HER PRIVATE DANCER Read online

  His laughter slowed down to the occasional chuckle. Shaking his head, he didn't even bother trying to hide his grin. "Sorry, but you scared the real cops off when you grabbed Mr. Young and Lethal's butt."

  "Real cops…" Her eyes widened and she plopped back down to the floor.

  Trace rubbed his jaw. "That's pretty much what you said last night. Right before you passed out."

  She groaned and dropped her head onto her upraised knees. "You can go now."

  "It's all coming back to you, huh?"

  "Yes. Thank you. If you wouldn't mind closing the door on your way out, I'm going to kill myself."

  Phoebe heard Trace's laughter and the soft tread of his bare feet as he walked toward her. "It wasn't that bad," he said, as he squatted down next to her, elbows on his knees.

  She didn't bother lifting her head. "Yes, it was."

  "All right, it was a little bad." He placed his hand on her back, rubbing in small delicious circles, and she had to bite her lip to keep from moaning aloud, it felt so good. "But it's not like you're the first person who's ever gotten drunk and done something they've regretted. Believe me," he said flatly.

  She thought about what he said, but mostly thought about his warm fingers gently gliding up and down her vertebrae. A host of sensations rippled across her skin. She sighed and turned her head toward him, and was about to speak but found her eyes following the sculpted muscles in his arm.

  Before, she hadn't really been paying attention to how he looked this morning, but focused more on the fact that he'd seen her hootchie rather than on his appearance. But now she noticed his chest was bare and his jaw darkened by a night's growth of beard. His rip-away pants were back on. They hung low on his narrow hips, bronze skin tantalizingly exposed everyplace else including his feet, which were big and long with a sprinkling of dark hairs on top. Aye-carumba. The man was beautiful.

  When she finally made it back around to his face, he winked then grinned, and any coherent thought she may have possessed fled her brain. Darn, she hated it when he caught her gawking.

  Needing to pull herself together, she frowned and looked away only to find herself staring at the pencil drawing of a nude couple hanging next to Tiffany's dresser, then blushed even more. Though she probably shouldn't be embarrassed since the darn thing was actually sort of tasteful. Most of Tiffany's pictures were like this. Sort of artsy-fartsy in a pornographic kind of way.

  Realizing that Trace had actually been quite kind to her—laughing at her naked backside notwithstanding—she forced herself to speak honestly. "Thanks for taking care of me last night. Sticking around in case I needed you." She shrugged, fiddling with her sheet. "And for trying to make me feel better." Phoebe turned her head and met his gaze. "I remember you used to do this a lot back in college. Try to cheer me up when something went wrong. You must hate to see people sad."

  He moved his hand to her forehead, running his thumb across her eyebrows and soothing away the lines of tension. "Not true," he said softly. "There are some people I hope are miserable every day of their godforsaken lives. But you, kitten, you should always be happy. Always." He kissed the tip of her nose.

  "Why are you being so nice to me?" she whispered.

  Amusement danced in his eyes and he whispered back, "I'm always nice to you."

  Phoebe took hold of his wrist, stopping his fingers. "No," she said simply and shook her head.

  "Aw hell, Phoebe." He looked away from her. "You have to know I'm attracted to you." He raked his free hand through his hair, then said, "I'll be thirty this year. That's a little too old to kick you in the shins or pull on your pigtails, but it pretty much adds up to about the same thing." Tapping her under the chin, he leaned close as if telling her a secret. "Didn't your mother ever tell you that little boys just grow up to be big ones?"

  Phoebe sighed and let go of his arm then rested her chin back on her knees again. "My mother never told me anything about men. She pretends they don't exist. Especially my father."

  "Ahh," he said, as if she'd just revealed some big insight into her psyche. Then he shrugged. "It's better than my mother. To this day she acts like my old man is going to come walking through her door at any moment. He'll have been gone twenty-eight years this May."

  Phoebe nodded and said "Ahh" the same way he had. They looked at each other and smiled. "Are we actually having a moment here?" she asked. "We've had so few of them I'm just checking to make sure."

  Trace leaned toward her. "Here's another tip. Try not to get too mushy or sentimental with a guy. It makes him nervous. Then he'll get up and run from the room or try to ruin the moment by doing something manly. Like burping the alphabet."

