HER PRIVATE DANCER Read online

  He watched the rise and fall of her chest move faster. He could see the muscles in her neck move as she swallowed awkwardly. His pulse roared in his ears, the moment stretching out between them. Damn, he wanted her. The drums pounded from the stereo. He thrust his arms to the side, then dropped them down. His shirt fell to the ground. The women screamed and whooped.

  Adrenaline surged through his blood in spite of how stupid he felt dancing around the room like a gigolo. Excitement and energy pulsed from the crowd and he couldn't help but respond. They knew what came next. He gripped the front of his pants and let the anticipation build. From the corner of his eye he saw Phoebe, her gaze glued below his waist. Purposely, Trace waited until their eyes met. Then he pulled.

  * * *

  Phoebe tried to swallow but couldn't. Saliva seemed to be the missing factor here, and hers had gone MIA about the same time as Trace's pants. Unfortunately, even with that ridiculous thong he wore, Phoebe could tell there was nothing wrong with her memory of Trace's male anatomy, vague though her actual glimpse of it may have been nine years ago.

  Though they'd never spoken about her lack of previous experience, Phoebe was certain Trace had known she was a virgin on their infamous night. An incredibly aroused and freakishly excited virgin, but a shy one nonetheless. He'd seemed to sense this before they'd even touched, and had gone out of his way to soothe her fears. Dim lights, fluffy blankets, hours of foreplay during which he'd slowly removed her clothing one piece at a time had all transpired to conceal his intimate parts.

  As a result, Phoebe's eyes had barely been able to surface from her sensual haze long enough to see Trace's face let alone take a nice long gander at his family jewels, and she'd convinced herself that nothing could have been that spectacular no matter how he'd felt. Boy, had she been wrong.

  Well, at least the pesky sock question had been cleared up. Yes indeedy, Phoebe thought, and took another drink. Good Lord! And to think, at one time in life, the man had actually begged her for a date. Every weekend, no less. He should've just shown up at her dorm room sans pants and saved them both a lot of trouble. Or pulled her aside in the library and flashed her the goods. Phoebe felt pretty confident she'd have stopped resisting then and there and gone along quietly.

  For the first time, Phoebe realized she wasn't the only one similarly affected. If she'd thought the women were loud and rowdy before he'd dropped trou, it was nothing compared to this.

  "Oh my God!" One of the dancers pushed off the couch and sat up straight..

  "Told you it wasn't a pair of socks," another shouted.

  "Call Jimmy and tell him the wedding's off," Candy begged her friends.

  "Tell him yourself. I'm busy staring," Daisy answered, and she wasn't lying. Her eyes were trained on Trace's groin like a pair of lasers.

  A woman with dark hair and a funny nose beckoned Trace over with a bill she'd pulled from her cleavage. Phoebe's jaw turned slack. The woman held a fifty in her hand, then took her good sweet time tucking it into his briefs. No wonder Trace was no longer a reporter. These nuts were making him rich.

  Phoebe frowned and went to tap Daisy on the arm but missed. She squinted down at her hand and tried again. This time her limb obeyed and, smiling at her success, she said to Daisy, "Hey, who's she?"

  "Ouch," Daisy turned and glared. "Hey, yourself," she said, rubbing the red spot on her shoulder.

  "Who's the floozy with all the money?" Phoebe spoke precisely. When she wasn't careful, an odd slurring had crept into her speech.

  Daisy cocked her head questioningly, so Phoebe pointed to Miss Moneybags. They both watched the woman pull out another fifty. She put the bill between her teeth then leaned toward Trace's crotch. Phoebe gasped and narrowed her eyes. For cripe's sake, was there a never-ending supply of cash down there? The woman was plucking fifties from between her boobs like tissues out of a box.

  Phoebe frowned and reached for her purse. If she was lucky she might have thirty-five cents and some ones. Not exactly incentive for Trace to come and give her a lap dance, but maybe if she palmed them he wouldn't see how little he was getting. But her purse wasn't on her shoulder.

  "Ahh," Daisy said, dragging out the word and reminding Phoebe she hadn't yet been given an answer. "That's Angie Venzara, Mr. V.'s niece and Tony's sister." Daisy paused for a second, a teasing light twinkling in her eyes. "Hmm. I wonder what that makes you two now that Tony and Tiff have tied the knot."

