HER PRIVATE DANCER Read online

  Tiffany made a scoffing sound. "I was exaggerating. All right, Mr. V.'s pretty anal about his privacy, but other than that he's very sweet. Now, his bodyguard, Sonny, can be a little creepy at times, but as long as you don't let him catch you, you'll be fine. Come on, Phoebe, help me out here. It's not like you're doing anything else. You don't even have a job."

  Phoebe made a face and stuck her tongue out at the phone. It wasn't the words themselves that pierced so much, but the sentiment behind them. As if her life only existed to make Tiffany's easier. "Forget it, Tiffany. It will never happen. And for your information, I still have my job. My knee is fine now. I should be back at the studio any day." Phoebe wasn't about to admit that she'd put off giving the prestigious ballet academy where she worked an actual return date. Before Phoebe had reinjured her knee a couple of months ago, she'd already begun to lose interest in her classes.

  With the big 3-0 bearing down on her with all the surety of a SCUD missile, Phoebe found herself more than just a little tired of teaching moody teenagers the finer points of the Vaganova method. Especially when said teenagers were constantly harassing Phoebe to ditch the classics and teach them more fun stuff like Who Let the Swans Out? Call her selfish, but there had to be more to life than this.

  Then again, if her knee hadn't given out seven years ago, Phoebe would already have a real life. She scowled down at her leg. The New York City Ballet had been sympathetic yet adamant when they'd let her go from the company. A principal dancer with a bum knee wasn't in their repertoire.

  "Come on, Phoebes," Tiffany wheedled, using the nickname she'd given Phoebe when they were kids. "Just think about how pissed off Mom will be when she finds out you danced as a showgirl."

  "Tiffany, I'm a little old to be enticed into one of your harebrained schemes simply to annoy our mother."

  "No, you're not. Besides, you're going to take my place on the Mirage because you love me and want to help me. Sending Mom over the edge is just a happy coincidence."

  The corner of Phoebe's mouth curved upward. Sometimes she didn't know why she bothered trying. Winning an argument with Tiffany was impossible, and for a brief moment, Phoebe actually allowed herself to consider Tiffany's request. It wasn't as if Phoebe couldn't do any form of dance. The stress of dancing in toe shoes was the actual culprit that aggravated her weakened knee. Unfortunately, ballet was all she'd been taught. Her mother, Madeline Devereaux, had never allowed anything else.

  Phoebe frowned. Maybe Tiffany was right and pissing off their mother was motivation enough.

  While Tiffany blathered on in the background, Phoebe pictured herself in one of her sister's outrageous getups and, not surprisingly, a frisson of excitement pulsed low in her belly. She pressed her hand to her stomach. Her imagination went to town and she could almost see her body undulating to a throbbing beat under a row of hot stage lights. She licked her lips and envisioned a gorgeous man in the audience, all his senses focused on her while she swayed her hips and … doggonit! How did Tiffany plant these crazy ideas in her brain?

  Phoebe narrowed her eyes and slammed the phone book shut. Fantasizing about being a sexy showgirl and actually trying to be one were two different things. No matter how enticing the prospect seemed, if she ever actually had to go onstage and perform half-naked like that, she'd probably have the worst panic attack of her life.

  Tiffany must have sensed a negative answer coming her way because she jumped in before Phoebe could speak, and said, "I know the Mirage isn't exactly your kind of place, Phoebe, but you've got nothing to lose. Face the facts, you're in a rut, and now's your chance to get out of it. Listen, there's more to life than what you're living. It's time to decide what you want and go for it. Take me, for example. I look at life like sex. You can either lie back and get screwed or climb on top and ride the hell out of it. That's my motto."

  Phoebe almost dropped the phone. After a minute of pure speechlessness, she cleared her throat then said, "How beautiful. Truly touching, and I mean that. You should cross-stitch it on a pillow." She wiped her hand over her face then shook her head. "Unfortunately, I don't view infiltrating the Mafia the same as riding the hell out of life. Look, Tiffany, I think it's about time you swung down from the, er, saddle, so to speak, and learned to clean up one of your own messes. I'll come to Miami and stand by your side." Phoebe's voice rose as she picked up steam. "But there is no way I'm going to dance on that ship in a sequined bikini so you can sun yourself on some darn beach. So, save your breath. There's not a single thing you can say that will make me change my mind."

