mind," he said, his voice dry.

  She snorted then rolled her eyes. "Forgive me. You must have thought I was a genius trying to speak into a vibrator."

  He did laugh at this. "Honestly, I wasn't capable of thought. At least negative ones." His stomach clenched at just the memory. She'd looked amazing. The stuff wet dreams were made of, and he bit back a groan. "Kitten, if ever there was a woman made for that view," he shuddered, "it's definitely you."

  Phoebe opened her mouth then closed it, blushing harder. "Nice line. And here I thought that it was your face the ladies went nutso over."

  He grinned. "If you liked that one, I've got a few more." Then he winced. "Though I admit, none as suave."

  She said flatly, "It's called extreme amusement. Or pity." She pressed her face back into his shoulder and moaned.

  "What can I do to make you believe that the only thing pitiful about this whole situation is how easily you arouse me? Cripes, woman, the sight of your toes is enough to make my hands shake." He tweaked one under the water.

  She groaned. "You're just being nice again."

  The woman was certifiable. And apparently didn't have a clue that she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Speaking against her cheek, he said, "Don't you know what you do to me…?"

  She must have recognized the intensity in his voice because she popped back up, forgetting she was naked and offering him a clear and unobstructed view of those gorgeous breasts again. He could have wept with relief.

  "You're actually serious," she said.

  He could only nod. He was getting a second chance here and was not about to waste it. Running his finger over her collarbone, he slowly journeyed downward. Her nipples puckered up impudently like ripe berries. She let out a tiny squeak then smacked her hands over her chest, and he almost snarled.

  She said, "I don't understand. I'm not exactly a femme fa-tale."

  "Oh yes you are … but worse. Much worse," he whispered because he couldn't have talked any louder without his voice cracking. "Let me prove it. Let me show you what I see." Gently, he took hold of her wrists. "I want to touch you … everywhere." He stared into her eyes. "Will you let me?"

  * * *

  Phoebe licked her lips and glanced away. Smacking her hands over her chest had been more a reflex than anything else, but screaming out yes hardly seemed appropriate either, even if it was her gut reaction. Oh, this all seemed so silly now, but it was the position that she'd been in when Trace had found her naked that had mostly triggered her panic attack, not him seeing her naked. But how to explain that he could look or touch just about anything he wanted as long as she didn't have to flip onto her knees and press her face to the floor anytime soon. And then maybe later she could try that … when she'd worked her way up to it.

  Then Trace lowered her hands and used both of his and she didn't have to worry about sounding inconsistent because she was no longer capable of speech. His palms were gentle and hot on her skin and she arched her back then groaned. Or did he? She couldn't be sure and didn't really care because now his fingers were circling her nipples, doing some sort of magic flicky thing, and her eyes almost rolled back in her head. Her nipples pulled painfully tight, turned dark and red, and she panted with each press and glide.

  "Will you?" he asked again. His voice rasped like velvet over her exposed nerves. Steam from the bath had curled the ends of his hair. Pieces stuck to the side of his neck and face. Lord, he was beautiful. And apparently out of his mind.

  He was offering to fulfill every desire she'd been struggling with since seeing him again—not to mention the years of late-night fantasies starring the one and only Trace McGraw—and he thought that she might actually say no? Phoebe hardly knew where to start and wondered if he'd find her too forward if she just ripped off his pants and jumped him. She cleared her throat. "Well, uh, sure. Okay. I mean, yes, of course. If you really want to." Oh, nice, Devereaux. Very sophisticated. Begging would have left her with more dignity than that answer.

  "Hell yes, I want to," he growled. He cupped her jaw and pulled her close, kissing along the bone. "Damn you're beautiful." He spoke reverently and she almost laughed.

  Smiling, she clasped her hands over top of his and closed her eyes. "That's what I was going to say."

  "Thanks." He chuckled softly, the sound making her shiver right down between her thighs. He kissed her closed lids. Petal-soft whispers slid over her face then down to her mouth.

  Slowly, Phoebe blinked open her eyes. "I need to say something first." She licked her lips then forced herself to meet his gaze. Then as sincerely as she knew how, she apologized. "I'm sorry. For accusing you before about your sister and everything. I was wrong and should have given you a chance to explain back when this happened—" She broke off. "I wish I had. You'll never know how much I really, really wish that I had."

  Trace's pupils widened. Gently he leaned forward and gave her the barest of kisses. "I'm sorry, too. I should have made you talk to me, not given up so easily, but I was stupid." He shrugged then sighed. "Really, really stupid," he whispered. She started to protest but he shook his head, and staring at her lips, murmured, "Later," then licked into her mouth, his tongue sliding deep, and Phoebe moaned and turned into him. After far too short a time, he spoke into her mouth and as
ked, "Do you trust me?"

  She nodded absently, thinking, Yeah, sure, whatever … her focus more centered on the fairly massive erection beneath her hip than anything he was saying. He felt heavy and solid, thicker than her wrist, and she had to squeeze her thighs together to keep from squirming against him.

  His breath hissed out. "Good." And something about the way he said this grabbed her attention and made her pulse jump.

  Trace took her legs then and lifted them until they were on top of his, bent at the knees with her back to his chest, and she moaned and said, "I liked where I was," and he chuckled softly then said, "Trust me. You'll like this, too." Phoebe shivered but not because she was cold. Everywhere she looked she could see them entwined, the picture of her naked legs decadent against the black fabric of his pants.

  Then he whispered, "I want to see all of you."

  Phoebe swallowed and tried to laugh. "I thought you had. Didn't we already discuss this?"

  Trace grinned. "I want another look…" He didn't wait for permission, instead kissed the side of her neck then slowly opened his legs taking hers with him.

  Then again, she thought as she squirmed in his hold, her naked core displayed right there before her eyes, maybe she'd been a bit too hasty. "You know what? I'm cold. Maybe we should do this in the bedroom." She wanted to have sex but was starting to rethink the whole decision to let him look at anything he wanted.

  He braced his hand low on her stomach, and she got distracted again, this time by his splayed fingers covering her from hipbone to hipbone. "Liar." He made it sound like an endearment. "Watch," he whispered then put his hands on her knees before she could think to close them and positioned them outside his own. Now he had the leverage to open her thighs all the wider, which he did, stretching until his own knees met the walls of the large tub. She rested on top of his pelvis above the water, yet instead of feeling cold, his naked chest radiated heat clear through to her belly, his arousal straining against her bottom.