Her Private Dancer

She stiffened, bringing his attention back to the long, firm limbs he’d so intimately held only moments before. The same ones he remembered from nine years ago and had felt like heaven wrapped around his waist, around his back, his shoulders, his neck….

Aw, hell. His pants were never going to lie flat.

“Poor Trace. I see you’re still delusional. How sad.” She sniffed and turned away, clearly dismissing him as she presumably began to search for her missing shoe.

Trace scowled. Like hell would she blow him off that easily. “While you, it seems, have changed quite a bit. If memory serves correctly, you never used to wear underpants. Not that I’m complaining. They’re quite nice. You have excellent taste.”

She whipped her head back around to gape at him, her mouth hanging open.

Score one for the home team. He’d stunned Phoebe Devereaux silent. Now to really piss her off. “Why, Phoebe, I can think of only one other time I made you speechless. And here, I’m not even touching you….” He shook his head but couldn’t contain the wide smile that spread across his face at the direct hit.

Of course, she didn’t stay silent for long. In his experience, she never had. Not with him anyway. It had always been a source of amazement to him that the same painfully shy woman who could barely make small talk with the other students, became a screaming virago at the least of his taunts. The dichotomy of her behavior had been the biggest turn-on of his life. It had gotten to the point that by his senior year, she’d say one mean or argumentative thing and his favorite body part would pop up like one of those plastic thermometers on a turkey. For a while there, he’d been afraid that he’d never be able to get an erection without having a whopping argument first.

Phoebe narrowed her eyes. “Crude egomaniacs tend to have that effect on me. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She started to lift her cute little nose in the air, but he spoke before she could turn away again.

“You don’t have to explain, Phoebe. I know exactly how I affect you.” He purposely made his voice low and suggestive. “But, I was thinking about our night together. You remember, Phoebe, right? The night when we—”

“It was nothing.” She actually growled and he could just make out the telltale flush on her cheeks.

“Bull.” Not one of the most original comebacks but he was riding the edge here and deserved a little slack.

She waved her hand. “We had some fun. Well, at least you did, anyway. It wasn’t a big deal.”

Trace merely crossed his arms and raised his eyebrow. Why argue something so patently false? Besides, if he opened his mouth, he might do something stupid. Like tell her exactly how much that night had meant to him.

She rolled her eyes then pretended great interest in her fingernails which, in this light, he knew doggone well she could barely see. “All right,” she said grudgingly, “it was pleasant.”

His other eyebrow joined the first and they both crept higher.

Phoebe clenched her jaw and fisted her hands at her sides. “Fine, I really enjoyed myself.”

Since she was doing so good on her own, Trace still said nothing, and she bit out, “Okay. I had as much fun as you, if not more. The heavens moved, the earth shook.” She smiled sweetly. “But if you recall, I got over it.” While steam all but poured from his ears, she shrugged, no longer meeting his eyes. “I can’t believe you’re making such a big deal over this. For that matter, I’m shocked you even remember.”

He cursed. “Oh, I remember all right….” As if he could forget.

Twenty-one years old and in love for the first time in his life, Trace had held her in his arms and watched her come.

He’d slid into the hot, delicate flesh between her legs until her beautiful thighs had begun to quiver on either side of his hips and she’d exploded in release. Though she’d never told him, Trace had known that she was a virgin. Phoebe had willingly given him a gift no other would have, and at that moment, he’d felt as if it had been his first time, too. There was no way in hell he’d let her brush off that night as unimportant. On a physical level alone it had been one for the history books even if she had completely rejected him the next day.

Phoebe scoffed. “Oh, please. If you remember anything about me or that night it’s because I was just another conquest. One of many for you, I’m sure, but still true.”

Jerked back to the present, he stared at Phoebe, her protest like a blow to his solar plexus. Irrationally, anger burned through his veins, every bit as strong today as if it were only moments ago when she’d looked at him scornfully and refused to speak with him. Refused to answer his phone calls. Refused to offer even the most basic of explanations for the violent change in her attitude.

Too far gone to care what the hell he said. Trace retorted, “So I guess you shoot off like a firework for every man that buys you dinner?” He shook his head, feigning disbelief. “Huh. Somehow I had you figured differently.”

Phoebe sputtered for several seconds then finally managed to say, “We had one lousy date and things went too far. Stop acting as if we shared some great night of passion.”

“Lousy, huh? So you’re saying it was my poor taste in restaurants? You begged and moaned for more but called it quits on us because I couldn’t afford to take you someplace fancy?” He made a tsking sound. “And you call me the shallow one.”

“I can’t believe this.” She shook her head, her expression incredulous. “You’re mad. Mr. On-the-Make McGraw is pissed off because a woman actually exists who wasn’t interested in going to bed with him a second time.”

