HER PRIVATE DANCER Read online

  He gasped for breath, his respirations no more than labored pants that burst from his lungs, when everything became eerily silent on the other side of the door and he could no longer hear Sonny or any of his men. Trace's body tensed. Yet, still, Phoebe didn't stop and pressure hammered through his lower back, his arousal perversely heightened by the increasing danger. He scowled into the darkness, his lips pulled back from his teeth. His length swelled and he winced, his skin stretched taut enough to burn. Then again, all that burning might be from the heat generated by Phoebe's agile tongue, which she was now wriggling under the thick ridge circling the head of his erection.

  Then he heard Sonny say, "Hey, Joey, I thought you left this door open for the shipment?" and Trace's pulse skittered wildly.

  Meanwhile, back in his pants, Phoebe slipped her free hand beneath his testicles and cupped their weight. Trace's thighs grew rigid and she began to move the hand on his shaft, twisting her palm up and down, in rhythm with the pulls of her mouth, and he could feel the jolt all the way up his spine.

  Joey answered Sonny, saying, "I did exactly what you told me. The way this bucket is rocking, it probably just got knocked closed. Don't sweat it."

  "I didn't hear it close," Sonny said, clearly doubtful, but the ship swayed again and a muffled thump and grunt followed. "Hey," Sonny barked and Trace figured the man had been knocked into the wall.

  Relentlessly determined, Phoebe's weight pressed into Trace's thighs and her lips slid farther down his erection as the floor tilted back. He almost gasped aloud. His head fell back, and his neck arched. He had to work his throat just to breathe and his balls tightened unbearably. Apparently her goal was to make him come the moment Sonny and his idiots swung into the room, but he didn't want that. The coming part, yes, the loss of control when he needed it most, no. He clenched his jaw until the bone ached painfully.

  Trace grabbed her shoulders to jerk her away, unable to take a second more, when he heard the door handle jiggle and all he could think was, oh crap, oh crap, oh crap, they were going to get caught then killed. And right now, right now, right now, he was going to come. His hips moved independently of his brain, pushing him in and out between her slick lips, when suddenly the lock clicked ominously and he heard Sonny say, "Tomorrow night one of you idiots stays by the door. Looks like we'll be waiting till then for the shipment."

  Then, unbelievably, the taps started to fade. And right when Trace began to think that they might actually live to have sex another day, Phoebe took him in all the way to the back of her throat and the spasms started. Holy hell, he thought as liquid heat seared the inside of his erection. His vocal cords strained to hold back the groan building in his chest, while Phoebe swallowed each drop of his release, milking him until he felt empty. Rung dry. Content.

  Countless moments of silence passed. Then Phoebe suddenly giggled and Trace shook his head, jerked back to reality. "What the hell is so funny? We almost got killed." He turned his ear toward the door, though fairly sure Sonny and his men had left.

  Phoebe snapped the front of his briefs into place. "Guess we didn't need to do that after all," she snickered. "You got a freebie for nothing. They never even opened the door."

  Buckling his belt, Trace said dryly, "No. They just locked it. And thank you. I'm sorry you were put through that kind of torture when clearly such a sacrifice was unnecessary."

  Still unable to see her in the pitch dark, he felt Phoebe's arms suddenly around his neck. "Don't pout," she said, nipping his bottom lip, and he could taste himself on her tongue and shivered at the proof of how he'd filled her mouth. "I was only teasing," she continued. "Besides, I owed you one anyway."

  After that spine-wringing climax, Trace wanted nothing more than to fall on the ground and never move again, but he made his way to the door. "Really? Since when did you start keeping score?" When he got there, he skimmed his hands along the wall. "Because I hate to break the news to you, but if you're trying to even things out between us, you're going to have a hard time keeping up. You, kitten, are the queen of multiple orgasms." And just the thought of how wildly she responded to him every damn time he touched her caused a twinge of life behind his zipper. Something he would have said was physically impossible for at least another hour or so but had become habitual around this woman.

  "Nope. Oral sex," she corrected. "I want to be fair about this and I'm ahead. First it was me, then both of us at the same time—" a memory Trace would take with him to the grave "—then me, and me again, and now you."

