Her Private Dancer

She clutched at his arms. “Oh, gosh. I’m sorry.” Heat crept over her cheeks. “Thanks, but really, you can put me down now. I have to be heavy.”

“You’re not heavy. How did you say you got invited to this party?” he asked without missing a beat.

On the elevator ride upstairs, Phoebe noticed Trace seemed intent on poking and prodding into each and every detail of her life since they’d last seen each other. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been much to tell—or much that she’d been willing to tell. After all, her life seemed to her unfathomably boring and pitiful—especially when she shared it with the ex-boyfriend she hoped to turn bitter with regret for having let her slip away. So, all too soon, Phoebe had found herself explaining her return to Miami. Call it pride, vanity or sheer humiliation, but she hadn’t told him about her new job on the Mirage as a showgirl.

Somehow, going from prima ballerina to showgirl seemed sort of shallow and pathetic after he’d chosen to become a cop when his own pursuits in journalism hadn’t been successful. Instead Phoebe had stammered her way through an awkward lie about a lagging dance production she was helping to get back on its feet. Then she’d told him about her new friends and the bridal shower tonight.

She should’ve just said she was in town on vacation, but against her better judgment she’d wanted him to believe her return was more permanent. Just in case. It was a ridiculous waste of time that could only lead to trouble, yet the discovery that all those years ago Trace’s feelings for her might have been stronger than she’d believed made her chest go all hot and fluttery. Not to mention the ball of warmth that spread through her lower regions whenever she even happened to glance at him. Jeesh, it was all she could do not to throw herself down on the ground and toss her skirt back over her head. Phoebe almost laughed. Tiffany would be so proud.

Trace turned his head toward her, his gaze snaring hers. “Well?”

All thought fled her brain the moment their eyes met. “Well, what?” she asked like a total dolt.

“The party?”

She tried to sound normal, but it took all her concentration just to breathe properly, his lips barely inches from her own. “Yes. I’m going to a party.”

The muscles in his neck and shoulders tensed under her arms. “Did you say you worked with the women at the party? Danced with them?”

“Um, I think so.” Phoebe gave up trying to focus on his questions. His eyebrows were lowered. Funny how she’d never noticed they were a shade lighter than his hair and perfectly arched. Perfectly perfect. A sigh welled in her chest.

“And this friend is getting married?”

Little sparklers flared to life down low in Phoebe’s body every time his lips formed a word, and she nodded. Anything to keep those supple lines of flesh moving.

“Phoebes—earth to Phoebe?” His silky voice speaking her name was an act of God. He shook his head, his fantabulous mouth grinning sinfully.

Sin…Yes. She wanted sinning. Lots of sinning.

He chuckled softly. “You know you’re killing me, don’t you? Here…” He gave her a hard kiss, his lips firm and warm, but he pulled back aeons too soon. “Now, pay attention, kitten, and if you’re good we’ll try that again.” His eyes darkened. “Only longer. Much longer.” Trace stared at her mouth for a moment before he shook his head and lowered his eyebrows determinedly. “I want you to tell me who invited you here.”

The longer version definitely sounded good but she couldn’t remember what she had to do to get it. Something about listening. Or answering. Oh, why hadn’t she just sucked face with him when she’d had the chance?

“Phoebe—” He shook her.

Couldn’t he tell that she was having a major hormonal breakthrough here? Phoebe sounded cross but didn’t care and said, “I told you in the elevator. Some of my new friends at work invited me. If you must have specifics, I think Barbie was the one who officially asked.”

His lips parted and a startled huff of air escaped. She inhaled his sweet breath. She couldn’t take it a second longer, and just when he opened his mouth to say, “Barbie! Good Chr—” Phoebe cupped his face with her hands and yanked him to her, cutting off his words. Blood pounded in her veins. Oceans roared in her ears. Phoebe couldn’t believe it. All on her own she’d reached out and kissed him. She was an animal!

Fortunately, it didn’t take much to refocus him, because as soon as they connected, Trace made a muffled grunt then jumped into the fray. He licked into her mouth, and with the first warm swipe of his tongue she could swear that goose bumps rose on every square inch of her skin. Then he moaned, the sound pained and rough. The noise vibrated her lips and started a quivering sensation arrowing straight to the tips of her breasts.

Unbelievably, he still held her, and she shifted in his arms, tilted her hips until she’d twisted and they were stomach to stomach. It was like rolling over into a fire. Ready to incinerate on the spot, Phoebe began to rub her nipples against the pressure of his chest when, with a jarring return to reality, the apartment door next to them jerked open.

Trace wrenched his mouth free and Phoebe almost wailed. Much slower to recover, she finally followed his line of vision to the doorway. One of the showgirls, Barbie—the hostess for Candy’s party—stood just inside.

“Well, it’s about time,” Barbie said, before turning her head and yelling over her shoulder to the women inside the apartment, “Hey everybody, get your money out. Tiffany’s big sister found the stripper! It’s show time!”

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