HER PRIVATE DANCER Read online

  Trace sighed. "Okay, I think that's it." Determined to be free before he embarrassed himself even more, he tried to stand and immediately identified the final obstacle. He cleared his throat. "I never thought I'd say this to a woman, but you're going to have to unclench your leg from my back. If you want me to stop poking you, that is," he added dryly.

  The woman gasped. "Oh, I d-didn't realize," she stammered, her voice turning sheepish.

  The pressure on his ribs eased and Trace carefully pushed onto his hands and knees. Out of breath and panting, he kneeled over her, their faces only inches apart. He blinked, looking straight into her cool, gray eyes. No, not just gray.

  They were silver. Reflecting the light. Unforgettable—like the haunting notes of a long-ago melody.

  The light from the street lamp pooled around them and he could just make out her face. The woman's eyes widened. Her thick dark lashes fanned out to her eyebrows. "Trace?"

  He held his breath. Her skin was porcelain smooth, her mouth lush, full and red like a wet berry. She was beautiful. Amazing. He'd only known one other face so perfect.

  His heart kicked into a pounding rhythm. "Phoebe? Phoebe Devereaux?"

  The only woman he'd ever loved smiled up at him hesitantly. That she'd broken his heart nine years ago hardly seemed important.

  * * *

  2

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  "Damn." Trace's chest clutched painfully. Well, at least he now understood his physical reaction to her on the ground. His mind might not have known who it was, but his body sure as hell had.

  She shifted and winced. The change in her expression broke his spell and he realized that he was still kneeling over her. Awkwardly he rose to his feet.

  "Sorry," he said, and as she sat forward, Trace backed up a step to give her room. Desperate to tear his eyes away from her, he glanced around the darkened yard. "You dropped some of your stuff. Let me help you."

  He turned his back to Phoebe and started toward the cluster of palm trees a few feet away. He needed a moment to regroup here, and muttering a curse, adjusted himself inside his pants. Trace scowled and with some difficulty leaned over and picked up the dented present from the grass. He couldn't believe it. Phoebe Devereaux. His college sweetheart.

  Trace took a deep breath and combed his fingers through his hair. Well, more like his college obsession, really. Nine years ago, they'd both attended the University of Miami. The first time he'd seen her in the school bookstore he'd felt all but struck by lightning. One look had been enough for him to fall and fall hard. Unfortunately, she'd needed a good hundred or so more, but by their senior year when she'd finally come around, he'd never been happier. For a brief time anyway. Before she'd dumped his ass.

  Trace's hand shook as he fumbled with the crumpled white bow, trying to set it back on top. Get a grip, McGraw. He willed his racing pulse to return to normal. It's only Phoebe. No big deal. Yeah, right. Trace released the ribbon and watched it fall dejectedly on its side. Too bad his hard-on refused to have the same reaction.

  Shaking his head, he walked back to Phoebe and set the wrapped box down next to her. "Wow—" He broke off and cleared his throat. "Phoebe Devereaux. It's been a long time." After the major kiss-off she'd given him back in college, Trace knew he should walk away. Give her a brief greeting then turn around and never look back. But he couldn't. He wanted to know everything. Soak up each detail of the past nine years of her life in a moment. Well, crap. He might as well just rip out his heart now and hand it to her on a silver platter. It'd save them both a lot of hassle.

  "Yeah, a long time…" Her voice trailed off as she stared at him.

  Trace shook his head, and in spite of the roiling sensation in his gut, felt a smile tugging at his lips. Apparently some things never changed. Phoebe sat gazing up at him as if he were a tasty dessert she couldn't wait to devour. Of course, if this played out anything like it usually had in the past, rapidly following on its heels would be her expression of self-loathing and disgust, so he didn't bother getting too flattered. Why she'd always done this was beyond him. Hell, just the thought of Phoebe had always affected him the same way and it didn't make him want to run out and commit hara-kiri.

  Since she didn't seem to be in any hurry to stop staring at him, Trace decided to return the favor, and what he saw caused his mouth to curve into an unholy grin.