  "So you're saying I've got two more blow jobs coming my way?" He laughed then said, "Excellent. I'll let you know when I'm ready to collect." He found the light switch and flipped it on.

  He winced, blinking until his eyes adjusted. And got his first real look at Phoebe's costume and frowned hard enough to make his eyebrows hurt. Yep, he'd been right. She had on netting. Without a stitch underneath. Completely see-through except where the material grew cloudy over her nipples and at the apex of her thighs. He assumed her butt had the same murky coverage. In the garment's own way it was more seductive than total nudity. The important parts in shadow, yet with enough hints to make him swallow hard.

  Trace scowled and said, "Hell, why bother?" but when Phoebe rolled her eyes, he held up his hand. "Never mind. Wear the damn thing to the grocery store for all I care. You're gonna argue with me whatever I say anyway." He rubbed the back of his neck.

  "Not true," Phoebe said, arguing on purpose then laughing.

  He shook his head then looked around their closet. Except they weren't in a closet, they were in a small room. Maybe ten by ten with tube lights that ran across the ceiling. Trace narrowed his eyes. "Huh," he mused. They weren't fluorescent but high wattage. A long wooden table sat directly underneath and he took a step closer. The surface had about a six-inch rim all the way around it, making the top a wide, shallow trough. Black plastic lined the inside. As he ran over the possibilities of what this could mean, he happened to glance at Phoebe and quickly became distracted by the three crates in the corner where she stared. Two of them were rather large, the third barely medium in size, and Trace froze.

  "Do you think they're important?" Phoebe asked, her voice soft.

  Trace blew out a breath. "Well … the Mirage has been picking up unmarked cargo and Sonny wanted this room locked for a reason." He gestured with his head toward the wood-slatted boxes. "I'd say there's a pretty good chance that all our answers are waiting in there."

  But when he would have gone over to them, he hesitated, a realization striking him. This could really be it. Once they discovered the contents of those crates, all bets were off between him and Phoebe. Their truce would end and if he rushed out and sold his story tomorrow—they'd be over. His chest grew tight. The idea shouldn't be so painful, but it was. The thought of ending this, this thing he had going with Phoebe was unbearable. He'd miss her even more than he had nine years ago. Her smile and her laugh. Her feisty comebacks. The way she let herself go in his arms. The woman she'd become, so appealing to him on every front, he didn't know how to fight the feelings she created inside him. And then the truth hit him. It was too late. He'd already lost the fight.

  "Well, aren't you going to do something? You know, go open them up?"she asked.

  Trace glanced at her, startled. "Oh, yeah." He shook his head. Phoebe was licking her lips again, and he knew she was nervous. It made him want to pull her into his arms and tell her everything would be okay, but he'd be lying, and he wondered if she had as mixed emotions about opening those crates as he did.

  "They're probably still nailed shut," he said with a sigh. He walked over and checked just to be sure. "You stay here. I'm going to find something to open them with."

  Phoebe's gaze darted to the door. "Are you sure Sonny or the others won't come back?"

  "Yeah. They're gone." He glanced at his watch. "We should be okay. I doubt Sonny will notice I'm not at the bar. And you've got another fifteen minutes or so if the show's still on. I'm going to tu
rn off the light, though, when I leave."

  "Wonderful," she said dryly, rubbing her arms as if suddenly cold.

  Trace had to touch her. He pulled her into a hug and softly kissed her forehead. "I'll be right back. Don't move from here, okay?"

  Phoebe nodded. He gave her another quick kiss, reluctant to let her go, before he walked to the door. Fortunately, the lock didn't require a key from both sides as he'd feared and Trace slid the dead bolt open. Pulling a lighter, which he'd taken from the bar, out of his pocket, he managed to find his way to the engine room and came across a thick screwdriver in with some other tools. He returned within minutes and flipped the lights back on.

  "This was the best I could do." He held up the screwdriver before setting to work on one of the larger crates.

  Phoebe tried to see over his shoulder. "What's in there? What is it?" The wood gave a high-pitched groan as Trace raised the lid, and they both stared inside.

