HER PRIVATE DANCER Page 5

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  Trace froze. He wanted to move, but couldn't. If only to clap his hand over top of Barbie's blabbering mouth. It was like watching a car accident he couldn't prevent. In slow motion.

  Phoebe cocked her head, her expression clearly confused. "Stripper?"

  Barbie chuckled and shook her head. "As if you didn't know. And I thought Tiffany was the wild sister."

  Phoebe frowned and looked toward him.

  He refused to meet Phoebe's gaze—not easy since he was still holding her, and her face was only inches from his own. Barbie said, "Come on in." The buxom showgirl smiled and waved for him to follow, but his feet felt as if they'd been trapped in hardened cement. "Good thing you finally got here. The girls were getting a little rowdy. But I'm sure they'll be much happier now that the 'Sea Stud' is here." She stopped and ran her gaze over him from head to toe.

  Trace cringed and thought, damn Barbie and her big mouth, anyway. Of all the demeaning things he'd been through in the last couple of weeks, the stupid nickname the customers on the ship had come up with had to be the worst. Unfortunately, the Mirage had been only too happy to cash in on the situation and had started hanging posters of him in costume from the neck down all over the ship. And while he was mostly glad they hadn't used his face, he was also disgusted to realize that some small part of himself balked at the idea of being just a body. As if he were a piece of meat.

  "Sea Stud?" Phoebe's voice came out a squeak. "You mean that guy in all those posters on the Mirage?"

  Barbie nodded. "You didn't know that was Trace?"

  Phoebe merely shook her head, though he could feel her body go stiff as a poker in his arms.

  Trace's mind churned. How the hell was he supposed to get himself out of this one? And how much truth should he tell her? That he wasn't even a male stripper but really a reporter for a tabloid rag because he'd lost his job at the Herald?

  He could just picture himself trying to explain that particular fall from grace. You see, Phoebe, it's like this. I got fired from the Herald because I wouldn't sleep with the boss's daughter in the supply closet during the annual work Christmas party. Unfortunately, I'd imbibed a little too much yuletide cheer, and between the alcohol and the shock of being dragged into the dark little room on my way back from the John, Jeanine had my pants open and zipper down before I could wrestle her off me. Now wait, this is the really funny part. Jeanine's dad, my editor, walked in on us and she blamed the whole thing on me. Not only did he fire me on the spot, he started a smear campaign that pretty much killed any chances of me getting hired by the sort of newspaper a person would read outside of a line at the grocery store. Frankly, Phoebe believing he was a male stripper was less embarrassing.

  Phoebe swallowed. "So, that's your body in those posters." Her cheeks turned rosy. "Uh, it's a good shot. Nice abs."

  Those same abs tightened, but for the moment Trace was saved from having to give an explanation when the bride-to-be, Candy, walked into the small foyer. She placed her hands on her hips. "Hey, what's the holdup?" Candy asked.

  "Yeah, you two." Barbie reached out and grabbed his sleeve, which left him with no choice but to let her pull him inside.

  "Wait a minute." Candy winked at Phoebe. "If anyone should be carried over the threshold it's me. I'm the one getting married."

  "Candy's right," Phoebe said. She pushed against his chest. "You can put me down now."

  Automatically he tightened his hold. "Sorry, ladies. No can do. Phoebe's hurt." Hurt and nuts if she thought he'd give her up that easily. Not after that lip lock she'd just given him back in the hallway. For her, that kiss was nothing short of a proposition and it was one he intended to take her up on.

  Trace ignored Phoebe's huffy exhale and shook his head at the other two women. "She stepped on some glass outside and can't walk. If one of you would tell me where the bathroom is, I'll carry her there. Oh, and I'll need some tweezers. Maybe some first-aid stuff, too."

  "Oh, brother," Phoebe mumbled as she crossed her arms over her chest. She turned her face away from him and studied the wall.

  "Are you okay?" Candy asked her, stepping closer. "I hope it's not bad."

  "I'm fine, really, but thank you. It's just a cut. He refuses to listen." Phoebe jerked her thumb toward him.

  "Are you sure?" Barbie asked. "Right now your dancing's not so great, kid. The last thing you need is an injury." She lowered her voice, "Especially if you're still hoping to get in on the extra money Saturday night."

