HER PRIVATE DANCER Read online

  He buried his face in her hair, unable to stop smiling or drinking in her unbelievable scent … or stop smiling. He managed a quick laugh and tried to raise his head so he could talk to her, look into her eyes. But he couldn't move. His neck was limp, the muscles in his shoulders and at the top of his back trembled. And in that moment of absolute emotional and physical perfection, he knew nothing mattered more than Phoebe. Not his story. Not even his career. Without her, Trace didn't care where the hell he worked or what the hell he did. He'd write obituaries if that's what it took for him to be with her. Anything to feel like this every night and every day. It was too good.

  "Did you mean it?" he asked, unable to catch his breath.

  Phoebe didn't answer for what seemed like an eternity. Then finally, a wealth of reluctance obvious in her voice, she said, "Yes."

  Except Trace could live with her lack of enthusiasm because he knew she wouldn't lie. He smiled even bigger then gasped out, "Excellent." Then he realized what he had to do, and the decision felt good and right. "Tomorrow night after I dance…" He paused briefly, realizing that at this moment even the thought of dancing couldn't depress him, and he went on, "You and me, we'll meet outside the dressing room." He took a quick breath. "After my last set, we'll go down to the hold together. I'll get it for you." Trace shook his head and explained, "The plant. Whatever Sonny brings onboard. We'll find it. You and me. We'll get the evidence to Alvarez. That's more important than my story."

  Phoebe stilled, not even breathing. "What did you say?"

  He mumbled with a grin, "You heard me."

  "Are you serious?" He nodded into her neck and Phoebe hugged him hard enough to squeeze the air out of his lungs. She tried to push on his shoulders to make him lift up but he merely shifted his weight off her.

  Trace knew he was doing the right thing for the woman he loved, and languor and contentment spread through. Then it dawned on him that he hadn't told her the words—that he loved her, too. But he couldn't keep his eyes open. They were too heavy. And right before he nodded off he thought, I'll tell her tomorrow. There's plenty of time. All the time in the world … because I'm never letting her go. Then, wearing what was probably the goofiest, most satisfied smile known to man, he fell asleep.

  * * *

  10

  « ^ »

  Trace knelt behind the huge crate, Phoebe crouched next to him. Her hand squeezed his in a killer grip. She was scared and with damn good reason. Sonny was more alert last night, checking out every little noise as if they feared a squadron of DEA agents were hiding down here in the hold.

  The lady was also more than just a little jealous after watching him dance again, Trace thought with a grin. Though he supposed he shouldn't enjoy the idea so much. He knew she was feeling insecure after her heated declaration last night in bed. But he'd needed to leave her apartment this morning before she'd woken up and they hadn't had a chance yet to talk everything through. A man with a mission, Trace had had quite the busy day.

  First, he'd stopped by the Intruder and quit. He couldn't look Phoebe in the eye as long as he still worked for that rag and he planned on looking into her eyes a whole hell of a lot. For the rest of his life, as a matter of fact, and he would find a job somewhere else. After that, he'd gone shopping. Smiling to himself, Trace brought Phoebe's left hand to his lips then kissed the smooth skin on her third finger. She shot him a funny look, which he returned with a wink. She'd understand soon enough.

  But before he could grow even more smug with excitement, the voice Trace now easily recognized as Joey's interrupted his thoughts. "Where do you want this one, Sonny?"

  Trace looked around the side of the crate, Phoebe peeking over his shoulder.

  "Stick that in Renaldo's room." Sonny pointed to a room identical to the one Phoebe and Trace had hidden in last night. There were three of these special rooms in all, the doors wide open and spilling light into the hold. Then Sonny looked at the other man. "Bobby, you take yours to Delefluente's. And both of you dump that dirt out on those tables Mr. V. put in there."

  "We're friggin' gardeners," Joey grumbled.

  Sonny made a rude sound. "Breathing gardeners. Remember, it don't have to be that way." Before long, both men were back, and Sonny pointed to the next crate—this one had wider slats with large spaces between. He told Bobby, "That one goes into Mr. V.'s room, so be careful. He'll be down later to set up those damn plants." Water dripped from the bottom of the crate as Bobby lifted its weight.