  "Dirt? He's smuggling dirt?" Her mouth turned downward.

  "Maybe Venzara's hiding drugs in here to throw off the scent." But after repeatedly jabbing the screwdriver into the pile of earth, he shook his head.

  Phoebe's eyebrows pulled down in worry. "What about the others?"

  Trace nodded then tugged and jerked the next one open.

  "Dirt again," she said despondently. "This doesn't help us at all. Why would Mr. V. be sneaking dirt into the country?"

  "I haven't the foggiest," Trace muttered. He dusted the rich soil from his hands and moved to the smaller crate. When he opened this one they both raised their eyebrows. "They look like mason jars."

  "Two crates full of dirt, and one more filled with glass jars. Not even enough to get you on America's Most Wanted." Phoebe sighed and shook her head. "Maybe Tiffany is right and Mr. V. isn't doing anything illegal."

  Trace pulled out a mason jar and held it up to the light. "It could be that they'll use the jars for sealing the drugs in. So dogs won't be able to pick up the scent." Nothing out of the ordinary there, he thought, then set the glass back inside. He looked through them all but found nothing. Shrugging, he glanced at his watch then retrieved the nails and began to knock them back in place one by one with the handle of the screwdriver.

  "But wouldn't they hold a liquid or something similar? It would take an awful lot of cocaine to fill all of them." Phoebe pointed out.

  "True. But Mr. V. doesn't have to fill them the whole way. Though he could be making a liquid drug. Like that date rape stuff."

  Phoebe's shoulders slumped. "Mr. V. could be running moonshine from his own still for all we know."

  Trace finished with the last crate then leaned against it. He pointed the screwdriver at the light bulbs overhead. "Those are growing lights."

  "You mean sunlamps?"

  "Sort of. They put out a really high wattage. Dopeheads use them to grow pot. Except it gives them huge electric bills. It's often how they get caught. The cops screen utility bills for high usage. Though the Mirage wouldn't have to worry about something like that since it has its own generators."

  Phoebe stared at the crude plywood table underneath. "Maybe this is like a tanning room or something," she said hopefully.

  Trace snorted. "Oh, yeah. Just what a cruise ship in south Florida needs. A tanning room. I can picture Mr. V. now, slathering on the cocoa butter then coming all the way down to the hold to catch some rays. On a black plastic-lined tanning bed, no less."

  Phoebe made a face.

  "Mr. V.'s definitely growing something. Or rather will be. But why on the ship?" Trace asked, thinking out loud. "It doesn't make sense. Usually drug smugglers only bother with the finished product."

  "And haven't you noticed something else?" Phoebe turned to the thermostat on the wall. She walked over and looked at the setting.

  "The rest of the hold is hot as hell." Trace spoke slowly. "This room is climate controlled." The room was warm but nowhere near the hundred-plus temperatures it had the potential to reach during the peak hours of the day, especially if those mega-lights were on.

  Phoebe sent him a cocky grin. "That explains why you looked so cool and comfortable after I'd finished with you. You barely even worked up a sweat."

  Trace quirked his eyebrow, though just thinking about what Phoebe had done to him made heat slam through his gut as if he'd swallowed one of those high-wattage bulbs. And then Trace realized that their truce would last a bit longer since they still had no idea what the hell was going on with Mr. V. He was so damn relieved that he could have pumped his fist in the air and shouted out Y-E-S. He settled with saying, "Believe me. I was sweating plenty. But because we were going to die." Hiding a smile, he shrugged. "I guess what you were doing wasn't too bad, either. Though I was pretty distracted."

  She lifted her chin. "Then I guess I won't waste my time doing it again."

  "Uh-uh. Not a chance. I've already got two on credit waiting for me." And Phoebe gave him a knowing look, and he grinned back.

  Trace forced his mind to return to the topic at hand. "Well, I think it's pretty obvious Mr. V. is going to be transporting some kind of plants in here." He waved his hand, indicating the room. "Probably marijuana, but you never know. Could be coca. Maybe poppies. Though the table isn't really deep enough for full-grown stalks of any kind."

