HER PRIVATE DANCER Read online

  The real problem was that Phoebe remembered too much. Like how he'd replaced her with another woman less than twenty-four hours after she'd left his bed. Phoebe had been at ballet practice that next day and hadn't been able to meet with Trace. Except she'd finished early and, like a lovesick fool, had headed straight for Trace's apartment hoping to surprise him. Unfortunately, she'd been the one surprised. By the beautiful girl with him at his front door.

  Stunned, Phoebe had only been able to stand silently and watch the stupid goodbye kiss that the busty redhead had planted on Trace—ridiculously childish in her opinion since the floozy's lips had been tightly puckered and she'd even made a big smoochy noise, for heaven's sake. Of course, Trace, the creep, had been amused, laughing affectionately then pulling the young woman back into his arms for a warm hug before waving her off.

  Why the image still made her chest ache, Phoebe refused to analyze, and helplessly, she stared at Trace.

  The corner of his mouth curved up, but there was no humor in his expression. Then he leaned down and his breath feathered her ear, the sensation enough to stop her lungs from working. "I don't believe you," he whispered. "You remember exactly how good it was between us. You're lying, Phoebe, and I know why. Because you're just as hot for me now as you were back in college and for some reason that really ticks you off."

  Phoebe took a step back from him, her movements jerky. She lifted her chin. "How charmingly put. And untrue. Besides, there are more important things than physical attraction." Though at the moment she couldn't think of a single one.

  "Really? Name one."

  Rats. He would zero in on that particular problem. "Okay," she said, then licked her lips again. "Um, mutual interests."

  His smile widened. He moved toward her, closing the space she'd put between them. "Believe me, sweetheart, the interest here is definitely mutual." His hand stroked down her bare arm. The little hairs on her skin rose in his wake.

  "Yes, well—" she cleared her throat "—I seem to recall that your interest had a much shorter shelf life than mine." She took another step away but he kept pace, all but stalking her.

  Trace shook his head and lifted his thumb to her bottom lip. "Now, that's where you've always been wrong, Phoebe." He gave an exaggerated sigh. "But I guess since you're still not ready to believe me, I'll just have to prove it." He lowered his mouth and Phoebe panicked. If he kissed her, she couldn't be held responsible for her actions. Specifically, throwing herself at him and howling at the moon.

  "No, no," she said, still backing up. "That's okay. Let's just call a truce here and agree to disagree."

  Trace grinned. "Nah. I'd rather be right."

  "No." Her eyes going wide, she stumbled backward when pain shot through her bare foot. "Ouch!" she wailed, bending down.

  In less than a heartbeat, Trace knelt at her side. "What happened?" he asked. "Are you okay?" Then he curled those devastating fingers of his around her ankle and a charge raced up her leg as if she'd become a live wire. Instantaneous electricity.

  Phoebe scowled. "I'm fine," she said, though her voice wobbled. Next the words "I don't need your help" somehow came out of her mouth when what she really wanted to say was, "Please, if you have an ounce of mercy, don't touch me."

  "Hush." He gently turned her foot. A small line of blood ran from her pinkie toe. "Hey, you've really hurt yourself," he said, his voice gruff. "You're bleeding."

  Oh, why couldn't the creep be consistent? One minute he was the ex-boyfriend from hell and the next all sensitivity. Of course, she shouldn't have been surprised. Trace had always played by his own rules. In other words, he didn't mind driving her nuts, but if she ever needed anything he was first in line and always came through.

  Except at the end when he'd turned out to be a two-timing pig just as she'd always feared. Then again, the sexually deprived voice chimed back in and said, maybe it's about time to let all those pesky little bygones be bygones. After all, nobody's perfect, he was too young to know how much he hurt you, yada yada yada. Think of whatever excuse it'll take for you to have wild monkey sex with him at the earliest possible opportunity—as a matter of fact, right here and now seems to be available.

  "I'm fine," she blurted. "I'm sure it's nothing."

  "You're not fine. You have a cut," he said, and before she could argue, he stood and scooped her into his arms in one motion.

