HER PRIVATE DANCER Page 6

  Phoebe stopped what she was doing and pursed her lips. "I understand the sentiment, but she is my sister and I love her. So knock it off. Besides, she's calmed down a lot. Sort of," she muttered under her breath. "She just got married a couple of days ago to a nice man." Phoebe seemed to have trouble saying this last part.

  "You're kidding?" He whistled softly. "May the force be with him."

  This made Phoebe laugh. "Somehow I think Tony Venzara can handle her. And if not, I'm sure Tony Jr. will settle her down the rest of the way."

  Trace stilled. "Who'd you say the lucky guy was?"

  Her mouth flattened. "Tony Venzara. His uncle owns the Mirage. The pair is on their honeymoon right now."

  His mind churned over the information as she plucked the shard of glass free from her toe without a wince. She tossed it in the trash then grabbed a cotton ball, dabbing at the drop of blood welling from the tiny cut. He watched it all, though barely registered her actions. "So that's why Candy said you were almost family with the Venzaras. Your sister married into them and you're taking her place in the show."

  Trace stared as she applied the small bandage. Internally, a battle raged. Five minutes ago he didn't even want Phoebe anywhere near the Mirage and truthfully still didn't. But she'd soon be performing on the Mirage whether he liked it or not. And as Tony Venzara's new sister-in-law, Phoebe might unknowingly come across all sorts of useful information for his story.

  The only tricky part would be picking Phoebe's brain without her catching on. Of course, it went without saying that Trace would have to make sure she stayed out of any danger. But he'd planned to keep an eye on her anyway. He didn't know when she'd become his responsibility, but she had. Not that he wanted anything permanent. He knew better. Besides, he wasn't the type of man she'd ever trust with her heart. Now, her body on the other hand, that was a different story…

  Phoebe stood and dumped her shoe in the trash. "I guess I won't be needing that," she said ruefully. Then she smiled at him. "All right, I'm ready. Lead the way, O Sea Stud."

  "Lead the way," he repeated grimly. "Does this mean you're going to watch while I, uh, give Candy her present?"

  Her eyes flickered with heat and Trace swallowed hard, "Are you kidding?" she asked. "I wouldn't miss this for the world. You're not embarrassed for me to see you dance, are you?"

  "Embarrassed?" He grunted. "Not likely." More like suicidal. "I just wasn't sure if you could handle it," he bluffed. He looked down at the floor, scuffing the carpet with his toe. Absently he stared at his boots. They were black and clunky, low-heeled. Between midcalf and ankle. The kind one of those biker guys who ride around on the back of a Harley would wear. Though Trace hated his costume, he had to admit the boots were sort of cool.

  Phoebe made a scoffing noise at his last comment and said, "Oh, please. As you've repeatedly pointed out, I've already handled everything you've got to offer."

  Trace quirked his eyebrow. "And you said you didn't remember anything about that night."

  Phoebe shrugged. "Some things are vague, but mostly I lied." Her voice sounded cocky, but she licked her lips as if her mouth had suddenly gone dry. Everything in Trace's groin pulled tight. Phoebe might pretend she didn't care but he knew better. They weren't kids anymore. As an adult she had to know how unbelievable it had been between them that night back in college. Her kiss out in the hallway and the look in her eyes whenever she peeked at him from beneath her lashes proved it.

  She was feeling the same overwhelming sexual pull as Trace, and once she saw how the women reacted when he stripped, she'd have a freaking cow. The thought made him feel marginally better, though not quite good enough. If Phoebe insisted on watching him dance, then he was going to make damn sure she had a lot more to think about than how stupid he looked with his thong stuffed full of money.

  Trace brought his body in close to hers, purposely crowding her space. He leaned forward then pressed his lips to her ear. "I want you to know something." He let his breath wash over her skin and she swallowed loudly. "The whole time I'm dancing … I'll be thinking of you." Then he gave her a look impossible to misinterpret.

  "Oh." Her lashes fluttered. "Well, that's, uh, very nice. Thank you, I think."

  Grinning to himself, Trace took a step back, careful to keep his face blank as he opened the door. He'd definitely rattled her cage. "After you." He held out his arm for her to go first.