  Wait a second, Trace thought, frowning. In the midst of worrying about his own lies, he seemed to have forgotten that Phoebe had told a few humdingers of her own. A sinking feeling settled in his stomach, like when an informant took back everything he'd said only an hour before the paper went to bed, and his heart pounded. How the hell did she know Barbie and Candy? And what the hell was she doing on the Mirage? "What the hell are you guys talking about?" he interrupted, his voice overly loud, but apparently this didn't matter since none of them listened to him anyway.

  Candy nodded to Phoebe as if he hadn't spoken. "You've got the right equipment—you just need to learn how to use it better." Candy quirked her mouth. "A lot better. No offence, Devereaux."

  Phoebe laughed, sounding genuinely amused at the insult. "None taken." Then she hesitated. "But you think I'll be good eventually, right? I mean, I'm not a lost cause or anything?"

  The two women shared a look then Barbie said, "You'll have to work your fanny off before Tuesday, but me and the girls can help you."

  Phoebe beamed. "I was hoping you'd say that. Thanks. You guys are the best."

  Barbie and Candy laughed. "Hey, you're Tiffany's big sister. We're all family on the Mirage."

  The muscles over Trace's ribs tightened until he could barely breathe. "Hey," he interrupted again, giving Phoebe a quick shake. He was going to get her attention this time no matter what, except now that Trace had it, he couldn't speak because the thoughts swirling inside his head were so ridiculous he felt like an idiot to even ask. "You're gonna think I'm crazy, but, well, you're not—I mean, this is so stupid, because there's no way—" He stumbled over his words while Phoebe's eyes glittered with a certain malicious satisfaction that made his stomach clench. "Tell me you're not a showgirl on the Mirage…"

  Phoebe lifted her pert nose in the air, her lips curving smugly. "Sorry, Stud of the Sea. No can do—"

  "Sea Stud," Barbie and Candy corrected in unison.

  Phoebe rolled her eyes. "Whatever." She flicked her finger under his chin. "Looks like you and I'll be working together. I can't wait to see you do your little routine. Who knows? Maybe I can even pick up a few pointers."

  * * *

  "Here we go, kids." Barbie flipped on the light then stepped aside for him to enter the bathroom. "You can set her down then I'll show you where the stereo is. You brought a tape for your music, right?"

  Phoebe patted him on the shoulder. "Trace is a professional. Of course he brought his tape."

  Heat crept over his face. "I'll check out the sound system in a minute. She's going to need some help—"

  "No, I don't," Phoebe cut him off, then fiercely whispered into his ear, "Put me down."

  Trace dumped her cute butt onto the rim of the tub, his lips twisting at her muffled grunt, then closed the door in Barbie's startled face. He turned the lock, not about to let anything or anyone interrupt him.

  "Well, okay," Barbie's muffled voice spoke from the other side. "But hurry it up. The crowd is getting restless. Especially Angie."

  Trace winced. He'd mostly agreed to dance at this little shindig because of Venzara's niece, Angie. Rumor had it she used the male dancers on the Mirage like her own personal stud service. Not that Trace was interested in joining her stable, but at this point he'd date the stage manager, Phil, if it meant getting enough information so he could write a real story. Trace sighed. At the moment, Angie was the least of his worries.

  He turned around a
nd faced Phoebe. There was really no place to go in the small room, so he leaned back against the door and crossed his arms. She was smoothing down her hair, looking into the mirror above the sink from her perch on the tub. She pretended to ignore him, but he'd caught her sneaking glances his way more than once. Pursing his mouth, he stewed over the load of garbage she'd fed him in the elevator. Lagging dance production, his ass. He'd pictured her helping some struggling inner-city troupe, charitably promoting the arts. Not shimmying around a casino ship in feathers and heels.

  "You lied," he said flatly.

  She jumped at his voice then dropped her arms. "I thought that was my line, Officer McGraw."

  Trace narrowed his eyes. "Touché. But then that shouldn't be much of a surprise to you since you've always accused me of being a liar."

  She lifted her chin. "Only to juggle all of your women. I should have realized the habit would leak into other areas of your life."

  "Then what's your excuse?"