  Trace glanced at Phoebe. She nodded back. At least the plant issue had been confirmed, though, so far, any chances of seeing them firsthand didn't look good. Until he noticed Phoebe's eyes widen and she pointed behind him. Trace turned just as a small dark object fluttered to the floor as Bobby carted off his load. Then again, Trace thought with a smile, things might be looking up after all. Damn, Phoebe was turning out to be a lot better at this than he'd given her credit for.

  Sonny pointed to another box and said to Joey, "Mr. V. said to take this last one up to him now. He wants to make more sauce. He's in the kitchen, waiting." Sonny had raised his voice so both men could hear, but then he suddenly paused. Eyes narrowed, he took another look around. "I gotta funny feeling," he said gruffly, then trailed off. He grunted, shaking his head. "Bobby, you stay down here and start setting up. Mr. V. said to get these onto the table, pronto. If even one of his babies dies, it's on your hands. So, I don't want any of these rooms left alone between now and Saturday night. Capisce?"

  Bobby poked his head out of Mr. V.'s storage room. "Yeah, yeah, I got it. We stand around playing guard dog until after the meeting this weekend."

  "More like baby-sitters," Joey complained.

  Sonny grunted. "You two idiots have it easy. When Renaldo and Delefluente get here tomorrow, they'll have their own people. Quit complaining. Between all of you idiots, you should get the job done."

  "At least Mr. V. can't make me eat nothin' if I'm stuck down here makin' mud pies," Bobby muttered.

  "What? You're hungry again?" Joey snickered. "Hey, when I go upstairs, I'll tell Mr. V. you didn't get no dinner. He'll love to hear how you asked special like for more of his spaghetti. With extra sauce."

  "Don't you say nothin'," Bobby shouted, but Sonny and Joey were already walking away, the second man's obnoxious laughter floating back. Bobby cursed then went back into Mr. V.'s room. After a minute, Trace heard the sound of dirt hitting the plywood table.

  "Stay here," Trace whispered to Phoebe. He silently crept toward the small, dark spot on the ground. He lifted it and ran his finger over the dewy surface. Recognizing the soft texture of a damp leaf, he smiled then slipped it into his pocket. This little baby would be enough for the police lab to identify what Mr. V. was smuggling.

  Back at Phoebe's side, Trace held his finger to his lips to stop her from voicing any questions right now. He took her hand in his. But the second they were in the hallway that ran backstage, Phoebe opened her mouth.

  "What is it, what did you find?"

  Trace frowned. "Lower your voice. It's a leaf." They were too close to succeeding to let their guards down now.

  Her eyes glowed. "That's what I thought. Great. Let me have it. I'll take it straight to Alvarez when we get home. There should be people in the department who'll be able to figure out what plant it comes from, right?"

  Trace nodded absently, scanning the hallway. "It's not safe to talk here." He dropped his eyebrows. "Crap. Someone's coming."

  Phoebe's gaze shot down the corridor. "Quick, give me the leaf," she whispered.

  Trace shook his head as one of the male dancers rounded the corner. "I'll meet you at your apartment." Then he kissed her hard and ducked into the men's dressing room. Smiling, he knew she was frustrated. But he'd bring her the evidence tonight, although she'd have a small wait before handing Alvarez her precious leaf. Because Trace had plans that would keep her busy until morning…

  * * *

  Phoebe paced back and forth across Tiffany's living room.
Annoyed with herself, she stopped and took a deep breath then let it out slowly. She had no reason to be nervous just because Trace was a little late. Everything was going as planned. Once she gave Alvarez the leaf they'd know exactly what they were dealing with, and after that, it was simply a matter of being patient until Saturday night.

  She plopped down onto the couch with a sigh. Too bad her personal life wasn't shaping up as easily. She could almost hear herself now, telling Trace she loved him as she came her brains out. Phoebe groaned, her face hot while she stretched out on the sofa. Unfortunately, her embarrassing declaration to Trace changed nothing other than making it all the harder when they finally went their separate ways. Because as much as she may wish otherwise, she could never have a future with Trace.