  Phoebe's stomach rolled and she braced her hand on his chest. His muscles were hard and lean beneath her fingers. His shoulders wide and—she noticed where her thoughts were going. No! Absolutely not. No wild monkey sex. She didn't care how good he felt. Or smelled. Or sounded. Or whatever other freakishly attractive characteristics the man possessed that made her want to copulate with him on the spot.

  Trace set her down on the steps leading into the apartment building and when he spoke, he sounded angry. "This is my fault. I should have found your shoe right away instead of letting you walk around like this in the dark." He pulled her foot onto his lap.

  Distance seemed to be the key here, and she somewhat gently tried to kick his hand loose. "How's it your fault?" she complained. "I could've looked for my own darn shoe. Besides, I'm the one who ran into you."

  Trace tightened his hold until she stilled. Other than that, he ignored her. Phoebe sighed and finally gave in. If the man wanted to turn heroic, far be it from her to interfere. The sheer pleasure of his touch also weighed heavily in his favor, but she hated to admit to herself such a major personal weakness.

  Forcing herself to look away from him, since drooling was a very real possibility, she noticed something glinting from his shirt.

  "Is that the thing that kept poking me?" she asked.

  He started to jerk her foot away from his groin, then caught himself. His cheeks turning red, he frowned up at her. "What are you talking about?"

  Fighting a grin, she pointed to his chest and was about to clarify her question, when she realized he was wearing a badge. And a dark blue uniform. Phoebe made a startled sound then shook her head. "Oh, my gosh, you're a police officer. I can't believe it."

  He made a strange face. "Me neither," he answered on a sigh.

  She stared, unsure how to respond. Trace McGraw … a police officer? Her mind fundamentally rejected the idea. Though law enforcement was certainly a noble profession, he'd been a wonderful journalist. For Trace to have given up his writing, even if it was to become a cop, just didn't seem right. Actually it seemed wrong, and made Phoebe sad in a way she hadn't even felt at her own ruined ambitions. "Why? I thought you were going to become a reporter. You were so good."

  Traced snorted. "And how would you know?" he asked, not bothering to lift his head.

  Without thinking, she said, "Because I used to read your column in the school paper, of course." Phoebe smiled and leaned back on her hands. "I was always excited when the next edition came out. I couldn't wait to see what you were going to write about next." She stopped and shrugged. "But even if I'd only read one issue, it would have been enough to recognize your talent."

  "Oh, really?" He looked up, a cocky grin spread across his mouth.

  Heat crept over her cheeks. Oh, that was nice. She sounded like an adolescent girl waiting for the next issue of Tiger Beat to hit the stands. "Well, it wasn't just me. Everyone did. You were constantly uncovering some injustice around campus," she said, lifting her chin. "Like the time you wrote about that lecherous professor who tried to seduce most of his female students into earning extra credits in his bed." Phoebe shuddered. "By the way, your story couldn't have come at a better time for me. I was registered to take his class as soon as we got back from Christmas break."

  Trace's smile slipped away. "I know."

  Phoebe paused again, brought up short. "You knew?" she asked. "But how? What do you mean?"

  He shrugged. "I read your schedule. It slipped out of your purse in the library."

  Phoebe raised her eyebrows and Trace sighed. "It's not like you didn't know I made a habit of doing my homew
ork in the library at the same time as you. Anyway, when I saw Professor Eiken's name on your list, I just about sh—" He broke off, not finishing the crude expression. "I hadn't really heard much about him until then, but one of my friends was dating a girl who'd been all but raped by the man a week or two before." Trace's jaw had hardened and he suddenly seemed to stare at Phoebe as if, well, it didn't make sense, but he stared at her possessively. As if she were his to protect so that's what he'd done. But that couldn't be right.

  Trace McGraw was not possessive over women. There were too darn many of them, for one thing. And for another, he didn't need to be. She doubted that there'd ever been a single female in his entire life who'd willingly left his side without having to be physically shoved along first. Phoebe looked away and rubbed her forehead. Obviously, she'd misread Trace's expression and he must still get angry when he thought about all the problems that article had created for him. Even after all this time, she could understand why he'd be upset.