  Phoebe scowled. "Not related."

  Daisy chuckled. "Don't blame you for not claiming her as one of your new in-laws. Angie can be a pain in the butt, but she's basically harmless."

  Phoebe didn't argue and thought, speaking of butts, if Angie reached for Trace's one more time, Phoebe was going to kill her.

  At just that moment Trace's gaze snared her own. Phoebe yawned exaggeratedly then took her time patting her mouth. He laughed and shook his head, which for some reason made her feel juvenile. Thrilled to have amused him, Phoebe lifted her chin and pretended great interest in … well, hell, there was nothing else in the room a person would be interested in with Trace carrying on half-naked, a thong and a pair of biker boots the only things covering his astonishing body. She fingered the flower arrangement on the table at her side and leaned over to smell them only to discover they were fake and smelled like plastic.

  Great, she thought in disgust. This was exactly the wild-woman persona she'd been hoping to convey. A mostly naked god strutted around the room and here she stood, like a true party animal, sniffing the plastic flowers. Well, no more. As soon as she got out her money she wanted a look-see of her own. She fumbled at her hip for her bag and then remembered she didn't have it on. But where was her purse? She'd brought it, hadn't she?

  "Excuse me," she slurred, shoving her way through the squealing females. Phoebe rolled her eyes. The way they were carrying on, a person would think she wasn't the only one who'd seen all of four men naked, one of them being her grandfather the summer she was five and walked in on him in the bathroom. Wait a second. Phoebe bit her lip. She'd technically still only seen three, since she hadn't gotten a good look that night with Trace and right now he wore a thong. And bare butt cheeks didn't count no matter how nice those butt cheeks were. Rats!

  Well, she'd fix that problem once she got her thirty-five cents.

  Her search of the floor, underneath the end tables and behind the furniture for her purse led her to the front door. Where the heck was the darn thing? Maybe she'd dropped it outside. She had a vague recollection of losing something outside, but she didn't know what.

  A pounding noise rattled her skull. Loudly. Phoebe cupped her head, and that's when she noticed the banging had grown louder. She peered at the front door. The wood practically shook inside the frame.

  She finally figured out someone was trying to get inside and said, "Hold your horses." Quickly, she walked across the foyer, but the room tilted precariously with her movement. Groaning, she turned the handle and swung open the door.

  Fully aware her mouth had dropped open but unable to do a thing about it, Phoebe stared up at two young blond Adonises dressed in police uniforms. Talk about Miami's finest. Yikes. But then the truth dawned on her and a slow smile spread across her lips. She'd already been taken in once tonight by Trace and wasn't about to fall for this fake cop act again. Real police officers did not look like these guys. And two this gorgeous wouldn't be traveling in pairs. The city wouldn't allow it. Women would be committing petty crimes all over Miami and then resisting arrest.

  "May I help you boys?" Phoebe practically purred. If Trace thought Angie had friendly hands then just wait till he saw what Phoebe had in store for these two. He'd find out just how it felt to be the one watching for a change.

  A look passed between the men before the first one spoke, "We're with the Miami-Dade Police Department—"

  Phoebe interrupted and said, "Oh, I bet you are," then winked.

  "Excuse me?" the second and slightly older Adonis asked. He was maybe twenty-
five, tops.

  Phoebe thought about how annoyed Trace would be and practically rubbed her hands together. Instead she said, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have interrupted your little speech. Go ahead." And she waved her hand for them to continue. "Very authentic, by the way," she whispered.

  They stiffened at her compliment, and Phoebe thought, these guys are good. Maybe they were aspiring actors or something, because they never broke out of character once.

  Number two cleared his throat. "We received a noise complaint from another resident in the building. Is this your apartment, ma'am?"

  "Ma'am?" Phoebe repeated then wrinkled her nose. "It's a nice touch but you make me sound like my grandmother. I think I'd prefer miss."

  Adonis number one's cheeks flushed and number two shrugged. "She must be drunk."

  Phoebe sniffed. "I'm not drunk." She tried to sound indignant, but then she hiccupped and ruined the whole effect. "Oh, never mind." She sighed then said, "I was just trying to be helpful. If I don't care for the whole ma'am thing, I can guarantee you the other girls won't. And that's bound to affect your tips, but you guys do what you want. Men always do."

