HER PRIVATE DANCER Page 14

  And with just that one word, a pool of warmth flooded her chest and Phoebe thought, I could love this man for the rest of my life. Then she realized what she'd said to herself and thought, no, I can't. I mean, I could have sex with this man every day for the rest of my life. No, wait, that can't be right either. And then she thought, if I don't say something soon, I may be standing here for the rest of my life.

  "Hi." She smiled back.

  "Are you okay? I mean after yesterday. I wasn't too rough or anything?" he asked, his voice quiet and low.

  Blushing, she pressed her face into his neck and shook her head. Trace was so sweet and protective, it made her go all weak in the knees. Heck, she was one step away from lifting her hand to her forehead and sighing like a southern belle and didn't even care. Oh, brother, if she wasn't careful, she'd start spouting off romantic nonsense about love and Trace, and being in love with Trace. Phoebe stilled and her eyes widened. Oh, nooooo…

  Jerking herself back from her crazy, insane thoughts, she said, "No. I'm great." And he responded by giving her a hug.

  They stood there quietly, content for the moment, and she relaxed into his hold and rested her head on his shoulder. After her conversation with Sonny, she needed the comfort of being held in Trace's arms. Of course, his hand on her butt was pretty nice, too.

  "Practice was long," she finally said, "but my dancing is getting better." She wasn't about to tell Trace just how much better, at least according to Sonny, assuming he hadn't already heard.

  "I guess that means you can still walk."

  Phoebe laughed then poked him in the stomach. "Not easily, but I've managed. Though, I am a bit, er, tender."

  "Ouch." He rubbed his stomach, feigning injury. Then he dropped his voice suggestively and said, "I guess I'll just have to kiss it and make it better." He took hold of her hips and her eyes widened.

  "Not here!"

  "Nope," he agreed. "The dressing room should be fine though." He wiggled his eyebrows.

  She wiggled out of his arms. "No way." She lowered her voice. "Besides, we have more important things to do, like check out that cargo. Did they get another shipment or something? I didn't hear about one coming in." Her headdress slipped again, drooping down over one eye. She shoved it back in place, blowing a feather from her face.

  Trace rolled his eyes. "Not that I know of. Which is why I'm checking." Then he scowled. "And we're not doing anything." After a quick glance around, he took her arm and steered her toward the dressing room. He led her inside and locked the door behind them.

  Trace turned to her, his voice low. "This is no time to be stubborn, Phoebe. I told you that I'd tell the police everything I know. There's no reason for you to still put yourself in danger."

  "And I told you thanks but no thanks. I have to do this." Phoebe walked to her locker then hung her costumes inside.

  "Why? This is crazy. You're pinning all your hopes on that darn meeting Saturday night. And you still haven't even managed to finagle your way into it yet."

  "That isn't true. I'm starting with Mr. V.'s island." She took off her stupid hat then unhooked her tail plumage before plopping down into her chair. "I know you heard me telling Alvarez about the place. Tiffany thinks it's called Isola Pomodoro or something else Italian. And Sonny already implied that he had some extra work for me this weekend if I danced well during the show tomorrow night." Her torturous heels were the next to be immediately removed.

  Trace snorted. "I bet he did."

  Phoebe flashed a look of disgust then slipped on the robe hanging from the back of her chair and sat back down. "Anyway, I also talked to Tony this morning. He told me that Mr. V.'s cousin, Vinny, has a son, Rocky, who works here, too, and that Tony called him and said—"

  Trace held up his hand. "Wait a minute. Who the hell said what to whom?"

  Phoebe rolled her eyes. "Mr. V. has a cousin, Vinny. Vinny has a son, Rocky. Rocky works on the Mirage, too. Tony called Rocky. Are you still with me?" Trace looked as if he'd sucked on a lemon. His lips were twisted, and he had a sort of frowny, scowly expression taking over his face and she couldn't help but laugh.

  "Yes, I'm with you. Though the Venzara men have worse names than the showgirls. But go on." He motioned with his hand for her to continue.

  "Tony called Rocky. They're around the same age and I guess they're friends—"

  Trace looked at the ceiling and growled her name in warning.

