HER PRIVATE DANCER Read online

  "Hey—" Daisy and her jiggling double D's stopped next to Phoebe "—you nervous, kid?"

  She was, but not for the reasons her new friend probably suspected. Still, Phoebe smiled and said, "A little, I guess. But I'm kind of excited, too."

  Barbie laughed. "Good. Because you're going to be great, thanks to our master coaching," the showgirl teased, referring to their lengthy practice the day before. "But now I've gotta go fix my hair before we head backstage." She headed to where her own things were set up a few seats farther down the lighted mirror.

  Daisy nodded. "I don't know what the heck happened between your first practice and the one we had yesterday, but you're dancing like a different woman." Daisy stopped for a meaningful pause, then said with a wink before she turned to leave, "Though I have my suspicions…"

  Phoebe blushed and glanced at her reflection. All right, she thought, staring at the satisfied face beaming back from the mirror. So it might be a bit obvious she'd been ridden hard and put up happy. At least her satisfied glow should convince Sonny that she was the right Devereaux sister for the job.

  The real test came later tonight when the secret launch arrived. Trace was right. Phoebe didn't have any experience with this sort of thing and there were moments when she feared her heart was going to pound right out of her chest. But she needed to get control of her nerves if she was going to find Alvarez his information before Trace printed his story. Unfortunately, she and Trace still hadn't resolved a thing other than to agree that neither one of them was going to step aside in their race to catch Angelo Venzara. Or give up having wild monkey sex.

  Smiling to herself, Phoebe supposed she should be relieved that at least these ground rules had been established. Now if only she could get her heart to stop going mushy every time Trace came within ten feet of her, she'd be doing fine. And the L word had started creeping into her thoughts with startling regularity, a recent problem that had become all but unmanageable.

  Of course, Trace didn't make it easy to harness her emotions on any of these fronts. He was so darn likable. No matter how she danced, or how much she frustrated him, or how stubborn she acted, he seemed genuinely to like her. She could probably fail at everything and he wouldn't care. So, how the heck was she supposed to fight all this and wild monkey sex, too? It plain wasn't fair.

  Maybe she should just start acting like herself instead of the new and improved Phoebe she'd been pretending to be since she'd arrived in Miami. If worse came to worst, and she didn't get control of her runaway feelings, that would scare him off in a heartbeat. That or bore him to death. Either was an option. But a necessary one if she wasn't strong enough to end their fun and games before she fell in love.

  Her thoughts were broken as one of the backstage technicians came by and yelled out first call. She bit back a sigh, no closer to solving the dilemma of how not to fall crazy in love with Trace than before. "All right. I'm off." Phoebe gave a quick wave to Barbie and the other girls still in the dressing room, and started for the door. But as she walked into the hallway, she quickly became overwhelmed by her itchy sequins. "Oh, I can't stand this," she said, not even caring if the glue was dry enough when she grabbed her chest and squeezed.

  "You need some help there, kitten?" Trace grinned as he rounded the corner, looking positively yummy as always.

  When he reached her, he took hold of her wrists then lowered her hands. "Holy hell," he scowled. "Where's the rest of it?"

  Phoebe raised an eyebrow. "It's a heck of a lot more than you wore at Candy's."

  Trace frowned. "Stop using logic. It won't get you anywhere with me."

  Phoebe laughed and Traced sighed. "This is going to be the longest night of my life," he grumbled.

  "Poor baby. At least you won't have to watch some floozy pulling money from her bra then slipping it into my costume."

  "Darn. That kind of sounds good."

  Phoebe hit him in the chest and Trace laughed and then kissed her until she felt dizzy. Lord, what this man could do with his mouth. Then his hands caressed her naked back and she feared her knees were going to buckle.

  A few delicious seconds later, he pulled away and stared down at her breasts. "Now, where were we? I seem to recall catching you in a rather private moment when I walked up."

  Phoebe wrinkled her nose. "I was itchy. These darn sequins are glued on and I have to squeeze myself if I want any relief."

  "I'm dreaming this, right?"

  "Gets you all hot and bothered, huh?"

  "I don't know what I want to do more, watch or help."

  "Oh, by all means, help me. Please…" She sighed as his warm hands enveloped her then gently contracted.