  Her sundress lay hiked up around her waist, revealing a tiny scrap of lace he supposed passed for panties. Though he'd always been a sucker for her long sable hair, it looked a little ragged at the moment with bits of grass sticking out and a rather large leaf tangled at the side. On top of that, one of her shoes must have flown south during their tumble, because only a single, lethal-looking high heel graced her arched foot.

  It was enough to make a man drool. She was the sexiest thing he'd ever seen and color-coordinated to boot. Shoes, dress and underwear all in a glaring shade of pink that he could honestly say was his new favorite color. He wondered what she'd do if he told her that he could see London, France and every little bit of her underpants. Little definitely being the key word here.

  Unfortunately, though not unexpectedly, Phoebe seemed to catch herself making calf eyes and pulled up short, retreating behind a stone wall of composure with a dash of indifference thrown in for good measure, in case he hadn't taken the hint. Trace narrowed his eyes. It had been nine years. He was a full-grown man. Her denial of their attraction shouldn't matter. Yet, he felt as if he were back on campus following her around like a puppy dog begging for a date because he was so damn crazy about her he couldn't stay away.

  The same old frustrations from the past, the ones demanding he force a response from her, raged through his body. He was not the only one affected here. Before he walked away, Phoebe Devereaux was going to admit what she had only once in the past, and then ruined by never speaking to him again. That she wanted him and wanted him bad. Though, Trace decided with a smile, he might not make her say it in those exact words.

  He knew from personal experience the only way past Phoebe's reserve involved annoying the heck out of her until she got screaming mad, and then man, oh, man, would he get a response. Despite the turmoil twisting his insides, he felt a surprising spark of excitement. Damn, this was going to be fun…

  Trace crossed his arms and purposely put on his most cocky expression, which just so happened to be the one that had always riled her up the most. "Not that I mind the view, but maybe you should pull down your dress. Unless, of course, you want to pick up where we left off now that you know it's me." It was almost too easy, he thought wickedly.

  Phoebe's forehead wrinkled and she glanced down at herself. A strangled noise rushed past her lips before she scrambled to her feet, the whole while brushing down the front of her dress. "Oh, please," she finally said, with a dramatic look heavenward. "As if I would ever want to pick up anything with you." Her voice was a little too shaky to achieve the disdainful tone Trace knew she was going for.

  "Hey—" he raised his hands "—you were the one wiggling around down there like you were doing the horizontal lambada. Not me." He shook his head. "No sir, no matter how I begged, nothing could keep you still."

  She stiffened, bringing his attention back to the long, firm limbs he'd so intimately held only moments before. The same ones he remembered from nine years ago and had felt like heaven wrapped around his waist, around his back, his shoulders, his neck…

  Aw, hell. His pants were never going to lie flat.

  "Poor Trace. I see you're still delusional. How sad." She sniffed and turned away, clearly dismissing him as she presumably began to search for her missing shoe.

  Trace scowled. Like hell would she blow him off that easily. "While you, it seems, have changed quite a bit. If memory serves correctly, you never used to wear underpants. Not that I'm complaining. They're quite nice. You have excellent taste."

  She whipped her head back around to gape at him, her mouth hanging open.

  Score one for the home team. He
'd stunned Phoebe Devereaux silent. Now to really piss her off. "Why, Phoebe, I can think of only one other time I made you speechless. And here, I'm not even touching you…" He shook his head but couldn't contain the wide smile that spread across his face at the direct hit.

  Of course, she didn't stay silent for long. In his experience, she never had. Not with him anyway. It had always been a source of amazement to him that the same painfully shy woman who could barely make small talk with the other students, became a screaming virago at the least of his taunts. The dichotomy of her behavior had been the biggest turn-on of his life. It had gotten to the point that by his senior year, she'd say one mean or argumentative thing and his favorite body part would pop up like one of those plastic thermometers on a turkey. For a while there, he'd been afraid that he'd never be able to get an erection without having a whopping argument first.