  "Just bear with me. Rocky is Mr. V.'s accountant."

  "An accountant named Rocky. Why doesn't this surprise me?" Trace muttered, though he did appear to perk up some at this interesting tidbit.

  "When Tony spoke with him, Rocky complained about how uptight Mr. V. has been lately. And I guess when Mr. V. gets tense he cooks, and wants everyone around him to eat, which means poor Rocky has put on ten pounds in the last two weeks."

  Trace started tapping his foot, but Phoebe ignored him. "Rocky said that Mr. V. is really being crazy about this Saturday night. Wants everything to be perfect, including the menu. He's made eighteen batches of tomato sauce since last week, which, if you've ever met Mr. V., is a big deal. The man takes food seriously. I talked to him once and half the time we discussed seasonings."

  Trace glanced at his watch and said, "This is fascinating. And I mean that. Really. Unfortunately, I have a bar to stock, otherwise I could listen to this all day."

  Phoebe shrugged. "Fine. If you don't want to hear about the launch that's meeting the Mirage tomorrow night out at sea, then what do I care."

  Trace rubbed the back of his neck. "No, the launch I want to hear about. It was the Chef Boyardee chronicles that were starting to drag."

  She merely sniffed then lifted her chin before continuing. "You heard Alvarez say that Mr. V. is liquidating his assets. Apparently, Mr. V. has put a lot of money into his island, and if this meeting goes well, hopes to throw in a lot more. Everything is riding on the outcome of Saturday night. Mr. V. has gone so nutso over all this that he refuses to wait until Thursday for the next shipment when the Mirage stops in Nassau—the same day that Renaldo and Delefluente are arriving in Miami. Though Rocky has no idea what the shipment actually is. In fact, it turns out Renaldo and Delefluente are both apparently bringing something on board, too, each with his own men to guard his separate stuff. Rocky also said that Mr. V. keeps ranting about his samples and how they have to be ready for Saturday night and that Renaldo and Delefluente will only accept the best. So, a boat from Isola Pomodoro will meet the Mirage at sea tomorrow night and deliver Mr. V.'s shipment one hour before the ship heads back to port."

  Trace stared unseeingly, his eyes narrowed on some spot behind her. Then he said, "I guess I won't waste my time going down there today." He rubbed his finger across his bottom lip. "I'll have to get the other bartender, Brett, to cover for me, but I can work that out. This is great." He gave her a huge smile. Then he hesitated and asked, "Have you told Alvarez yet?"

  "That is the whole point of all this," she answered dryly. "Me passing along information to the cops. Of course I told Alvarez, and he wants me to find out what's in those crates. Fortunately, the launch should be meeting the ship right before my last set, so I can be down there when they're unloading. If I don't have enough time, I can see where they're keeping the shipment then go back later."

  Trace shoved both hands in his hair, and he looked as if he was ready to yank it out at the roots. "I can't believe Alvarez is actually using you for this crap."

  Rubbing her blistered feet, she said, "Yep," and smiled smugly. "I told you it would work."

  "Great," Trace muttered and spun away. He started pacing back and forth then finally said, "Listen, not only is this way too risky, you have no experience. What if you mess everything up? If Sonny or Mr. V. finds out about you, your life could be in danger. Besides, I have to consider my story. If I don't get it, I'm screwed. Let me talk to Alvarez. He'll probably agree with me."

  "I've got an idea. How about I take care of everything and after the p
olice make their arrest, I'll give you the inside scoop?"

  His scowl darkened, and when he spoke it sounded as though his teeth were clenched. "First, because you could get killed if Sonny figures out what you're doing—"

  Phoebe interrupted. "So could you. What's the difference?"

  She noticed a muscle had started ticking in Trace's jaw. "There just is," he said. Then he pointed his finger at her and said, "I do not want to find your body floating in the water down by the docks. It's a nice body. I'm partial to it. I have plans for that body."

  Phoebe didn't bother pointing out his inconsistencies, instead choosing to be flattered. Of course, his words had so excited her, she didn't have any breath to argue with him anyway.