  Phoebe nodded as if he'd imparted some great pearls of wisdom. "So where does that leave you?"

  Trace clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "Since I've never been one to flaunt my masculinity, why don't I go and make us some coffee?"

  Phoebe snorted, but before Trace stood he pressed his lips to her ear. She could feel the heat of his body, so close to her own, and swallowed hard. "Get ready, because I'm going to do that thing again when it's like I'm pulling your hair, but only the big-boy version." But the phone rang before he could make good on his threat, and Phoebe didn't know whether to wilt in relief or let out a snarl.

  Blowing out a breath, Trace reached underneath the bedside table. If only the stupid thing had been as easy to find the first time. "I'll be back," he mouthed.

  Watching him leave for the kitchen, she answered, "Hello?"

  "Phoebe, is that you?" Tiffany asked. "You sound funny."

  "Yeah, it's me," Phoebe answered, not in the mood to explain her grumpy disposition, and instead asked, "How's the honeymoon going?"

  "As if you have to ask. Wonderful, of course, thanks to Tony, the best husband in the whole wide world. The real question is how's everything going with you?"

  "Pretty good. Your friends say that I seem to have some raw talent, and with a lot of practice I might not be too bad." Phoebe laughed and Tiffany joined in with her. "Actually, Barbie and Candy are going to work with me tomorrow on the routines. That only gives me one day to perfect my moves, so we'll see. By the way, your friends are nice. I like them a lot."

  "I don't know who you are, but put my sister on the phone right now. She's the skinny woman wandering around my apartment with the sour look on her face."

  Phoebe chuckled and put her hand on the bed, pulling herself up to sit on the mattress. Then she leaned back against the headboard and adjusted the sheet around herself.

  "You, Tiffany, are a brat. I don't know why I put up with you."

  "Because you love me and are the best thing that's ever happened to me. Until Tony, that is." Tiffany sighed. "I know how much you've done for me, Phoebes." Her little sister's voice became soft. "But I promise, this is the last time. I'm going to be a mom pretty soon and I want to be a good one. To do all the things for this baby our parents should've done for us."

  "I know, sweetie. And you will. You'll be the best."

  "I don't know about that, but I'm going to try. And Tony's gonna be great, too. He loves me, Phoebe. He really does. And he loves this baby. For the first time in my life I'm finally part of a family." Tiffany laughed self-consciously.

  Though Phoebe was thrilled for her little sister, a lump swelled in her throat. When would she have what Tiffany had found? "I'm happy for you, Tiff," she said, her voice breaking. "Really happy for you."

  Tiffany sniffled. "Thanks." Then she grumbled, "Damn hormones. This baby has turned me into a freakin' watering pot." Tiffany stopped and blew her nose. "Jeesh, would you listen to the two of us? It's like we're in some weird episode of The Twilight Zone."

  Phoebe rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes and gave a watery laugh. "All episodes of The Twilight Zone were weird. That was the point of the show. And what do you mean?"

  "Well, besides the fact that I've suddenly turned into June Cleaver, let's start with you not being the best dancer on the cont
inent and enjoying it. And making friends with women of questionable backgrounds. Of course, the fact that Mommy Dearest is safely across the country and out of guilt-and-inadequacy range might have something to do with it."

  "Give me a break, Tiff." Phoebe crossed her fingers behind her back. "Mother's opinions have no bearing on my behavior and haven't for years."

  "You've been an adult our whole lives, and by the way, you can take your hand out from behind your back and uncross your fingers, you big dork," Tiffany said as an aside, then got right back to the heart of the topic. "It's not right. You knew that if you behaved well enough and jumped through all Mom's hoops, she wouldn't sink her claws into me. And for the most part it's worked. Unfortunately, a little too well, but it's not your fault Mom doesn't have enough love left over to trickle down past her oldest daughter. Heck, even that's a little iffy. Frankly, the jury's still out on whether she can stand you, either."

  "Well, it's been nice talking to you. The stroll down memory lane was a blast. Let's not do this again sometime." Phoebe was never in the mood to delve into their dysfunctional childhood and certainly not with a hangover, but Tiffany wouldn't be deterred.