  She looked away and busied herself with her skirt, pressing out the wrinkles. "I told you the truth. The Mirage, er, needed my expertise and I agreed to help with choreography and things like that, as well as, um, giving the girls a few pointers on technique."

  "That's not what it sounded like when you were talking out there to Candy and Barbie. In fact, it seemed like, if anything, you needed their help."

  "I guess you misunderstood. Could you hand me the supplies from the medicine cabinet? We better be getting out there." She gave him a cool smile. "It seems your adoring fans are pretty anxious to see you." She raked him with her gaze, narrowing in on the fly of his pants before shrugging her delicate shoulders. "As I said before, I barely remember our time together in college. I guess I'll just have to wait and see what all the fuss is about."

  He leisurely stroked his thumb over the handcuffs dangling from his belt. "You're lying again, kitten. Don't push me. Unless you want to play a round of bad cop captures naughty showgirl." But just referring to Phoebe as a showgirl was too much for him, and he clenched his jaw until the bone all but throbbed, then blurted, "Since when are you a dancer on the Mirage?"

  She raised her eyebrows to a haughty angle. "Not as long as you, I'm sure, oh great Stud of the Sea. I only started a few days ago."

  "Sea Stud," he mumbled.

  She tucked a fall of silky hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry. What was that?"

  He gritted his teeth. "Sea Stud. You keep saying, Stud of the Sea. It makes me sound like some kind of sick cartoon logo for a weird brand of tuna."

  She rolled her eyes. "Oh, right. Sea Stud is much more dignified."

  Trace took a deep breath and forced himself to let it out slowly. "Never mind. Let's talk about something more important. Like why you're a showgirl."

  "Why are you a stripper?"

  He felt pretty confident one of the blood vessels near his temple was going to burst if she didn't answer him soon. "You first."

  Trace had no doubt that Phoebe was purposely goading him. She peeked from beneath her lashes and said, "You mean something along the lines of, you'll show me yours if I show you mine?"

  Trace swore under his breath. The thought of her showing him anything was enough to make his hands shake. "Thanks, but a few answers will be just fine for now. I'll show you whatever you want afterward."

  She snorted, switching tracks. "I'm sure I won't be interested."

  He gave her a look that said he knew better. "I could prove you wrong, but I'll wait. Hell, I might not even have to. Who knows when you'll get the urge to plant one on me again. You've gotten pretty aggressive in the last nine years, Phoebes."

  Her back shot ramrod straight at his taunt. Of course, he probably shouldn't have gone so far, since it was his fondest hope that she'd plant one on him again and soon.

  Face flushed, she said, "You're right. I have changed. Which is exactly why I'm now at the Mirage." Then Phoebe cocked her head, her expression becoming baffled. "I don't know why you're carrying on like this. I am a professional dancer, you know."

  Yes, but there were professionals, and then there were professionals. Trace conjured up an image of Phoebe wearing nothing but the tiny scraps of fabric the Mirage passed off as a costume while she kicked and pranced in front of a roomful of drunks from the casino. He clenched his fists, his voice almost a growl when he said, "Because you do not belong on that damn ship."

  Phoebe lifted her chin. "Well, I disagree. I think it's perfect."

  Trace barked out a laugh. "If you like being pawed by a bunch of soused gamblers, I guess." He ran his hand over his jaw. "You've got a strange idea of perfect, kitten."

  Phoebe hesitated then shook her head. "You're exaggerating. I've already talked with the girls. It's not that bad." She shrugged then held out her hands palms up, her smile almost sheepish. "Besides, I'm actually looking forward to performing like that. In front of the men, I mean. All that testosterone-driven attention is kind of exciting."

  Trace grew dizzy and could only stare. What the hell was going on here? This was not the same woman he'd known nine years ago. This Phoebe was far more aggressive and there was an awareness in her eyes. A light of speculation. Sexual interest. His heart pounded and a responsive tug of arousal coiled low in his stomach. Cripes, he'd barely been able to control himself around the repressed Phoebe. He'd go insane around the new and improved version. Then Trace remembered her exact wording and he frowned, wondering if he'd even have the chance. She'd sounded pretty excited when she'd talked about the male customers. Plural. Hell, it made the back of his eyes hot just thinking of her with some lame-brained jerk on the make. Never mind multiple lame-brained jerks.