  "And second," he went on, "because I need my story before the police make their arrest. Once the newshounds get wind of this, a hundred other reporters will be on the trail. All the good papers will use their own staff and I won't have jumped the gun on any of them."

  Phoebe shook her head. "Why don't you just sell your story to the one you're working for now?"

  A flush of red crept up Trace's neck. Too casually, he sauntered over to the makeup mirror and started fiddling with the little jars of cosmetics. "Working at the same place gets stale. I thought I'd shop my piece around and see what sort of interest I could drum up."

  She pursed her lips, studying him as he fidgeted and blushed. Finally she asked, "What's the name of this paper where you work?"

  He wouldn't look at her and mumbled some indecipherable answer.

  Cocking her head so her ear turned toward him, she said, "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that." He said a bit louder, "The—" and then everything else was slurred again.

  Ooh, the darn man could be annoying when he wanted. "Will you please speak normally? I can't understand a word you're saying."

  "The Daily Intruder," he all but shouted this time.

  Phoebe widened her eyes. "Oh, well then." Her lips started twitching. "I can see your dilemma."

  Trace turned to glower at her and she tried not to snicker. "Though you never know," she said. "You might come across something they'd be willing to print. Maybe we'll find out that Mr. V. is secretly dating J.Lo. She's from Miami, right? Or maybe," she sputtered between guffaws, "Mr. V. is really from outer space and he's cloning pod people on his island as we speak." Phoebe had to stop and she hugged her sides, bending over in laughter.

  Trace's eyebrows lowered ominously. "Ha-ha-ha. Very funny. I'm glad my life amuses you." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Perhaps now you can see why this piece is so important to me. After I'm done, I'll tell Alvarez everything. But I can't let him arrest Mr. V. before I'm ready. Every reporter in the next three counties will jump on this one. The Herald or whichever paper I go with will have no incentive to pick me up unless my article breaks the story."

  Wiping her eyes, Phoebe's chortles died down. "I understand that, but what if your story messes up the police's arrest?" This thought sobered her, and she asked, "What if Mr. V. has enough time after your big exposé for him to get away? Or destroy evidence or something? My sister and her husband are waiting to get back into the country. They could feasibly go to jail if I don't come through on this."

  Trace shook his head. "Your sister won't. I heard Alvarez say her charges were minor." Then he shrugged. "The husband might."

  Phoebe could feel her face growing hot and said, "Tiffany is pregnant. Her child needs its father. He cannot go to jail."

  Trace sent her an angry look right back. "Yeah, well, I need my career. And I haven't committed any crimes or shifted my responsibilities onto someone else. They have. I'm getting my story."

  "No, you just got fired from the Herald for some mysterious reason you don't seem anxious to explain and now write for a trashy tabloid. That's much more noble." Trace's expression turned thunderous but she was on a roll. "I'm keeping my sister and her husband out of jail. Period. You can get your story after the police get their evidence." She held up her hand when he would have cut her off. "I can sympathize, but there's no way I'm backing down. Especially now that Sonny thinks my dancing is great and there's a good chance I'll be included Saturday night."

  Trace propped his hands on his hips and glowered down at her. "For the record, I was completely innocent when I lost my job. And when did this magical transformation supposedly take place? Two nights ago you were the worst dancer Candy and Barbie had ever seen."

  Heat stole across her face, but she sniffed and said, "Sonny just said he could tell at practice that I was dancing differently."

  Trace smirked. "Don't tell me. He saw you in your costume and decided you were friggin' Ginger Rogers."

  Her mouth pulled flat. "No. He saw the way I performed my routines and was impressed with my moves. His words not mine." She was not about to quote the whole bit about "a man between your legs."

  Trace practically growled. "And just how exactly were you moving?"

  Phoebe shrugged, then went to her bag and pulled out her jeans. "As if I'd had a good time this weekend or something like that." She waved her hand. "I don't know—you'll have to ask him. He scares the heck out of me, so I try not to drag out our conversations." After slipping the bottom of her costume off beneath her robe, she stepped into her pants.

  His eyebrows lowered ominously. "A good time?"

