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Her Private Dancer
Cami Dalton
Phoebe Devereaux could never forget Trace McGraw. In college he used his moves to give her a night she'd never forget.Now he's using those talents as a male stripper on the cruise ship where she works as a showgirl. But Phoebe can't afford to be distracted. She was hired to help the police nab some onboard mobsters. Still, Trace sure knows what turns her on….Undercover reporter Trace can't believe sweet, innocent Phoebe is now dancing on a ship in nothing more than feathers. Of course, he can't believe he is bumping and grinding in a thong for a story! He needs this scoop about a possible Mafia operation. But what he wants is to do a little private dancing with Phoebe….
“Take it off!” one of the women yelled
Despite the humiliation Trace felt, the thought of Phoebe being jealous cheered him up a bit.
In time with the music, he opened the buttons of his shirt. The crowd practically groaned as one. God, he loved these women. Their yelps were going to drive Phoebe crazy.
Holding Phoebe’s gaze, he kept his pelvis moving with the beat. He pictured her hands in place of his own and let that erotic image fill his eyes with hunger.
Trace watched the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Damn, he wanted her. He let his shirt fall to the ground, and the women screamed and whooped.
Adrenaline surged through his blood in spite of how stupid he felt dancing around the room like a gigolo. He gripped the front of his pants and let the anticipation build. From the corner of his eye he saw Phoebe staring. Purposely, Trace waited until their eyes met. Then he pulled.
Dear Reader,
I’ve always found it wildly attractive when a man knows how to dance. Bring me to a wedding reception or a New Year’s Eve party, and my gaze is automatically drawn to the fellow who’s effortlessly moving his body in rhythm with the beat. If the guy happens to be particularly talented at shaking his tail feathers, well, then, be still my beating heart. On these occasions, when I finally drag my eyes away and remember where I am, I inevitably discover that I’m not the only woman in the room gasping for breath. And this got me thinking….
Her Private Dancer is my first book and takes place in my home state of sunny Florida. I love romance and have been an avid reader for many years, but I’ve finally discovered something that I love even more—writing funny, steamy stories with quirky heroines and heart-pounding heroes. I hope you agree. Let me know what you think. You can write to me at P.O. Box 410787, Melbourne, FL 32941-0787. You can also send your e-mail to camidalton@earthlink.net or visit my Web site at www.camidalton.com.
Happy reading,
Cami Dalton
Her Private Dancer
Cami Dalton
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Brenda Chin and Leslie Kelly for acts of friendship and kindness too numerous to mention. Thanks for getting me here. You guys are the best.
Contents
Prologue (#u7d4b7e25-5dea-5f33-8c5e-602d1d9dc3c3)
Chapter 1 (#u2df72ee1-9066-5287-8623-2cfd0856f404)
Chapter 2 (#ue6efcceb-3ad8-536d-b0e4-f22852c07070)
Chapter 3 (#u36b6c946-1f25-57c4-922e-11ea2c52b2ba)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
TRACE MCGRAW FORCED his mouth into a smile as he tilted his spandex-covered pelvis toward the elderly woman, who bore a striking resemblance to Mrs. Rosenthal, his grandmother’s eighty-nine-year-old roommate at the Happy Vale Assisted Living Center. No sir, his second night on the job wasn’t turning out to be any less embarrassing than his first. Especially, with Mrs. Rosenthal’s twin staring at his package and all but licking her chops.
The look-alike briefly turned to the woman next to her and shouted over the wailing country-western song, “Ooh-wee. Get a gander of this one, Marge. Is that a gun in your drawers, cowboy,” she crowed to Trace, “or are you just happy to see me?” The old woman nudged her friend with her elbow then laughed mischievously.
Colored lights flicked wildly around the room while a haze of smoke hovered above the all-female audience. The din of their cheers and whoops of approval almost drowned out the bass beat pounding from the speakers like a dozen tribal drums. Trace surmised that unfortunately, the friend, Marge, had still been able to hear since she removed a five-dollar bill from her purse and said, “I don’t know, Delores. I think we’re gonna need a better look.” Then she wiggled her eyebrows.