  With only a semester to go before graduation, Trace had exposed one of the most powerful faculty members on staff and the ensuing scandal had been huge. Professor Eiken had tried to have Trace expelled and almost succeeded. The man had even started a lawsuit against Trace and the university, but dropped it when a shocking number of abuse claims started pouring in.

  And Trace had gone through all of that to keep her safe? Phoebe's pulse fluttered. She was shocked and, well … amazingly flattered. He'd written that article for her. She had no doubt he'd been concerned for the other girls as well, but still … he'd been so generous. And he'd never even told her. Phoebe paused and bit her lip. These were not exactly the actions of a man who'd only been trying to get her into bed. The risk he'd taken spoke of a level of caring that she'd never given Trace credit for. But if he'd cared so much then why had he cheated on her?

  Phoebe glanced away, unsure what to believe. Instead she asked, "So why didn't you stay with it? Reporting, I mean."

  Trace shot her a look. "I did," he said after a minute, rubbing the back of his neck. "But let's just say it didn't exactly turn out as I expected." At Phoebe's silence, he grudgingly added, "I got fired. It's a long story and I'd rather not go into it right now." He shrugged. "Listen, that platter you were carrying must have broken when you fell. I think you stepped on some glass. There's not enough light for me to take it out down here."

  "Oh," Phoebe said, suddenly self-conscious. "That's okay," she smiled. "I can do it myself once I get upstairs."

  "Not likely," he snorted. Then he scooped her back into his arms and stood. "Relax. It's my job to serve and protect." Trace smiled, his teeth a white slash against his bronze skin. "And that's exactly what I plan to do."

  * * *

  "Are you sure this is the right place?" Trace asked with a scowl.

  Though he'd spoken loudly, Phoebe had just been able to hear him over the music and feminine laughter floating from behind Barbie's front door into the hallway. He was standing rigid, staring at the shiny brass numbers and holding Phoebe against his chest. And the more Trace stared and listened, the tenser he grew until his fingers were all but squeezing her legs and side.

  Phoebe's lips twitched and she nodded. "Yep, 701. This is it."

  A spark flared in his eyes but he quickly lowered them and she almost snickered. Obviously, he couldn't believe Phoebe was going to a party that made Animal House sound genteel. Grinning smugly, Phoebe reached out to knock on the door but he stepped back.

  "You know what? We forgot your present. We better go back down before somebody steals it. It'll be gone. I'm a cop. I know these things." He began to turn toward the elevator.

  "Wait," she protested, putting her hand on his chest, which made them both freeze for a moment and look down at her hand and his chest. Slowly, she slid her fingers away. "It'll be fine. Believe me. Anybody who wants that Crock-Pot or the smooshed deviled eggs can have them."

  "You mean, that present you brought is a Crock-Pot?"

  "Yes. Why?"

  He paused for a minute then shook his head and laughed. "It's stupid, really. For a second, I thought you might have gotten the wrong address or something. You know—" Trace shrugged "—right building, wrong party." Strangely, he sounded relieved and his expression had brightened significantly. "Listen, why don't I get you inside then run down and grab that gift for your friend?" He grinned down at her. "No happy homemaker should be without a Crock-Pot."

  Phoebe wrinkled her nose. "Which is exactly why we can leave it downstairs. I doubt Candy would ever use it," she said, and Trace flinched then almost dropped her.

  She clutched at his arms. "Oh, gosh. I'm sorry." Heat crept over her cheeks. "Thanks, but really, you can put me down now. I have to be heavy."

  "You're not heavy. How did you say you got invited to this party?" he asked without missing a beat.

  On the elevator ride upstairs, Phoebe noticed Trace seemed intent on poking and prodding into each and every detail of her life since they'd last seen each other. Unfortunately, there hadn't been much to tell—or much that she'd been willing to tell. After all, her life seemed to her unfathomably boring and pitiful—especially when she shared it with the ex-boyfriend she hoped to turn bitter with regret for having let her slip away. So, all too soon, Phoebe had found herself explaining her return to Miami. Call it pride, vanity or sheer humiliation, but she hadn't told him about her new job on the Mirage as a showgirl.