  Tiffany remained silent until Phoebe felt she'd scream. Finally, her little sister spoke. "Phoebe, I know you think I'm being a jerk, but, honest, it's not me I'm trying to protect."

  Phoebe slumped against the wall and rubbed the back of her neck. "Tiffany, what are you trying to tell me?"

  Her sister then spoke the two words guaranteed to change Phoebe's mind. "I'm pregnant."

  * * *

  Phoebe's ankles wobbled precariously in her three-and-a-half inch high heels and she cursed under her breath. It wasn't easy to run in screw-me shoes while balancing a tray of deviled eggs and a gift-wrapped Crock-Pot, but it had taken her forty minutes longer to navigate through the Miami traffic than she'd planned and she couldn't mess this up by being late.

  One of the showgirls, Candy, was getting married and Phoebe had been invited to the bachelorette party. Oddly enough, after only three days, she seemed to be fitting in better with the showgirls than she ever had at her previous jobs. Probably because she was Tiffany's sister. And probably because, for the first time in her life, she was the worst dancer of the bunch.

  Phoebe grinned and thought to herself, "I'm a showgirl." There were times when the absurdity of it almost made her laugh out loud. So far, she was enjoying herself, too. She'd only been in town a couple of days but things were going remarkably well. Exactly as she'd planned.

  Thanks to Tiffany's grossly exaggerated reference, the Mirage had hired Phoebe on the spot. Of course, not surprisingly, she hadn't been asked yet to join Mr. V. on his Mafia Reunion Cruise next Saturday, but she wasn't alarmed. It was one thing for Mr. V. to make Phoebe a showgirl on the spur of the moment. Another for him to welcome her right in with open arms to witness his illegal activities. Besides, she still had plenty of time. Well, a week to be exact, but her first performance was in two nights and Phoebe knew that Mr. V. and his right-hand man, Sonny were waiting to see how she held up onstage.

  She'd also spoken with Officer Carlos Alvarez. Though he'd been understandably angered at Tiffany's impromptu honeymoon, he'd agreed to present Phoebe's offer to his captain. Which reminded her that she had an appointment with Alvarez in the morning to discuss the specifics of the case. They were meeting at Tiff's condo, where Phoebe was staying. As a precaution, Alvarez had told her not to risk coming down to the police station a second time. Though the detective doubted Phoebe was being watched, he'd told her not to underestimate Sonny Martorelli.

  She fought back a chill, the thought of being watched at any time in her future enough to make Phoebe want to pirouette herself right around and onto the first plane back to San Francisco. But she'd come too far to wimp out now. Besides, she had no reason to be nervous. She was an intelligent, capable woman. She could do this. Actually wanted to do this. And not just for Tiffany.

  Phoebe had come to Miami as much for herself as to protect her new little niece or nephew from any potential harm. She'd allowed Tiffany to believe that it was her pregnancy that had changed Phoebe's mind, and in a way it had. But it was more the reality of Tiff getting married suddenly and starting a family that had really knocked Phoebe's world off kilter. Her whole life Phoebe had played it safe, and yet Tiffany was the one with a husband and a new baby on the way. In three months Phoebe would be thirty years old and had nothing to show for it. The men she dated were boring. Her job was boring. Her life was boring. She was in a rut. Tiffany had been right. Go figure.

  Well, no more. Phoebe
had made a decision. For once, she would take control of her future. She'd always wanted to be more like her little sister and now she could. Performing on the Mirage was a chance to spread her wings. Try a new form of dance. Experience some excitement. Some danger.

  Phoebe almost stumbled at this and her chest grew tight. All right, she thought, and steadied her breathing. So she wasn't completely sold on the danger part. But she liked everything else. Phoebe frowned again. And maybe comparing the bumps and grinds executed onstage at the Mirage to a dance form might be a bit liberal, but she was tired of playing it safe. Always being responsible. Always thinking things through. Tiffany hadn't, and look at her. Granted, the whole Mafia thing was a drawback, but maybe Tony and Tiffany were right and the police were wrong.