  "You two really have a thing for hallways, don't you?" Barbie stood inside the doorway of the dressing room, the rest of the dancers crowded around behind her.

  Phoebe pressed her face into Trace's shirt and laughed while he shrugged his shoulders. "What can I say? She's an exhibitionist. Loves getting caught. She doesn't even care that I'm shy."

  Phoebe tickled his sides and he jumped back. "Ooh, ticklish, are you? This is good to know."

  He snorted. "Just what you needed. More weapons in your arsenal. I've gotta go, anyway. I'm tending bar tonight and my break's over."

  "You, too, Madame Butterfly. It won't look good if you miss your first number." Barbie smacked Phoebe on the butt playfully as she walked by.

  As the other dancers headed toward the stage, Phoebe grabbed Trace before he could leave. She lowered her voice and asked, "What are you going to be doing while I'm onstage?"

  "Mixing drinks. Why?"

  "At the bar that's set up in the showroom?"

  Trace crossed his arms. "Yes … why?"

  Phoebe looked around to make sure no one could overhear them. "I'm just making sure I know where you'll be. I don't trust you not to go digging around while my back is turned."

  Trace smirked. "There's nothing you can do to stop me."

  Since killing him wasn't an option, Phoebe shrugged and pretended an indifference she was far from feeling. "Fine. But I guess that goes both ways, doesn't it?" she said, and Trace scowled. Then she realized there was another minor snag in her plan and asked, "Do you know where the hold is? I assume that I just keep going down the service stairs until I reach the bottom of the ship, but—"

  He let out a curse. "Are you trying to get killed?"

  Phoebe pointed her finger at him and said, "Listen, O Great Master of the Snooping World, you wouldn't even know about this special shipment if it wasn't for me. I could call Tony and ask for the layout of the ship, but since you're here, I figured I'd save myself the hassle."

  Trace grabbed her finger and jerked her into his arms, and most of her anger was replaced by pure arousal. "When dinner clears," he said, "housekeeping drops off the linen, and the laundry area is usually empty until after we dock. I'll be at the service entrance at ten o'clock. If you're not there by 10:01, I'm going down without you and you can find your own damn way to the hold."

  "I'll be there," she said, trying to sound annoyed but having a hard time because his chest was so warm and hard, and the stupid man was really just worried about her.

  "Oh, one last thing," she said, because she had another small piece of revenge to deliver. Trace eyed her warily as she leaned up and put her arms around his neck. Automatically he lowered his hands to her hips.

  Giving him a brief, wicked smile, Phoebe licked his ear then blew on it and said, "I just want you to know … while I'm out there performing, I'll be thinking of you…" She could feel Trace's muscles go stiff beneath her hands and, laughing softly, she delivered the rest of her payback. "I may be dancing for the men in the audience … but I'll be thinking of you the whole time." And with that, she shot him a cocky wink and walked backstage.

  * * *

  Trace crouched silently behind the wall of crates while some twenty or so feet away Sonny Martorelli waited with three of his men. The ship rocked with another wave and Trace grabbed on to the wooden
box at his side as a series of curses reached his ears, and he found himself in complete agreement with Sonny's men. Trying to stay on your feet and off your butt was almost impossible with the swells tossing about the Mirage.

  The suddenly rough sea conditions also meant that the launch wasn't coming tonight. It couldn't be. In the last half hour, the water had turned unusually turbulent, with caps breaking at twelve to fifteen feet, some surging higher. The onset of the sudden weather would knock anything smaller than the Mirage around like a toy boat in a bathtub. Why the hell didn't Sonny and his men just go back upstairs so Trace could get out of here and find Phoebe? Probably because that would make his life too easy—a concept God seemed personally opposed to.

  Instead of leaving like a good Mafia henchman, Sonny stood smoking a cigarette by the small upper hatch that was partially opened. The acrid scent of tobacco filled the air as the minutes all but crawled by. The men had only bothered with the one light next to Sonny, leaving everything else in the cavernous room dark. And the only noise besides the occasional comment from one of the goons, and the roar of the sea, was the tapping. Never-ending. On and on as Sonny tossed a hand-size ball into the air until Trace thought he'd go nuts.