  Even though she'd been wrong these past nine years in thinking that Trace had thrown her over for another woman, if she were honest with herself there was a part of her that feared it would eventually happen. Men may fall in love, but it didn't last. Especially men who looked like Trace. There was always a willing woman somewhere and usually more than one. A lot more. She was talking into the double digits here. Heck, her own father—the most handsome man she'd ever known besides Trace—had taught her that lesson and she hadn't forgotten. From childhood she'd known that in a competition, the other woman won every time.

  Phoebe rubbed her forehead. Of course, she was probably getting herself all worked up over nothing. Trace hadn't exactly been dropping the hints that he was after more than great sex. She stopped and frowned, the thought depressing her far more than it should, and to distract herself she went back to worrying over what was keeping him. She bit her lip and glanced at the clock. He'd had plenty of time to get here by now. Then she heard a knock on the front door and almost wilted with relief.

  "I was so worried," she said, swinging open the door, but it was Alvarez who scowled down at her.

  "Good. I am, too. Where's the reporter?"

  Phoebe's mouth dropped open. "Reporter?"

  Alvarez brushed past her and walked into the living room. He took over the path she'd earlier been wearing into the carpet. "Don't play games with me. I'm not even close to being in the mood. Just tell me, do I have a friggin' case left or did you blab everything?"

  Slowly, she closed the door, her mind scrambling for a rational response. "I'm not sure I know who you're talking about—"

  Alvarez interrupted, shooting her a dark look. "Yes, you do. I'm talking about the guy who's spent the last three nights here." The detective made a rude sound in his throat. "Everything was going good, so I figured it was none of my business who the hell you shacked up with. I've seen the way your sister operates and wasn't all that surprised to find out you were the same." He shook his head, clearly disgusted with himself. "I didn't get a good look at the bastard until I saw him leaving here this morning when I came by. I recognized him, but it didn't hit me till tonight from where. He interviewed me for an article a couple of years back. A murder case. He used to be with the Herald, but I had him checked out. Now he's with the Intruder, though I doubt he's writing his story on Venzara for that piece of trash."

  Phoebe's heart seemed to stop then began pounding out of control, but he didn't give her a chance to interrupt.

  "Knowing my luck, lover boy is probably turning in his story right now."

  Frantically, she shook her head. "No, no. I promise. Trace is coming over here right now. He's on his way." Phoebe knew she could either come clean now or make everything worse by trying to pass off a string of lies. "Listen, I can explain everything," she pleaded. "It's not as bad as it looks."

  Alvarez scowled and opened his mouth, but Phoebe rushed on. "Do you remember me telling you about Candy's bachelorette party?"

  The detective's eyes narrowed, though he nodded, and she took his silence as permission to continue.

  Phoebe swallowed. "Okay, good. That's good. I ran into Trace at the party. He was there as—" she hesitated, her face going hot "—well, as the stripper, of all things," she said, then forced herself to laugh. "I used to know him in college when I lived here in Miami. We were friends, I guess you'd say." Alvarez rolled his eyes, but she hurried forward with her explanation. "I'm not r-really used to drinking," she stammered, "and he drove me home. The next morning, he heard me talking to Tiffany on the phone and knew I was lying about my reasons for dancing on the Mirage. You were on your way over and I tried to get rid of him, but we started to argue and Trace was worried about me. He told me the truth then, but I didn't know what to do."

  Alvarez's skin looked flushed. "So that's what you were hiding when we talked. I knew something was up, but you distracted me with that crap about Tony Venzara and the island, so I let it pass."

  Phoebe squeezed her hands together, her fingertips going white. "I felt so guilty, but Trace is a friend. Protecting him was my only choice," she said beseechingly. "Besides, even if I had blown his cover, he could have turned right around and done the same to mine. Don't you see? At that point, he'd have had nothing to lose. One word about me dropped to the wrong person on the Mirage and it would have all been over. But none of that matters anymore," she said hurriedly, jumping to the important part. "Trace is helping me. Really. He's given up on the story until your investigation is finished, so we're fine."

  The detective gaped. "Tell me you don't actually believe that."