  "I'm just saying that you deserve to have some fun. You sound different since you left San Francisco. Which is good. I know you've always felt guilty because of how Mom treated us differently and all, but I swear, Phoebe, I got the better end of the deal. I had a life and I had you. But what did you get? A mother who's never pleased no matter how hard you try? A career you hate? Some of the most boring boyfriends Mom could possibly find?"

  "Hey." Phoebe started to protest.

  "Oh, come on. I bet not one of those nerds ever rocked your world, did they?"

  Phoebe sputtered. "W-well … rocked would be a strong word, but they were very nice men. Stable and committed. I never once had to worry about one of them carousing around." Then Phoebe paused. Why on earth was she defending the boyfriends of the living dead?

  "Carouse?" Tiffany snorted. "I think you have to have a pulse to carouse. None of them did. Listen, I'm not talking about falling in love here. I'm talking about going a little wild. Mixing it up. Having some fun. Getting laid."

  "I agree."

  "I mean, come on, Phoebe—wait a second, what did you say?"

  Phoebe laughed, loving the fact that for once Tiffany was the one in shock. "I said, I agree."

  "You actually think I'm right?"

  "Yep. I'd already come to the same decision. That's part of why I came to Miami. I'm not a total pushover no matter what you think."

  Tiffany squealed so loud, Phoebe had to hold the phone away from her ear. "This is great. I can't believe you're actually going to take my advice."

  "I'm not taking your advice—I'm following my own. I made some decisions about a lot of things and I'm sticking to them, so there."

  "It's about damn time." Tiffany's voice turned philosophic. "I always wondered what you had against orgasms."

  Phoebe groaned. "In case I haven't mentioned it, you are the most annoying little sister in the entire world. And I was never against orgasms. In theory, anyway." Her last boyfriend, Mark, had been a kind, attractive man and she'd genuinely liked him. Not love. Not lust. But a nice, safe like. Phoebe just hadn't felt any great sense of passion with him, and his attention in bed had somehow made her feel more embarrassed than aroused. Now, with Trace, on the other hand … badda-bing, badda-boom, and Phoebe had taken off like a Roman candle.

  "You just need to learn how, is all." Tiffany said. "Buy a Cosmo and take a peek into that box under my bed. The girls threw me a shower and got me some interesting battery-operated companions. I, of course, don't need them with Tony the stud-muffin at my beck and call, so take whatever you want."

  "You have no idea what a relief it is to hear that your purple friend that lives under the bed has never been used." Phoebe made a face. "I accidentally touched it."

  "I think you can use the purple one underwater, too."

  Phoebe pulled the pillow over her head. "And on that bizarre and embarrassing note, I'll say goodbye."

  But Tiffany wasn't done, and a tone of surprise entered her voice. "I can't believe how perfect everything is turning out. Me and Tony and the baby are doing great, and you're whooping it up in Miami. Now you just need to work Mr. V.'s party and prove he isn't committing the crime of the century and we can all be together." Then she giggled and said, "I'm not that far along, but this baby makes me want to start nesting. I just can't wait to get home and change the small bedroom into a nursery. I think I'm going to paint it yellow, but I'm not sure."

  Phoebe pushed the pillow aside and sat up. "Hold up there, Martha Stewart. You need to slow down. This isn't a done deal." Phoebe didn't even bother mentioning the difficulties in turning Tiffany's home of erotic art and memorabilia into a child-friendly atmosphere, and merely stuck with the problems that were keeping the crazy woman out of the country. "I still haven't been asked to dance Saturday night."

  "I'm not worried. They'll ask you. If there's one thing you can do, Phoebe, it's dance. But that reminds me," Tiffany continued, "Tony and I were talking. You know he doesn't believe that his uncle is guilty, but he wanted me to tell you about this little island off the Bahamas Mr. V. bought about a year ago. He calls it something Italian. Isola Pomodoro, I think. Mr. V. used to talk about moving down there but never has. Tony thinks those unmarked crates the police are so worried about might be coming from the island; He doesn't know what's in them, but Mr. V. has been worrying about tropical storms brewing down in the Caribbean and stuff like that. Always wanting updates on the weather." Tiffany hesitated. "He might be growing something, Tony just doesn't know. If Mr. V. or Sonny doesn't ask you to take my place Saturday night, then you should be able to do some snooping around on your own. If I were you, I'd start with finding out about that island."