  For what felt like hours, though realistically was probably more like twenty minutes, Trace had been stuck behind this crate with nothing to do besides count the taps. And sweat.

  And try to stay upright. And wonder where the hell Phoebe was. She'd never shown up at the laundry service, though Trace had waited until well after 10:01. A nervous wreck, he'd eventually had to leave or risk missing the shipment altogether. Of course, by then, the sea conditions had gotten so turbulent it hadn't mattered anyway.

  Damn it, he should never have let the crazy woman out of his sight. Well, from now on he wouldn't unless he'd tied her up and locked her in a safe place first.

  "I think Mr. V.'s lost it this time." Trace recognized the voice of one of Sonny's goons. "I mean, come on. Why do we have to be stuck down here when we could be up there watching that new girl onstage?"

  "Hey," Sonny answered, "watch your mouth, Joey. Nobody questions Mr. V.'s orders. He wants the shipment tonight. That's all you need to know."

  A different goon chimed in and said, "Besides, if we go back upstairs, Mr. V. will probably just make us eat more of his spaghetti. Every time I see him, he makes me eat some more of his spaghetti. My stomach doesn't feel so good. And these friggin' waves are only makin' it worse."

  Not to mention the overwhelming smell of tomato sauce, Trace thought to himself. Mr. V. may be a great cook, but the entire ship was starting to reek of garlic. Not entirely unpleasant, but it was like sailing the high seas in an Olive Garden.

  "Hey, Bobby, nobody said that you had to stuff your face until you puked. If you weren't such a friggin' pig, Mr. V. wouldn't give you all the leftovers." The third man laughed and Trace could hear scuffling.

  "Would you two putzes knock it off," Sonny commanded.

  "I don't hear no boat, Sonny. You think they aren't coming? It's really bad out there."

  Sonny cursed. "Until Mr. V. tells me different, they're coming."

  Someone sighed. It must have been the bastard they'd called Joey because then he said, "Yeah, but even if the shipment does make it, they won't be here before the last set. And I wanna see Tiffany's sister in that costume the dancers wear for the final number. Damn is she hot." He dragged the word out. "That woman has got a pair of tits to die for and that booty. Man, oh, man—"

  "What about her legs?" one of the guys broke in. "Those bitches must be ten feet long."

  More laughter erupted, then another said, "Give it up, Joey. What she needs is a real man. Lucky for her I've got eight inches just waiting to make her day." More guffaws followed.

  While Trace decided which one to mutilate first, he heard a tiny squeak from off to his right. Eyes narrowed, he cursed silently. Apparently he wasn't the only one offended. Just able to make out a flesh-colored shadow in the distance, he crept over to where the pain-in-the-butt showgirl was hiding. Not easy with the floor rolling and pitching, but he finally made it to her side. Phoebe didn't hear him, but he wasn't surprised since she wasn't supposed to. And then he saw what she was wearing, or rather wasn't wearing, and he was surprised. In fact, he almost swallowed his tongue.

  Clamping a hand over her mouth, he breathed directly in her ear, "Where are your effing clothes?"

  If Trace hadn't been holding her, she'd have probably jumped a foot. Instead, she glared at him from the corner of her eye. He did a quick scan of their surroundings, or what he could see of them in this light, then motioned with his head to the open door in the corner. It was probably a storage closet, though he couldn't be sure since it was pitch-black inside like almost everything else down here.

  He pointed for her to go in first. Holding his finger to his lips, he inched the metal door closed. If the launch actually did show up, Trace had no doubt the men would make enough noise for them to hear its arrival. Except now it really was pitch-black and he couldn't tell where she was. The ship rocked through another swell and Phoebe fell into his back.

  Turning, he took her by the arms and dragged her to him. "Where the hell were you?" he whispered almost noiselessly. "I waited close to half an hour." Then he remembered her costume and his heart pounded hard enough to break through his ribs. If one of those guys saw her dressed like this there would be a mass stampede for her body.

  Damn. She was wearing some sort of netting. That's the most he'd been able to discern when he'd found her. A sleek, flesh-colored suit of stretchy mesh. Without a single friggin' thing on underneath, damn it.