  Phoebe couldn't afford to hesitate with her answer, though with each minute that ticked by without Trace showing up, her own doubts grew by leaps and bounds. "Yes. I do. Trace has been a huge help right from the start. He even found a leaf off one of the plants Mr. V. brought on board tonight." A slight exaggeration but close enough. "Trace is bringing it over now. Oh, and you should know, there are three climate-controlled rooms down in the Mirage's hold. One for Mr. V. The other two for Renaldo and Delefluente. I was going to tell you when I brought you the leaf."

  Alvarez snorted, though he seemed slightly less upset. "Let's hope it still matters. If your boyfriend is off turning in his article and it shows up in tomorrow's paper, Venzara will stop using the Mirage and switch to another method for his smuggling. And I'll be back to square one. I can't do a damn thing about what he does on that island. It's out of the country."

  Phoebe twisted her hands together. The only thing she could think to say was, "Trace will be here. I know it."

  He cursed, glaring at the clock on the mantel. "Then I'm sure you won't mind if I just wait here for him to show up."

  * * *

  An hour later, Alvarez got to his feet. "He's not coming."

  "Wait, Trace'll be—"

  "He's not coming. Whatever he found down in that hold is long gone. From now until the end of this investigation, you stay away from him. After that, I don't care what the hell you do," the detective said, not stopping on his way to the foyer.

  Phoebe made a noise. "So that's it?"

  "I can't exactly arrest the man for tampering with evidence, since you all but gift wrapped whatever fell off that plant for him." Alvarez stopped at the door and looked back at her. "But while we've been sitting here I've had time to think. I'm pretty sure McGraw is going to wait until he knows exactly what Venzara is doing with those seedlings before he tries to sell his story. If I'm right, I may still have a case. But not for long. Lover boy already has the advantage by having whatever you two found tonight."

  Phoebe shook her head, refusing to jump to conclusions, as she had nine years ago. "I know how this looks, but Trace wouldn't do this to me. Something must have happened. He'll be here. Besides, I told you that he promised to wait on his story until after you've wrapped up your case."

  "Oh, he'll show up all right. Without the evidence. He'll have conveniently lost it or something along those lines. And there's no way in hell that reporter is backing off on this. The guy's selling you a line, Devereaux, so you'll keep him in the loop. So far it's working, too. He's got the evidence and we've got jack. I know the bastard's type. He's lying." Alvarez held up his hand when
she would have jumped in to argue. "Just answer this. Do you know why he lost his job at the Herald?"

  Phoebe's stomach dropped. She could pretend that there hadn't been time for Trace to explain, but the truth was, she hadn't asked. And though she hadn't wanted to know why he'd lost his job, his silence on the subject didn't exactly sit well with her, either. "No," she answered briefly.

  Alvarez chuckled though he didn't sound amused. "He slept with his editor's daughter—during the paper's Christmas party. Got drunk and screwed her in the supply closet. On top of the copy machine, I heard, but that part could just be gossip. In either case, the woman's daddy made sure McGraw had a damn hard time finding another job. Ask him about it when he shows up."

  Phoebe stared at Alvarez wide eyed, unsure at the moment of exactly how she felt. She hadn't given Trace the benefit of the doubt nine years ago, and part of her really believed that Trace had been telling the truth when he decided to wait on his article. She trusted him in matters that didn't include her heart. Nope, the detective's little revelation didn't make her mad, as much as resigned. Because she'd just been given a perfect example of why she could never feel secure with a man like Trace in a committed relationship. She opened her mouth then closed it, feeling everything inside her collapse with a rush, like a wilted balloon. After all, what could she possibly say to that?

  * * *

  "Finally," Trace grumbled as the lock clicked open. Sliding the pair of thin metal sticks back inside his coat, he didn't waste time once he got inside the apartment. No matter how hard he'd banged, Phoebe hadn't answered the door and he had a sinking feeling it wasn't just because she was fast asleep.

  Stepping into her room, Trace winced at the empty bed then rubbed the bridge of his nose. Everything that could possibly have gone wrong in the last few hours had and did. He'd wanted tonight to be perfect and, so far, it had been anything but. Though, he supposed, the evening had started out well enough.