  "No, if you were you, you'd run like hell and get me to do it. Tiffany, if your husband knows anything, he should go to the police. For heaven's sake, I'm not a private investigator."

  "Tony can't rat his uncle out to the cops."

  "Lovely. And I can. For a minute there I actually thought you were growing up."

  "You're overreacting again. Even if Tony thinks his uncle is innocent, he can't help the police. It's against the Venzara code."

  Phoebe growled. "You mean the kind of code a family that's Italian but isn't Mafia would have?"

  Tiffany sputtered then said, "Exactly."

  "I'm not buying it. And if Tony knows so much, why don't the police get him to do their dirty work instead of you? Sure, having a showgirl will be helpful at the party, but other than that, Tony would be a much better spy. He was, after all, the one who committed the crimes. You just accompanied him."

  Tiffany went silent. Phoebe stilled and her stomach dropped. "Tiffany, what are you keeping from me now?"

  "I didn't say anything before because I knew you'd only get more worked up, but … Tony didn't just tag along so he could keep me company. He sort of skipped town to avoid the cops, too, and I just kind of thought that maybe—"

  "I know where you're going with this and I can't believe it." Anger didn't even begin to describe Phoebe's emotions, since there was a whole bunch of fear tangled up in there, too. She shook her head. "You actually expect me to keep both of your sorry butts out of jail, don't you? Great. Perfect. Let me just get my greatcoat and magnifying glass and I'm sure I'll have the mystery solved in no time." She rubbed her forehead and could barely catch her breath.

  "It's not that big of a deal, Phoebe. Nothing has changed. Once the police figure out they're wrong about Mr. V., they'll drop the charges against both of us. When you talk to Alvarez, just tell him—"

  Phoebe gasped, and said, "Talk to Alvarez, oh damn." She grabbed the alarm clock off the side table. "I forgot, he's supposed to come over this morning. He'll be here any minute. I've got to go." Phoebe hung up, feeling a small measure of satisfaction at cutting Tiffany off mid-rant, then hopped out of bed.

>   Ooh, she felt like dumping Tiffany in jail herself and then throwing away the key. How could her sister do this to her? As if Phoebe already wasn't under enough pressure, her new brother-in-law's freedom now rested on her shoulders, too. But that was Tiffany for you. If she could con Phoebe into one favor then why not two?

  But in spite of her anger, she'd been taken aback by how happy Tiff was about Tony and the baby. Phoebe had never heard her little sister sound so excited or content, let alone enthusiastic, to put down roots. Jeesh, talk about The Twilight Zone. And Tiffany was wrong about their childhood. As domineering and controlling as their mother was, at least Phoebe had known that someone cared even if that interest was based on how well she excelled in ballet. Heaven knows their father had always been more committed to his law firm, or driving their mother crazy with his latest mistress, than to either of his daughters. Which left Tiffany flat out in the cold. She could have fallen off the face of the earth for all their parents would have noticed.

  If Tiffany had somehow managed to find happiness then Phoebe knew she was going to do whatever it took to make sure her sister stayed that way. Even if that meant picking up the slack for Tony Venzara as well. Of course, she didn't have a clue as to how to pull this all off. It was one thing to listen in on a meeting and then pass along whatever she heard, but to investigate a possible Mafia organization … yeah right.

  Scowling, Phoebe marched across the floor, then all but jumped out of her skin when she saw Trace. He stood inside the doorway, his eyes dark and intent. Oh, great, she thought, wondering how long he'd been there. Just what she needed right now on top of everything else. A stripper with the instincts of a bloodhound. If Trace was here when Alvarez arrived, he'd never leave.

  Glancing at him beneath her lashes, she gave a quick little wave as she walked to the closet, the sheet wrapped around her like a toga. "Uh, hi," she said, louder than she'd meant. She cleared her throat, and said at a more normal volume, "I forgot you were still here. Here in the apartment. Since you were in the kitchen and all…" Her back to the room, Phoebe winced. Well, that was smooth. Jeesh, could she have sounded more nervous if she'd tried?