  But as she went to pass him, Phoebe stopped and got in a shake or two of her own. "Hey, I was wondering, does this gig include you showing us, well, everything? Because some of the girls and I were debating about whether that guy in those posters on the Mirage stuffed his briefs. You know, with socks or something. I suppose I have a vague recollection of your, er—" she stumbled for a word then settled with "—anatomy, but nine years is a long time. And you know what they say. Everything in the past always seems bigger until you see it again. Though I guess we'll soon find out. Won't we, Sea Stud?"

  Trace's jaw dropped and Phoebe tilted her head, her arms crossed over her chest. "Why, Trace, what's the matter?" she asked, a smile flirting at the corners of her mouth. She clucked her tongue. "Huh. I guess this time I stunned you silent. And here I'm not even touching you…" And with that she sauntered away.

  * * *

  4

  « ^ »

  Phoebe all but beamed as she walked along the apartment's little hallway. For the first time in her life, she'd actually gotten in the parting shot with Trace McGraw. Oh my, was her new self turning out to be a lot more fun than she'd anticipated! However, there was definitely one gray cloud on her otherwise blue horizon. Trace was a male stripper, and the thought alone was enough to sour her expression.

  Why on earth would a man with a college degree become an exotic dancer? It was one thing for her to want a wilder life, but Trace's had always been exciting enough, thank you very much. None of this made a darn lick of sense and Phoebe had a funny feeling there was something more going on. But what? She could understand why a man like him would lie about not being a stripper—hey, she herself had been less than anxious to cough up the details on the whole showgirl thing—but she had this niggling suspicion that he was lying about being one. That seemed weird, even for Trace.

  Fairly disgruntled with the entire mess, Phoebe knew she wouldn't be getting her answers anytime soon and pushed the mystery aside. She was determined to get her bachelorette party experience under way and, straightening her shoulders, headed toward the growing volume of noise. Then she stepped into the living room and her eyes went wide.

  Barbie's tiny apartment was filled to bursting with at least thirty spandex-clad, silicon-enhanced showgirls—as well as other assorted friends of the bride—who danced and drank with gusto. Glasses of what appeared to be every conceivable type and combination of liquor were being raised in a never-ending blur, the spectacle only to be outdone by the number of lighters being flicked at an even more astonishing rate. Thus the dense cloud of cigarette smoke hovering above the partygoers like a blanket of fog. A dangerous thing. With the amount of hair spray used to support their gravity-defying dos, one wrong move and over half these women would go up in flames.

  Not to mention the showgirls', um, textile-challenged clothing. Before tonight, Phoebe would never have believed that a mere quarter yard of spandex could actually cover the essential components of the feminine form. Cover, of course, being a relative term. Phoebe bit her lip and glanced down at her own dress then back at the crowd. The silky, pink material had seemed so sexy on the hanger, but in this group she stood out like a sore thumb.

  "Hey, kid." Barbie was standing next to Phoebe and holding out a tall frosty glass. "You look like you could use something cold and numbing. I know I sure as hell would after being locked up with that hunk." Grinning, she urged, "Go ahead, I make a mean piña colada."

  Phoebe smirked. "Well, Trace can certainly drive a person to drink, that's for sure. Thanks." She'd never cared much for alcohol but desperate times called for despera
te measures, and suddenly the idea of getting good and snockered seemed like a smart one. Phoebe took a sip. The perfect blend of icy pineapple and coconut slid down her throat straight to her empty stomach and she could barely taste the rum. Phoebe had just been handed the perfect drink.

  "You're right. This stuff is great. Thanks," she said, lifting the glass to her mouth for another healthy swallow.

  "Not a problem, but be careful," Barbie cautioned. "If you're anything like your sister I'm sure you can handle it, but those babies are a lot stronger than they taste."

  Phoebe ducked her chin, secretly tickled that Barbie thought she could keep up with Tiffany in anything, let alone the booze-swilling department. Smiling to herself, she took another sip. Then another.

  "Hey, there you are." Daisy came up and gave Phoebe a quick hug. All the showgirls on the Mirage had names like this. Honey, Barbie, Daisy, Candy. The list went on. "I heard about what happened, you lucky dog." She looked around the crowded room where Candy and some of the others were clearing away the gifts and pushing back the furniture. "Where is the big stud? I thought he was going to start."