  Phoebe narrowed her eyes. "Crude egomaniacs tend to have that effect on me. Now, if you'll excuse me." She started to lift her cute little nose in the air, but he spoke before she could turn away again.

  "You don't have to explain, Phoebe. I know exactly how I affect you." He purposely made his voice low and suggestive. "But, I was thinking about our night together. You remember, Phoebe, right? The night when we—"

  "It was nothing." She actually growled and he could just make out the telltale flush on her cheeks.

  "Bull." Not one of the most original comebacks but he was riding the edge here and deserved a little slack.

  She waved her hand. "We had some fun. Well, at least you did, anyway. It wasn't a big deal."

  Trace merely crossed his arms and raised his eyebrow. Why argue something so patently false? Besides, if he opened his mouth, he might do something stupid. Like tell her exactly how much that night had meant to him.

  She rolled her eyes then pretended great interest in her fingernails which, in this light, he knew doggone well she could barely see. "All right," she said grudgingly, "it was pleasant."

  His other eyebrow joined the first and they both crept higher.

  Phoebe clenched her jaw and fisted her hands at her sides. "Fine, I really enjoyed myself."

  Since she was doing so good on her own, Trace still said nothing, and she bit out, "Okay. I had as much fun as you, if not more. The heavens moved, the earth shook." She smiled sweetly. "But if you recall, I got over it." While steam all but poured from his ears, she shrugged, no longer meeting his eyes. "I can't believe you're making such a big deal over this. For that matter, I'm shocked you even remember."

  He cursed. "Oh, I remember all right…" As if he could forget.

  Twenty-one years old and in love for the first time in his life, Trace had held her in his arms and watched her come.

  He'd slid into the hot, delicate flesh between her legs until her beautiful thighs had begun to quiver on either side of his hips and she'd exploded in release. Though she'd never told him, Trace had known that she was a virgin. Phoebe had willingly given him a gift no other would have, and at that moment, he'd felt as if it had been his first time, too. There was no way in hell he'd let her brush off that night as unimportant. On a physical level alone it had been one for the history books even if she had completely rejected him the next day.

  Phoebe scoffed. "Oh, please. If you remember anything about me or that night it's because I was just another conquest. One of many for you, I'm sure, but still true."

  Jerked back to the present, he stared at Phoebe, her protest like a blow to his solar plexus. Irrationally, anger burned through his veins, every bit as strong today as if it were only moments ago when she'd looked at him scornfully and refused to speak with him. Refused to answer his phone calls. Refused to offer even the most basic of explanations for the violent change in her attitude.

  Too far gone to care what the hell he said. Trace retorted, "So I guess you shoot off like a firework for every man that buys you dinner?" He shook his head, feigning disbelief. "Huh. Somehow I had you figured differently."

  Phoebe sputtered for several seconds then finally managed to say, "We had one lousy date and things went too far. Stop acting as if we shared some great night of passion."

  "Lousy, huh? So you're saying it was my poor taste in restaurants? You begged and moaned for more but called it quits on us because I couldn't afford to take you someplace fancy?" He made a tsking sound. "And you call me the shallow one."

  "I can't believe this." She shook her head, her expression incredulous. "You're mad. Mr. On-the-Make McGraw is pissed off because a woman actually exists who wasn't interested in going to bed with him a second time."

  All right, now he was mad. Phoebe loved to throw the womanizer card in his face. So women liked him? Big whoop. He'd asked Phoebe out every week for four years and she'd said no. What was he supposed to do? Become a monk while he waited? As it was, when he'd finally worn her down, he'd been so damn happy and relieved she'd said yes, whatever little awareness he'd ever had of another female had literally fled his brain. Her accusations made no more sense today than they had nine years ago.

  He narrowed his eyes at her. "Hell yes, it was a shock. One night you were so hot I thought my skin was gonna burn to a crisp, and the next, I'm worried about frostbite."

  She pulled back her shoulders and lifted her chin. "Let's get some facts straight here. I was not hot and I never moaned."