  Adonis number one all but choked and started to say something but Phoebe cut him off. "It doesn't matter. Come on in," she said, stepping back. "We'll find Barbie. Trace is almost finished, so I don't know if you're early or late. Were you three supposed to perform together?"

  "Perform?" Adonis number two was looking at her as if she'd escaped from the loony bin.

  Phoebe shook her head. Tweedle-Yum and Tweedle-Yummier might be easy on the eyes but they'd definitely been shortchanged in the brains department.

  "It's okay. Follow me, fellas. The girls are gonna die when they see you guys. You two are gorgeous." The first one blushed bright red and mumbled a thank-you, which seemed to embarrass him even more. The second one turned only a shade lighter but looked her over from head to toe. By the time he finished checking her out, he'd made up for the color difference. Phoebe laughed and thought to herself, young guys are fun. I actually intimidate them.

  She hooked her finger through the closest Adonis's belt loop and pulled him in her wake. As they walked by Daisy, Phoebe stopped and asked, "Do you have any money?"

  "What?" Daisy asked, still looking at Trace.

  "Money," Phoebe yelled louder. "Do you have any money I can borrow?"

  "Sure." Daisy reached into her vest pocket and pulled out a few bills. She leered and said, "So, you want a little peek at Trace, huh? I thought you could get that for free."

  "It's not for Trace. It's for these two." Phoebe pointed behind herself.

  Daisy's cocky smile stayed in place until she saw the two studs.

  Adonis number one pulled Phoebe's hand free and said to Daisy, "Is this your apartment, ma'am?"

  Daisy's mouth fell open, and Phoebe rolled her eyes and said behind her hand, "I told you to go with miss." Phoebe then plucked the money from Daisy's fingers and said, "I'm taking them to Barbie. She must've hired them for some kind of grand finale."

  Daisy shook her head and grabbed for Phoebe's arm. "Holy crap, Phoebe, you don't understand—"

  "Of course I do." Phoebe glanced at Trace, who'd stopped dancing and was staring at her and the new arrivals. She reached back for Adonis one's belt again and almost laughed aloud as Trace's jaw dropped. Then Barbie stepped into view and Phoebe said, "There's Barbie, come on." But she didn't need to go far because suddenly Barbie was on them.

  "Hey," Phoebe said. "Your grand finales are here. Where do you want them to set up?"

  Barbie frowned at her then looked at the men. "I live here. Is there some kind of trouble?"

  Phoebe winked. "The only problem I see is for Trace and whether he can handle the competition. Something tells me these bad boys don't use any socks either." Phoebe reached out to pat the closest Adonis's chest, when a hand clamped down on her arm.

  "Not a good idea, kitten," Trace said, pulling her away.

  "Afraid these guys will look better out of uniform than you, Trace?"

  Now Trace too was giving her a look that said, have aliens abducted your brain?

  "No one here wants to see these men out of their uniforms, least of all me." Trace smiled at them but it came out more like a grimace.

  "Ha! That's what you think." She jerked her arm free. "I, for one, can't wait to see them naked." She let her gaze run all over number two since he was closest. She reached out and patted his butt. "Nice buns," she said conversationally. "I bet they'll look every bit as delicious as they feel."

  Trace groaned and Phoebe thought she might have gone a little bit overboard with that last part, but she lifted her chin and kept her hand firmly glued to number two's backside like a suction cup, brazening the moment out. Except, the moment kept dragging. That was when she noticed the music had stopped.

  "What's wrong? Why'd the party stop?" She frowned and looked around. "Aren't we gonna watch these guys take their clothes off?"

  Daisy groaned and Barbie smirked. Trace closed his eyes.

  "Why not?" Phoebe tried to put the cocky edge back in her voice. "But they're strippers. It's what they do. Strip!"

  Trace just shook his head no.

  Number two reached back and peeled her hand off his butt. "Like we said, ma'am, we got a complaint about a disturbance of the peace. And though I'm mildly flattered you want to see me in the buff, my wife might have something to say about it."

  "Wife…?"