  Barbie answered, "I made him wait in the bedroom until Candy finished with her presents. We weren't going to open them yet, but we needed something to do while he took care of Phoebe's boo-boo."

  Daisy lit a cigarette. "Poor baby. Did he kiss it and make it all better?" she asked, then blew a thin stream of smoke into the air.

  "You don't have to answer that," Barbie said, taking Phoebe's nearly empty glass, "though we wish you would." Laughing, she turned to the kitchen and told Phoebe, "I'll be right back with a refill."

  Phoebe grinned and shook her head. Normally, their teasing would have had her dying of embarrassment by now, but for some reason it only seemed funny. For the first time, she noticed the song playing in the background. She started moving her hips in sync with the beat and thought, what a fun party. One song blended into the next, and before she knew it, she was as caught up in the crazy rhythm as everyone else in the room. Which was why she jumped when a pair of hands settled low on her hips from behind.

  "Not bad, kitten, but if you want I'll be more than happy to give you a private lesson." Trace's deep voice sent a shiver of awareness straight down Phoebe's spine.

  Before Phoebe could answer, Barbie came up to her and handed back the newly filled glass. "Try going a bit slower this time," Barbie said with a wink, before turning to talk with Daisy.

  Phoebe grinned at the showgirl then stepped away from Trace, his touch entirely too distracting. Then she figured, hey, I'm at a party, why not live a little and flirt with the man? Phoebe drummed up her own cocky smile, and said, "Thanks, but I think I know a bit more about dancing than you." She paused then daringly gave him a thorough once-over. Leaning in toward him, she lowered her voice and said, "But maybe, if you ask me real nice, I'll give you a private lesson…"

  Trace narrowed his eyes. "You're drunk," he said flatly. Then he captured her wrist and lifted her drink.

  "What are you doing?" she protested, trying to struggle free without spilling.

  "Checking to see how big of a mistake you're making." He sniffed again then frowned. "Is this thing a virgin?" Trace directed his question to Barbie.

  "If it is, then it's the only one in this whole apartment," Barbie retorted.

  Both Trace and Phoebe stilled, and she had no doubt he was remembering how one person at this party had lost her virginity. His pupils widened and he said softly, "How could I forget?" Phoebe could swear her uterus actually jumped in response. However, just because her body was singing out the "Hallelujah Chorus" didn't mean her brain agreed.

  Still annoyed that he'd all but said she'd have to be drunk to flirt with him, she scowled and reclaimed her wrist. "There's nothing wrong with my drink. It smells like fruit."

  Trace frowned and pointed at her as if she were a child. "I know, so be careful. Those are the worst kind. You'll be knocked flat before you even know what hit you."

  The man obviously didn't understand the full scope of his amazing sex appeal, or her body's reaction to the thought of him stripping. Otherwise, he'd understand her need for alcohol. Also, he'd be crowing. Jeesh, just knowing that in the next five minutes she'd be seeing him naked had her breath coming in quick little jerks. Cripes. She was almost panting. A dead giveaway. Phoebe lifted the glass to her mouth. Trace frowned harder, but Barbie interrupted him before he could start in with another lecture.

  "You ready?" their hostess asked.

  "Sure," he answered, and Phoebe wondered if she was the only one to notice how reluctant he'd sounded. Then Trace leaned close and lowering his voice said, "Watch it with that stuff, and remember—I may be dancing for Candy … but I'll be thinking of you, kitten, the whole time." He winked and strode to the center of the room.

  * * *

  Trace looked around. So … this was hell. He'd always known it was where he would end up. He just hadn't pictured having to strip in front of Phoebe when he got there. The only thing missing was Manny, his boss, with a pitchfork and horns.

  Angie Venzara wiggled her fingers at him from her seat on the couch just a few feet away then blew him a kiss, her puffy lips slathered with lip gloss and pulled into what she probably thought was a sexy pout. It wasn't, but that didn't matter. Trace was supposed to be interested here, so he smiled back, then watched morbidly as the woman tucked a wad of bills between her half-melon breasts. She finished this up with a quick pat and a sultry wink. He did not even want to think about what he was supposed to do to get that money.