  "It's nothing to be embarrassed about. You can't help it if you're a moaner," he said placatingly.

  "If I moaned it was because you disgust me."

  "Phoebe … Phoebe." He shook his head. "Really, it's okay. You don't need to make excuses. I thought it was cute when you made those deep, throaty sounds. Loud, but cute. Especially when you got that breathy little catch right before you were about to co—"

  She broke in, "I hope you die. Slowly and painfully." Phoebe dragged out each word. "And I'm there to watch it."

  Head up, chin thrust forward, her eyes flashed dangerously. Her chest rose and fell with each of her labored breaths. She was amazing and, in spite of everything, he'd never wanted her more.

  Trace almost barked out a laugh. There had to be something wrong with a man who found pure contrariness on this massive a level arousing. A dose of Spanish fly poured down his gullet. But damn if he didn't feel as if he'd just swallowed a whole bottle.

  * * *

  Phoebe gulped for air. Trace McGraw was the most aggravating, annoying, frustrating, handsome and sexy man she'd ever known. The bane of her college years. The object of her most erotic sexual fantasies. The man responsible for her one and only orgasm. And, after nine years, he stood before her determined she relive it. Maybe if she'd ever had another one she wouldn't be reacting to his barbs like the poster child for PMS.

  And did he have to look like something out of Greek mythology, too? A god come to life to depress the heck out of the mortals? Even with it this dark outside, she could see him well enough to know she'd be in big trouble if it weren't this dark outside. Her palms had grown damp just from glancing at him—oh, all right, staring at him—and she wiped her hands on the skirt of her dress.

  The man looked near-perfect. His almost black hair was a bit too long and fell in the kind of artless disarray women spent hours in front of the mirror trying to achieve. Though she wasn't quite able to see the exact shade of his eyes, she knew from experience they were big, and astonishingly blue, and, at only the slightest glimpse of their brooding intensity, could make anything with ovaries want to rip off her clothes and drop spread-eagle to the ground. It brought new meaning to the phrase stop, drop and roll. Except with Phoebe. With her it had always been panic, overreact and run. Well, all but that one time. Unfortunately, she didn't feel much like running now, either.

  Phoebe scowled and tried to ignore the almost magnetic tug his six-foot-two form exerted over her own shivering mass. What the heck was wrong with her? Since when did she let an insignificant thing like a square and masculine jaw snare her interest? Or deep-set bedroom eyes? Or a flawless nose, more narrow than n
ot, that led to a mouth with lips just plump enough to make her picture them shiny and wet, and wonder if they'd taste as good as she remembered…?

  Phoebe realized the direction of her thoughts and could have kicked herself. Jeesh. She should be running and fast. That night may have been earth-shattering for her, however it was just one of many for Trace. True, said an insidious voice in her head. But that was a long time ago, and since you're a new and liberated woman only interested in your next good time, there's always the chance that if you ask real nice, he might be willing to shatter the earth for you again.

  Phoebe flinched and told the sex-starved portion of her brain to shut the hell up. Then she looked into Trace's beautiful frowning face and her pulse leaped and her own nearly shriveled-on-the-vine ovaries all but quivered. Jerking herself back to reality, she tried her hardest to appear bored with him and the entire discussion. The last thing her pride needed was for him to realize how much he still affected her. Or how much the memory of his betrayal still hurt.

  "Listen," she said, waving her hand, "all that stuff happened a long time ago. I don't even know why we're arguing." There. That sounded pretty good.

  He stilled for a moment then slowly shook his head and took a step closer. The scent of pine and something intrinsically Trace wafted through the humid air, tickling her nose and bringing with it a rush of memories. Sexual memories. Amazingly graphic and sexual memories. You're pathetic, she told herself, and it was all she could do not to walk over to that tree there behind him and knock herself unconscious.

  "You don't?" he asked.

  He was too close, but Phoebe couldn't have backed up to save her life. She dug her fingernails into her palms and forced herself to laugh. "Not really, no. Heck, we were practically kids." Any second her nose was going to grow into a great sequoia.