All right, now he was mad. Phoebe loved to throw the womanizer card in his face. So women liked him? Big whoop. He’d asked Phoebe out every week for four years and she’d said no. What was he supposed to do? Become a monk while he waited? As it was, when he’d finally worn her down, he’d been so damn happy and relieved she’d said yes, whatever little awareness he’d ever had of another female had literally fled his brain. Her accusations made no more sense today than they had nine years ago.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Hell yes, it was a shock. One night you were so hot I thought my skin was gonna burn to a crisp, and the next, I’m worried about frostbite.”

She pulled back her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Let’s get some facts straight here. I was not hot and I never moaned.”

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. You can’t help it if you’re a moaner,” he said placatingly.

“If I moaned it was because you disgust me.”

“Phoebe…Phoebe.” He shook his head. “Really, it’s okay. You don’t need to make excuses. I thought it was cute when you made those deep, throaty sounds. Loud, but cute. Especially when you got that breathy little catch right before you were about to co—”

She broke in, “I hope you die. Slowly and painfully.” Phoebe dragged out each word. “And I’m there to watch it.”

Head up, chin thrust forward, her eyes flashed dangerously. Her chest rose and fell with each of her labored breaths. She was amazing and, in spite of everything, he’d never wanted her more.

Trace almost barked out a laugh. There had to be something wrong with a man who found pure contrariness on this massive a level arousing. A dose of Spanish fly poured down his gullet. But damn if he didn’t feel as if he’d just swallowed a whole bottle.

PHOEBE GULPED for air. Trace McGraw was the most aggravating, annoying, frustrating, handsome and sexy man she’d ever known. The bane of her college years. The object of her most erotic sexual fantasies. The man responsible for her one and only orgasm. And, after nine years, he stood before her determined she relive it. Maybe if she’d ever had another one she wouldn’t be reacting to his barbs like the poster child for PMS.

And did he have to look like something out of Greek mythology, too? A god come to life to depress the heck out of the mortals? Even with it this dark outside, she could see him well enough to know she’d be in big trouble if it weren’t this dark outside. Her palms had grown damp just from glancing at him—oh, all right, staring at him—and she wiped her hands on the skirt of her dress.

The man looked near-perfect. His almost black hair was a bit too long and fell in the kind of artless disarray women spent hours in front of the mirror trying to achieve. Though she wasn’t quite able to see the exact shade of his eyes, she knew from experience they were big, and astonishingly blue, and, at only the slightest glimpse of their brooding intensity, could make anything with ovaries want to rip off her clothes and drop spread-eagle to the ground. It brought new meaning to the phrase stop, drop and roll. Except with Phoebe. With her it had always been panic, overreact and run. Well, all but that one time. Unfortunately, she didn’t feel much like running now, either.

Phoebe scowled and tried to ignore the almost magnetic tug his six-foot-two form exerted over her own shivering mass. What the heck was wrong with her? Since when did she let an insignificant thing like a square and masculine jaw snare her interest? Or deep-set bedroom eyes? Or a flawless nose, more narrow than not, that led to a mouth with lips just plump enough to make her picture them shiny and wet, and wonder if they’d taste as good as she remembered…?

Phoebe realized the direction of her thoughts and could have kicked herself. Jeesh. She should be running and fast. That night may have been earth-shattering for her, however it was just one of many for Trace. True, said an insidious voice in her head. But that was a long time ago, and since you’re a new and liberated woman only interested in your next good time, there’s always the chance that if you ask real nice, he might be willing to shatter the earth for you again.

Phoebe flinched and told the sex-starved portion of her brain to shut the hell up. Then she looked into Trace’s beautiful frowning face and her pulse leaped and her own nearly shriveled-on-the-vine ovaries all but quivered. Jerking herself back to reality, she tried her hardest to appear bored with him and the entire discussion. The last thing her pride needed was for him to realize how much he still affected her. Or how much the memory of his betrayal still hurt.

“Listen,” she said, waving her hand, “all that stuff happened a long time ago. I don’t even know why we’re arguing.” There. That sounded pretty good.

He stilled for a moment then slowly shook his head and took a step closer. The scent of pine and something intrinsically Trace wafted through the humid air, tickling her nose and bringing with it a rush of memories. Sexual memories. Amazingly graphic and sexual memories. You’re pathetic, she told herself, and it was all she could do not to walk over to that tree there behind him and knock herself unconscious.

“You don’t?” he asked.

He was too close, but Phoebe couldn’t have backed up to save her life. She dug her fingernails into her palms and forced herself to laugh. “Not really, no. Heck, we were practically kids.” Any second her nose was going to grow into a great sequoia.

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 homework 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.