  Phoebe licked her lips, staring at the table. "My mother is really into gardening." She fingered the plastic. "She uses a setup similar to this one for her seedlings."

  "Seedlings," he said quietly. "Maybe." Then he nodded at her. "We better leave now, though, before anyone notices we're gone."

  "I know that we can unlock the door from the inside, but what is Sonny going to do when he finds the dead bolt open?"

  Trace walked around the room to make sure he hadn't missed anything and answered, "I'll sneak back later and re-lock it."

  She frowned, clearly not liking the idea of him down here without her. "How?" she asked.

  "I've got a few tricks." He shrugged. "I know how to pick open a lock. I should be able to close one, too."

  Phoebe didn't seem to like this answer any better, but sighed and said, "Well, at least Sonny asked me to dance on Saturday. This room will be guarded tomorrow night. We may get to see the shipment coming on board, but we won't be able to open any of the crates. Let's hope whatever I overhear during the cruise will be enough." She looked at Trace and must have clearly caught his scowl because she waved her hand, dismissive. "I forgot to tell you before. Sonny met me backstage after my first set and offered me the extra hours."

  Trace pursed his lips, his teeth working the inside of his cheek. If his plan for tomorrow night worked, he'd have most of his answers after the shipment came and have his story in the bag. And Phoebe's private dancing would no longer be an issue.

  Phoebe eyed him. "You're taking my news a lot better than I thought you would."

  He shrugged. "A lot can happen between now and Saturday."

  Phoebe stood straighter. "What are you planning to do?"

  "Why, take one of the seedlings, of course."

  "Not by yourself you're not," Phoebe said, her expression dark. "I'm the one who told you about this shipment. If anyone gets one of these seedlings or whatever Mr. V. has in those crates, it's me."

  But Trace didn't offer her any promises. They both knew that Sonny's guards would make the situation that much more arduous, not to mention dangerous. Instead, he switched off the light then took her hand and led her out of the hold.

  * * *

  In the end Phoebe got her way.

  Later that night, when Trace was in Phoebe's bed, inside Phoebe, the most shocking thing happened. Unbelievable really, when he considered how screwed up things usually turned out for him.

  It began when he was staring down into her eyes. They were going slow this time. Their fingers entwined, hands clasped together, each plunge and retreat too perfect to rush. The sensations more than just physical. The reality of her narrow heat around his erection was excruciating as he pushed his hips f
orward.

  Phoebe gasped but didn't look away, never breaking the contact between them, and a strange tightness swelled behind his ribs. Then, at the apex of his next downstroke, she plain and simply blew him away. Well, that's what started it anyway. Her climax slammed through her and she arched her back, crying, "Oh, no. No, not yet…"

  "Shh, you're perfect." He whispered, "Come for me," while he pressed deep then held still, knowing this would make her come harder. Which it did. And when he kissed her nipple and flicked it with his tongue, just as he suspected, she clamped down on him even tighter instead of easing off. He squeezed his eyes shut, his own muscles clenched against her contractions, the need to pump and thrust himself inside her a consuming pressure, but he wasn't ready to give in to the craving yet.

  Trace's chest ached, and he knew why but couldn't face the reality of all he felt. Loving her when he knew better than to lose his heart. Instead, he focused completely on each ripple and tremor of her body, wishing he could bind her to him physically until she'd never want to leave his side. And after she stilled, he rubbed his pelvic bone against the tiny button where her pleasure centered, pressed in slow pulses that made her buck, and she cried out, "I love you," right before her final orgasm slammed through her.

  Trace froze at her words, his heart skipping some essential beats, he was sure, but he couldn't do anything more productive than stare into her stunned face. She whimpered, whether in shock or horror he wasn't confident, but it didn't matter because the words triggered his own release and he threw back his head, a long "aaahhhhh" straining from his throat. And then he thought, this time might actually kill me, because he'd never wanted to hear the words so badly, and having her cry them out, even under duress, made his pulse pound fast enough that he was afraid he'd pass out. But they kept moving and straining together as he came in hot throbbing gushes while chills raced over his flesh. His scalp tingled and his arms shook and with one final gasp, he fell to his elbows.