  Phoebe had met Mr. V. when she'd first arrived, and the Godfather he wasn't. Oddly enough, finally seeing Tony's uncle had been a bit of letdown. A short, round little man, Mr. V. had seemed to be more interested in talking to Phoebe about his special tomatoes than her new job on the Mirage. He'd asked if she liked Italian food and offered to make her a spaghetti feast with his own homemade sauce once she'd settled in. Heck, it had been kinda hard to remain scared of a guy who'd talked about tomato sauce for ten minutes running and wanted to know whether she personally preferred bay leaves or cilantro in her marinara.

  Remembering the funny conversation, Phoebe grinned and already felt better. Now was not the time to let one of her panic attacks sneak up on her. Though her primary reason for attending Candy's bachelorette party was to get a foot in with the other dancers, she couldn't let the technicalities of her mission distract her from her own private goals. Important private goals. To grab life by the balls and wring every last drop from them. After all, she thought with a grin, why should Tiffany be the only one with a fun motto?

  Finally coming to a stop, Phoebe stood before the long row of apartments and squinted, trying to make out the number over the entrance. It was so dang dark out here she could barely see a thing. The one and only street lamp in the entire complex stood beside the last building where a half dozen or so balloons were tied to the door. Bingo, she thought in relief, and took off toward it.

  As she hobbled along the sidewalk, she wondered fleetingly whether the sense of camaraderie she felt with the showgirls would last and was surprised at how much she hoped it would. Growing up, Phoebe had always been painfully self-conscious around her peers and—oh, all right, so she'd been more like a tongue-tied mess, though she'd tried hard to relax and be herself, which had only made matters worse.

  Add this in with the combination of Phoebe's success in dance, her top placement grade point average, and a mother who'd never let her do anything that even remotely resembled fun—including wasting time with boyfriends or, heck, even regular friends—and the other kids had all come to the conclusion that Phoebe was one stuck-up prima donna. Throw in a few panic attacks for fun, and it was easy to see why she hadn't exactly been voted the most popular person in her school. Looking back on it, she was lucky they hadn't thrown rocks at her in the streets.

  However, with age and enough therapy to help even the most screwed-up of Hollywood starlets, Phoebe had overcome the worst of her introversion. Yet, there were still times when she fought the odd twinges of anxiety. Oh, like, say, whenever she let herself think about all the different ways that she could fail in the next few hours being the perfect example. Phoebe grimaced, eyeing the tastefully wrapped present in her arms. Somehow, she doubted giving Candy a Crock-Pot would convince the showgirls that she lived life on the edge. The deviled eggs didn't exactly say bad to the bone either.

  Darn it. Already she was doing this wrong and the realization made her breath hitch. But before Phoebe could get herself more worked up, one of her ridiculous heels caught in the pavement and she tripped forward. The Crock-Pot and eggs flew from her arms and for a brief moment her body seemed to fly along, too.

  As if in slow motion she pictured herself landing on her bad knee, injuring it permanently, all of her plans for Tiffany and herself ruined, but there was nothing she could do to stop herself. Until her body mercifully slammed into rock-solid man. Not about to question her good fortune, Phoebe clung tight.

  * * *

  "What the—oof!" The air whooshed from Trace's lungs as the crazy woman careened into him. "Help," she squeaked.

  Trace managed to get out a quick "Whoa, careful," while he staggered backward from the force of her momentum. Instinctively, he brought up his arms to catch her, then decided this might not have been such a good idea.

  Her long, wriggling body molded perfectly to his and he suddenly found his hands filled with her well-rounded bottom. A tingling feeling, almost like an itch, spread through his palms, yet Trace forced himself to ignore the writhing bounty in his hands and reminded his overactive hormones that after the fiasco with Jeanine, he'd sworn off women for good. At least he thought he had. It all seemed pretty vague to him right now with this particular woman's legs clamped tightly on his thighs and her high, firm breasts pressed into his chest, prodding his skin like two hot brands and making him remember how much he enjoyed being prodded by two hot brands. Especially, when those brands were moving and jiggling around with the rest of her.

  Suddenly the bachelorette party he was on his way to perform at seemed rife with possibilities. A concept that made him question his sanity, but he couldn't afford to waste another second on his wayward thoughts. Not if he wanted to get rid of the human suction cup in his arms before they both went down for the count.