  "But I'll pass on what you said about the nice buns part. She'll get a kick out of that."

  "Nice buns," she repeated weakly. Her gaze darted to Trace. The idiot just shook his head again, clearly amazed at the magnitude of her blunder. Everybody in the room seemed to be doing this. Shaking their heads or fighting laughter. Phoebe suddenly didn't feel so good. The fruit and alcohol churned in her stomach.

  Barbie put her arm around Phoebe's shoulder. "Aren't you the dark horse?" She playfully nudged Phoebe's hip with her own. "You know, kid, I was worried about you, fitting in with us and all, but I can tell you'll do just fine. Hell, I don't even think Tiffany has ever copped a feel from a cop." Barbie chuckled and soon others were joining in. "We're gonna have some good times ahead with you on board the Mirage, kid. I just know it."

  Phoebe looked at her new friend and smiled weakly. "Yeah, it'll be nothing but great times," she said. Then she handed Daisy back her money and passed out.

  * * *

  5

  « ^ »

  The shrill ring of the telephone brought Phoebe from deep sleep to bone-jarring consciousness in an instant. Her lids flew open and she tried to sit up. She realized two things as she immediately flopped her body back onto her pillow and threw her arm over her eyes. One, she wasn't in her own bed in San Francisco, but in Tiffany's in Miami. Which meant that last night hadn't all been a bad dream. And two, she had the mother of all hangovers.

  Another peal reverberated through her pounding head and she groaned, careful to keep her eyelids firmly shut this time against the bright sunlight as she fumbled for the bedside table. In her clumsiness she knocked the cordless receiver off the base and heard the next ring from somewhere down on the floor.

  "Oh, crap," she said, her voice a meager croak. But the noisy rings were too painful to ignore and she slid from the covers. Squinting, she patted the cold tiles under her knees. Unfortunately, the only thing Phoebe could see were the dancing brown spots burned onto her retina. The stupid phone must've slid somewhere under the bed.

  Lowering her chest, she reached beneath the dust ruffle. Phoebe stretched her arms as far as she could until her fingers brushed against smooth plastic.

  "Gotcha," she said, then sat back on her heels, lifting the phone to her ear. "Hello," she said. "Hello?" But by now the ringing had stopped. She moaned and dropped her forehead into her palm. "I'm never drinking again," she muttered.

  "Um, that's probably a good thing since that's not a phone you're trying to answer."

  Phoebe screeched and turned so
fast she fell to her bottom. The ice-cold tile practically numbed the flesh covering her lower cheeks and another realization hit her as she stared up into Trace's equally stunned face.

  "I'm naked," she said.

  He nodded, his eyes glazed. "As a jaybird."

  She swallowed, and with a shaking hand pulled the blankets down from the bed and tried to cover herself. "What are you doing here?"

  He stared at her, a funny expression on his face. "You couldn't drive so I brought you home. It was late. I didn't feel comfortable leaving you alone and decided to sleep on the couch."

  "Oh, well, thank you. That was very nice of you." She licked her lips then asked casually, "And, um, my clothes?"

  "I heard you go to the bathroom around four, but by the time I got to your room you were already back in bed." His voice sounded distracted, and he added, "I'd look for your clothes in there."

  "Oh, good. Good." Phoebe cleared her throat. "Were you, uh, standing there long enough to see me reach for the phone?"

  He closed his eyes and said, "God yes." Then he glanced at her hand. "Except that isn't a phone you're holding."

  Confused, she looked down then shrieked. "It isn't mine," she yelled, throwing the purple, penis-shaped vibrator back under the bed. "It's Tiffany's!"

  Trace rubbed his chest to the left of his breastbone. "You have no idea what that did to me, walking in here and seeing you like that. Naked and on your hands and knees, holding a vibrator." He actually trembled. His face filled with sexual heat, until finally he shook his head as if to clear it. Then he started to laugh.

  Blushing this hard had to be lethal, Phoebe decided as her face turned hot enough to fry her skin. So why on earth wasn't she dead? Anger seemed like a reasonable response to her current situation, and she scowled and said, "Thanks for the ride, but next time just let the cops bring me home." Clutching the sheet, she tried to stand while at the same time preserve what was left of her modesty, though realistically, she had none left to speak of.