  Meanwhile, the beautiful pain-in-the-butt woman he really wanted was in the back of the room slamming down the cocktails like a frat boy on spring break. And somehow through the whole thing, Phoebe still managed to look classy and refined. Maybe it was the angle she held her head. Or the long, sleek lines of her body compared to the other women's overblown curves. Regardless of the reason, in this group, she was about as inconspicuous as a swan amongst a barnyard of squawking hens. She didn't belong. So what the hell was she really doing hanging out with these women?

  Barbie caught Trace's attention. She stood by the stereo and sent him a questioning look. Hell, it was now or never, and at his brief nod, the music started.

  "All right, Sea Stud, take it off!" Angie yelled in her nasal whine, a voice to haunt his nightmares, yet one he realistically couldn't ignore. Even with the possibility that Phoebe might come across with some valuable information as Tony Venzara's sister-in-law, he needed to keep his options open with Angie. It made much more sense to secure Angie's interest tonight. Meaning he couldn't tone down his performance, or ignore her… Phoebe would kill him, and the thought of her being jealous cheered him up a bit. Hey, with his ultimate humiliation only moments away, he'd take whatever small consolation he could get.

  The bride-to-be, Candy, sat in a straight-backed chair in the center of the room. He knelt down next to her and dangled the handcuffs from his finger. "I take it you want the cuffs?" he asked.

  Candy nodded. "Well, of course. I'm a dangerous woman, Officer. You may want to pat me down for weapons, too." She batted her long black lashes at him. "Please."

  Trace laughed wearily and stood back up. "I kind of figured you'd say that." He had nothing against Candy personally, but damn this was embarrassing. Heat crept up his neck, but he took a deep breath and said loudly, "If you could please step around behind the chair, miss." He motioned with his hand for Candy to rise. "That's it. Now place your hands on the back of the chair, please."

  Candy leaned forward and did as he asked then sent him a suggestive look over her shoulder. The position had pushed out her bottom. Grinning at Candy's harmless antics, he stepped up behind her and placed one of his low-heeled boots between her feet, lightly kicking them apart. He squatted down. Starting with her ankles, he ran his hands over her legs and slowly rose as he worked his way up her body. The other girls hooted and whistled, throwing out remarks.

  Unable to stop himself, he glance
d at Phoebe, hoping she wouldn't be too upset. He should've known better. Her studiously disinterested face read, hurry up already and get on with it. So she was bored, was she? Well, not for long if he had anything to say about it. Fighting a smile, he stood and pulled Candy upright. He snapped the cuffs onto her wrists and directed her back down into the seat.

  He took a deep breath and then in time with the music, started with the top button of his shirt and slowly worked it open. The women whistled and cheered, but Trace ignored them, all his intensity focused on the bride. He especially ignored Phoebe, knowing how much it would drive her nuts. At this moment she was probably working herself up into a lather wondering whether he was really picturing her or not. Trace was and almost groaned.

  Staring into Candy's eyes, he bumped his hips left then right. He ran his hands across his chest, then spread the sides of his shirt wide, showing off muscles he already knew the women liked. Sure enough, they squealed like a bunch of girls at a boy-band concert, and Trace almost laughed out loud.

  He hitched his pelvis forward, letting the material of his pants strain across his groin and slowly skimmed his hands down his abdomen until his fingertips slipped under the waistband of his pants and rested inside. The crowd practically groaned as one. God, he loved these women. Their yelps were going to drive Phoebe crazy. A fair exchange considering he'd been pretty mind-whacked ever since she'd run him to ground out in the yard.

  Trace turned his back on the roomful of man-hungry showgirls and dipped his shoulders, letting the fabric drop and catch at his elbows. Eyes closed, he arched his neck, throwing back his head while he pumped his hips against his hands. On count with the music, he pivoted back to the crowd. He opened his eyes, found Phoebe's gaze, and held it while he kept his pelvis moving with the beat. He pictured her hands in place of his own, saw her on her knees before him, and let the desire stirred up by that erotic image fill his eyes with hunger.