  "Hey, hold still," he warned, scowling. He tried to catch his balance and adjust his footing but this somehow only made everything worse because she squeaked and shockingly started to climb him like a monkey up a tree. He cursed, wondering what the hell was the matter with her and opened his mouth to ask, except a yelp came out instead. She'd stabbed the back of his leg with what had to be one of the most wicked high heels in creation, and his knees buckled forward.

  Trace tripped off the sidewalk and they went down hard. Or rather she did. His face landed on something soft and plump, well, actually two somethings soft and plump—oh, all right, technically right smack-dab between two somethings soft and plump—and if he wasn't mistaken, her knee was shoved up under his armpit.

  "I can't breathe. Get up, please." The voice beneath him sounded strangled.

  You and me both, lady, he wanted to say, but couldn't since speaking required air and there was none left in his lungs. He tried to move. However, turning his face wasn't an option either. Not with her long, dark hair tangled around his head as if someone had thrown a net over him, and for a few very long seconds Trace feared he was going to suffocate with his face mashed tightly to her breasts.

  All in all, he supposed there were worse ways to go.

  The woman squeaked. "I mean it—get up." Her pelvis pushed against his, trying to buck him off. Their limbs were so jumbled it must have looked as if they were playing a bizarre, X-rated game of Twister.

  "Ptthew." He finally worked his head to the side and spit out the strands of hair filling his mouth. "Stop moving," Trace barked, the words harsher than he meant to sound as he gasped for breath. She didn't listen, but then the way his night was going, this shouldn't surprise him. Great, he thought in disgust. His groin tightened, responding like any normal red-blooded male would if holding a writhing female and contorted into a position that a Cirque du Soleil performer would envy, and he could feel himself swelling up to a regular blue-steeler. Her feminine cleft perfectly aligned with his growing arousal. He understood the woman's alarm, but all this moving around only made his problem worse.

  "Please," he panted, "just stop moving. I'm stuck." Knowing if he pulled up too hard or fast he'd rip half the hair from her head, he tried to keep his upper body still as he wriggled his hand out from underneath her luscious bottom. They were so close he could feel her muscles tighten through the fabric of her clothing. Her body suddenly went rigid.

  Hell, she must've just
noticed his killer hard-on.

  "You've got two seconds before I start screaming." Her words, if not her tone, should have been enough to deflate the near phenomenon taking place in his pants. They weren't.

  Compelled to defend himself, Trace pointed out, "Hey, I know you're upset, but if you remember, you're the one who ran into me."

  She huffed. "I'm sorry! It's dark and I didn't see you. I'm not trying to be rude but you're lying on top of me like a dead fish. Well, mostly dead," she muttered. "And you keep poking me."

  Heat crept up his neck. For all the appreciation she was showing, he should just yank her bald and let her live with the consequences.

  The woman started wiggling again. "Ow, it really hurts."

  Trace made a strangled noise. "I don't know if you're aware of this, but moving around underneath a man is not the way to get his body to stop 'poking' you."

  She immediately stilled. "Um, I was talking about that pin or whatever it is you have on your shirt. It's pok—uh, digging into my chest."

  Trace winced. "Sorry," he mumbled and tried to shift his weight with little success. He'd forgotten about his stupid costume and the fake police badge. In the last week he'd been a cowboy, a construction worker, an Indian and now a cop. Why the hell women got turned on by seeing him dress up like one of the Village People was beyond him. "If you just give me a minute here, I'm caught in your hair," he said, his jaw clenched as he carefully started to untangle the silky mass from what seemed like every possible spot of attachment on his body.

  Why me? he wondered. As if being felled by this wiggling wacko wasn't bad enough, in less than half an hour he'd be dancing at Candy's bachelorette party. Last week when Barbie and Candy had asked him to perform, Trace had figured this would be a good chance to find out what the showgirls knew about the Mirage's secret cargo, as well as the private cruise he'd recently overheard a couple of Mr. V.'s men discussing. Especially since Mr. V.'s niece, Angie Venzara, would be at the party tonight, too. But the reality of stripping down to the ridiculous triangle of spandex and string, that even now was chafing the hell out of him, and doing it in such intimate surroundings, had Trace rethinking his master plan. He wished his costume came with a gun so he could just shoot himself now and be done with it. Damn, his life sucked.