  A sigh welled in her chest. Obviously, he was a reporter for a good reason. The man quite simply never gave up. She decided to come clean now before he nagged her to death. She didn't have to like it though, and said crossly, "Sex. Sonny could tell that I'd had sex. All weekend long. I didn't bother to correct him on that assumption. The marathoner you pulled on Sunday probably made up for Saturday's absence. As a matter of fact, he suggested that I call you and see if you were interested in another tussle tonight. He said you did more for me than all the practicing in the world could ever hope to achieve." After turning her back to Trace, she threw off her robe, undipped her sequined bra and jerked her shirt on over her head.

  When she turned around he was wearing a ridiculously smug expression on his face. Then their eyes met and his gaze turned hot. Flaming hot. Yikes. She recognized that look and could swear she grew moist between her legs in some sort of Pavlovian response. She was mad at him about something, but for the life of her couldn't remember what it was.

  Still giving her the look, he added a half grin to complete the devastating effect. "Hmm. Then it looks like I've got myself a problem."

  "You actually have quite a few, the worst of them being stubbornness, but to which one in particular are you referring?"

  "Oh, just that I hate playing right into Sonny's hands."

  "What are you talking about?"

  He rubbed his jaw. "And yours, too, now that I think about it."

  Phoebe sighed. "Would you at least try to make sense?"

  "Didn't you say that having sex with me was better for your dancing than all the practicing in the world?"

  She rolled her eyes. "Sonny's words, not mine."

  "And you're still planning on dancing tomorrow night, right? I believe those were your words."

  "Yes, and your point?"

  "Just that I had hoped you'd quit on your own or at least get fired, but," he sighed, "I guess that's not going to happen. A major pain in the ass, since now I not only have to keep your butt out of trouble, but I have to figure out a way to get my story before you help the police make their arrest."

  Phoebe narrowed her eyes. "You're mostly right. Except for the part about me and my butt. However, if you don't mind me asking, what great insight finally brought you to this realization?"

  Trace had moved closer. He reached out and slid the tip of his finger into the front pocket of her jeans then yanked her forward until she stumbled into his chest. "Because if Sonny's correct, then I guess pretty soon here you're going to be the best damn showgirl the Mirage has ever seen. Hell, you'll probably end up the star of the show."

  His mouth hovered above her own and she licked her
lips. "I will…?"

  He lowered his voice. "Uh-huh, because you and I are definitely having sex again."

  He was staring at her mouth and she could barely breathe. Her lashes fluttered and she gulped, "We are…?" Jeesh. Wasn't she the witty conversationalist? Unfortunately, since he'd said the S word, these pitiful responses were the best she could do.

  She could feel his erection straining against the fly of his jeans, since he'd notched himself right into the V at the top of her thighs, and she thought, oh, what the heck, why start fighting this now? then widened her legs farther apart. And Trace, the clever man, knew exactly what to do.

  He pushed his hips forward then pressed from side to side and she moaned. Loudly. Oh, jeez … she was a moaner.

  He sounded hoarse and said, "Oh, yeah. A lot of sex. And soon." He paused and with a frown added, "And then I'll get my story."

  She wasn't sure if he was talking to himself or to her, since he'd yet to look away from her mouth, but she nodded dumbly and said, "And I'll help the police."

  He nodded back, distracted, his nostrils flaring while he did the amazing circle-push thing with his pelvis again that made her toes curl. Then he said, "First sex then story. In that order. I mean—first I get my story and then I get sex. No, wait—" And then he broke off and muttered, "Aw, hell…"

  * * *

  9

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  "There," Barbie said, patting the final sequin onto the side of Phoebe's breast. "Just sit here for a couple of minutes until the glue dries. Then you'll be good to go."

  Phoebe quirked her mouth. "How the heck am I supposed to scratch underneath these things? I'm itchy already." She squirmed in her seat.

  "Like this," and Barbie lifted her hands to her own breasts and grasped herself as if squeezing the Charmin. "Then once you peel them off after the routine, you can give yourself a good long scratch."

  Phoebe looked down at her chest, naked except for the sequins glued over top. Her bottom half was modest, in comparison, with the low-slung, sequined hip huggers. The two-and-a-half-inch heeled go-go boots completed her new look.