  She turned her head, her voice only slightly louder than his. "I have plenty of time, if the show's still even on. We can't possibly dance with the ship swaying like this. Besides, I don't perform until the final few minutes. That's why I'm in my costume, so I can head right backstage."

  Trace gritted his teeth. "Oh, yeah. That's a great reason to come down here naked."

  Phoebe made an angry little huff then nipped his ear, which shocked the hell out of him because he wasn't expecting it. The sensation made his entire body stiffen, including his penis, and he said to himself, screw it, and slammed his mouth down on hers. And for the moment when their lips met, he actually felt human and okay. All because he was kissing this nut. And the thought popped into his head, I cannot lose her, which made him hold Phoebe even tighter.

  But after only moments, she began to wriggle against him enticingly and he ran his hands down her length, skimming all his favorite hills and curves in spite of how stupid and inappropriate their blatant groping was at a time like this. And of course, she would press her pelvis against his, moving the way he'd taught her. And being the obliging fellow that he was, he pressed back, then swallowed her moan. Damn, he loved that sound, just not now. Not when the breathy noises sent darts of pure lust shooting from his brain to his groin and had him ready to strip off her ridiculous covering in one rip.

  Phoebe broke their kiss, though she kept her hips grinding against him. Then she whispered, "Is this your plan?"

  "What plan?" He breathed the question against the top of her jaw then licked the scented skin. Cripes, he could barely think. He locked his knees, fisted his hands, wondering when this would end. This overwhelming desire to mate with every inch of her body. And it was only getting worse the more he touched her. The times that they'd had sex had not even come close to taking the edge off. The minute he'd pull out of her wet heat the craving to drive himself right back into her would crank through his gut.

  "Making love?"

  But before he could figure out what the hell she meant, the floor tilted and Trace stumbled. The back of his legs met a low shelf or ledge of some kind and he leaned onto it, resting his weight and bringing his groin into perfect alignment with hers. Then she lifted her thigh to his hip. Not about to ignore the invitation no matter how stupid it was to lose his grip on reality with Sonny's men out there, Trace slipped his h
and beneath her knee then wrapped her slim leg around his waist and pressed hard against the heat searing his fly.

  "The tapping," she mumbled, her lips caressing the side of his face while he slid his hands to her sweet bottom. "It's getting louder. Sonny's coming. Is he supposed to catch us doing it…?"

  Trace frowned, and shook his head to clear it. For the first time he heard that the strangely ominous sound seemed to be growing louder. He stilled, quickly weighing their options and, predictably, Phoebe made the task even harder for him by grinding harder against him. Using sex as a cover was the oldest, most overused cliché in existence, but was also so corny that it just might work for that very reason. After all, how many people would be stupid enough to play hide the salami with a passel of trained Mafia killers less than ten feet away? Trace scowled, hardly believing that he was one of those people stupid enough.

  He growled out, "That wouldn't be a bad idea if I could figure out how the hell to get inside this damn thing." The whole time he spoke he ran his hands up and down her ridiculously arousing body, searching for a zipper, or a snap, or a button, or any spot of entry he could find on the gossamer-thin fabric.

  Then Trace noticed the tapping again, only closer. And one of Sonny's guys was talking about the shipment and the weather and this sounded pretty close, too. For a moment, Trace stopped, then with growing urgency began tugging at her costume. "Take it off," he whispered.

  "Not enough time," Phoebe answered, dropping to her knees. She had his pants unbuckled before he could blink. The next thing he knew, his penis was out and her mouth was sliding over the head.

  Trace's heart pounded, and he cursed under his breath as her tongue flicked out, licking the tear of fluid seeping from the slit. He gripped the shelf hard enough to make his fingers go numb while he spread his other hand through her hair and clasped the back of her head.

  Then the tapping stopped, and Trace froze. He twisted the silky strands in warning, but of course Phoebe ignored him and merely grasped his shaft and sucked him deeper. He bit the inside of his cheek, hoping to draw blood—which was stupid, really, considering his entire blood supply had surged to south of his belt buckle. But he had to do something, anything, to bring himself back to sanity. Because the feel of himself gliding over the roof of her mouth, everything tight and wet as she worked him between her plump lips, was driving him right over the brink.