  Somehow, going from prima ballerina to showgirl seemed sort of shallow and pathetic after he'd chosen to become a cop when his own pursuits in journalism hadn't been successful. Instead Phoebe had stammered her way through an awkward lie about a lagging dance production she was helping to get back on its feet. Then she'd told him about her new friends and the bridal shower tonight.

  She should've just said she was in town on vacation, but against her better judgment she'd wanted him to believe her return was more permanent. Just in case. It was a ridiculous waste of time that could only lead to trouble, yet the discovery that all those years ago Trace's feelings for her might have been stronger than she'd believed made her chest go all hot and fluttery. Not to mention the ball of warmth that spread through her lower regions whenever she even happened to glance at him. Jeesh, it was all she could do not to throw herself down on the ground and toss her skirt back over her head. Phoebe almost laughed. Tiffany would be so proud.

  Trace turned his head toward her, his gaze snaring hers. "Well?"

  All thought fled her brain the moment their eyes met. "Well, what?" she asked like a total dolt.

  "The party?"

  She tried to sound normal, but it took all her concentration just to breathe properly, his lips barely inches from her own. "Yes. I'm going to a party."

  The muscles in his neck and shoulders tensed under her arms. "Did you say you worked with the women at the party? Danced with them?"

  "Um, I think so." Phoebe gave up trying to focus on his questions. His eyebrows were lowered. Funny how she'd never noticed they were a shade lighter than his hair and perfectly arched. Perfectly perfect. A sigh welled in her chest.

  "And this friend is getting married?"

  Little sparklers flared to life down low in Phoebe's body every time his lips formed a word, and she nodded. Anything to keep those supple lines of flesh moving.

  "Phoebes—earth to Phoebe?" His silky voice speaking her name was an act of God. He shook his head, his fantabulous mouth grinning sinfully.

  Sin… Yes. She wanted sinning. Lots of sinning.

  He chuckled softly. "You know you're killing me, don't you? Here…" He gave her a hard kiss, his lips firm and warm, but he pulled back aeons too soon. "Now, pay attention, kitten, and if you're good we'll try that again." His eyes darkened. "Only longer. Much longer." Trace stared at her mouth for a moment before he shook his head and lowered his eyebrows determinedly. "I want you to tell me who invited you here."

  The longer version definitely sounded good but she couldn't remember what she had to do to get it.
Something about listening. Or answering. Oh, why hadn't she just sucked face with him when she'd had the chance?

  "Phoebe—" He shook her.

  Couldn't he tell that she was having a major hormonal breakthrough here? Phoebe sounded cross but didn't care and said, "I told you in the elevator. Some of my new friends at work invited me. If you must have specifics, I think Barbie was the one who officially asked."

  His lips parted and a startled huff of air escaped. She inhaled his sweet breath. She couldn't take it a second longer, and just when he opened his mouth to say, "Barbie! Good Chr—" Phoebe cupped his face with her hands and yanked him to her, cutting off his words. Blood pounded in her veins. Oceans roared in her ears. Phoebe couldn't believe it. All on her own she'd reached out and kissed him. She was an animal!

  Fortunately, it didn't take much to refocus him, because as soon as they connected, Trace made a muffled grunt then jumped into the fray. He licked into her mouth, and with the first warm swipe of his tongue she could swear that goose bumps rose on every square inch of her skin. Then he moaned, the sound pained and rough. The noise vibrated her lips and started a quivering sensation arrowing straight to the tips of her breasts.

  Unbelievably, he still held her, and she shifted in his arms, tilted her hips until she'd twisted and they were stomach to stomach. It was like rolling over into a fire. Ready to incinerate on the spot, Phoebe began to rub her nipples against the pressure of his chest when, with a jarring return to reality, the apartment door next to them jerked open.

  Trace wrenched his mouth free and Phoebe almost wailed. Much slower to recover, she finally followed his line of vision to the doorway. One of the showgirls, Barbie—the hostess for Candy's party—stood just inside.

  "Well, it's about time," Barbie said, before turning her head and yelling over her shoulder to the women inside the apartment, "Hey everybody, get your money out. Tiffany's big sister found the stripper! It's show time!"