  He finally choked out, "Since when? Back in college you could hardly talk to a man let alone bump and grind in front of one."

  She lifted her head and looked at him down the length of her nose. Not easy considering she sat three feet lower than him. "I'm a showgirl not a stripper, remember? That's what you do. So, if anyone around here is doing the bump and grind, it isn't me."

  Next she'd accuse him of dancing with a pole. His body grew taut and he took a step toward her. "I do not bump and grind," he bit out then hesitated. "Much," he added, then scowled. The pain-in-the-butt woman had the nerve to laugh, so he turned away to keep from lolling her. He planted his hands on either side of the sink and let his head hang down.

  Phoebe taunted, "Why shouldn't I enjoy the men? Isn't that why you do it, Trace? All those women worshiping your body?"

  "Hardly." He snorted. "Some of us actually have to work to put food on the table, kitten. Not everyone has rich parents to help them."

  She huffed, "I'll have you know I've paid my own way since college."

  "Well then, right there you're doing better than I did."

  Phoebe tapped the toe of her one high heel against the tile floor, clicking out a rapid beat. "I'm not going to feel guilty because my parents had money. Believe me, it came with plenty of strings attached. I'm still trying to cut my way through them."

  Trace stared at Phoebe in the mirror. From what he knew of her parents, this tidbit didn't surprise him. He straightened then rubbed his hands over his face. "Listen, I'm not trying to be a prick, but there are a lot of things happening on that ship you do not want to be around." When he finally looked at her again, he couldn't help but notice her reaction. She'd gone still and her eyes were alert in a way they hadn't been before.

  "What exactly are you talking about?" she asked, as if she was choosing her words carefully.

  Trace paused, himself. If he didn't know better, he'd think Phoebe was fully aware of what was going on with Angelo Venzara. But he did. Know better, that is. Yet his instincts were on red alert and wouldn't quit. But why? He turned to face her, leaning his hips against the sink and crossing his arms in front of his chest.

  "Everything," he answered slowly, studying her response, though for once her expression gave nothing away. Finally, Trace sighed and scratched the back of his neck. "Nothing. It doesn't matter." S
uddenly tired, he just wanted to end this and for Phoebe to be safe. Meaning not ogled by strange men on the Mirage or anywhere near Mr. V. and his shady employees. Especially Sonny Martorelli. Just the thought of her even knowing about the man had Trace breaking out in a cold sweat.

  Exasperated, he said, "I just don't get it. I've seen you dance, kitten. You're an amazing ballerina, but a showgirl? I don't know how you even got hired in the first place." The minute the words left his mouth he knew he'd made a huge tactical error. "What I meant to say was, the women on the ship—the way they dance—I just can't see you—wait." He held up his hand. "That's not what I meant either. Let me start again. Because you're a classically trained dancer, you can't—" He broke off, struggling for a diplomatic way to explain she was too damn good, inside and out, to be anywhere near the Mirage and that the mere thought of her at risk would drive him insane. But after living with five sisters, he knew she'd consider it as much of an insult to be referred to as too classy or wholesome than to be called a tramp.

  Phoebe had apparently deciphered her own explanation from his silence. Glaring, she stood then limped past him. She swung open the medicine cabinet and grabbed the things she needed for her foot. "Listen, none of this matters. I'm anxious to get started and I know what I'm getting into. My sister was a dancer on the Mirage for two years. It's why I took the job."

  She sounded sincere on both counts, which was definitely a shockaroo. "Sister…? Wait a second. Are we talking about that teenage Lolita who used to come and visit you in college?"

  Phoebe smirked and reached over for the tweezers she'd placed on the counter. "Put the moves on you, did she?" She chuckled. "Doesn't surprise me. I swear she has some sort of radar, so that she can just glance at a building and tell if there's a good-looking guy inside." She grinned fondly then leaned over to look at her toe.

  Trace tugged on his ear. "Tiffany's her name? She was, uh, friendly all right. You introduced us at the rec center on campus. When you left us alone for a minute, she offered to teach me a few things I'm not even sure are anatomically possible. I'd forgotten about her. Though how I don't know. One tends to remember the Amy Fischers in life."