After his first performance last night on board the Mirage, a casino ship out of Miami where twice a week the women of south Florida ruled the high seas, Trace knew what to expect. Even still, he wasn’t quite prepared for the speed and dexterity with which good old Delores moved. Before he could even blink, Delores had snatched up the money and started reaching for his costume.
Trace bit back a curse, but held his pose, not moving so much as a tassel on his fringed chaps. The fringed chaps that blatantly highlighted the bulge in his black briefs. Not easy considering the look in Delores’s eyes, but Trace couldn’t blow his cover now no matter how much he wanted to slap his hands over his groin and run back to the dressing room. Or jump off the ship. That would be fine, too, three-mile swim back to shore and all.
Five nights a week, the Mirage left port for international waters where the ship threw open its casino doors then aimlessly wandered the Atlantic for a few scheduled hours of gambling, drinking and watching Vegas-style reviews. Glitzy productions complete with showgirls. During the regular cruises, that is. On the Ladies Only nights, the entertainment distinctly veered into dangerous territory. At least for Trace McGraw, newest member of the dance troupe, the Ladies’ Knights. Miami’s answer to Chippendales.
He almost sneered at the apropos comparison, but somehow kept his stupid smile plastered in place. Damn, he hated this cover. And this story. And his editor, Manny….
Trace cast a quick glance at the other male dancers on the floor, and wondered if they’d ever felt the same bone-deep humiliation he was experiencing. Obviously not, if the guy dressed as Tonto and gyrating away with some woman’s hand down his thong was anyone to go by. Disgusted with just how far down his career had actually plummeted, Trace mentally hurried Delores along and shifted his stance to counter the floor’s subtle pitch and roll.
All things considered, though, he should probably look on the bright side. At least he didn’t have to get completely naked. Wearing this damn butt floss was definitely torture enough without being forced to show the full monty. Of course, his suede vest alone, worn open and shirtless, was sufficient to have him blushing like the proverbial virgin in a whorehouse—not to overdo the whole western theme here. The ten-gallon hat, chaps and thong were merely a bonus.
Delores finally finished slipping the bill into the spandex at his hip when Marge piped up, saying, “My turn. You’re not in any rush, are you, cowboy?”
“Of course not, ma’am,” Trace answered, hiding his grimace along with another healthy sigh, while Marge searched for more cash.
It wasn’t easy to pinpoint the exact moment that had led to this, but if he had to make a guess, he figured it was Christmas, fifth grade. The year his sister Gwen had given him the sound track to Saturday Night Fever. The same year Pittsburgh had its worst blizzard in history and the snow had fallen so hard he couldn’t go sledding or even build a damn snowman. The infamous year he’d caught disco fever.
Bored out of his mind, he remembered splashing on some Aqua Velva—another pitiful example of what the females in his family considered a Christmas present—and dancing around his room like John Travolta Jr. in training for the Solid Gold olympics. If Gwen had just given him the sports-magazine subscription with the free football phone as he’d asked, he wouldn’t be in this mess. Because if he’d never learned to dance, when his editor, Manny, had spotted him at a colleague’s wedding reception six weeks ago, Trace would’ve been just like every other rhythmless white guy in the place who froze in panic when the music started.
The waistband of Trace’s skimpy underwear snapped back into place like a rubber band and Trace snapped back to the present.
“Well. You’re a big one, aren’t you?” Delores glanced at her friend. “Did you see him, Marge?”
Marge rolled her eyes. “I’m old, not blind.” Turning to Trace she said, “So what do they call you, big guy?”
“Probably Big Guy,” Delores crowed, smacking her knee, and they both laughed uproariously.
Trace shook his head, and in spite of himself felt a grin tugging at his mouth. The frisky pair reminded him of the two old men from The Muppet Show. Watching them, he chuckled softly.
If any of his friends from the Herald could see him now he’d never live it down. Trace had been well on his way to becoming one of the paper’s top investigative reporters when he’d gotten fired. Unfairly, in his opinion, as well as that of every other hapless male who’d ever been cornered by the boss’s oversexed daughter, Jeanine. Now, thanks to his ex-editor and the vindictive Jeanine, Trace was lucky to even have his job at the Daily Intruder, which was saying a lot since he was presently employed in journalism hell.
Undercover as one of the dancers, Trace was investigating a tip Manny had gotten about male prostitutes on board the Mirage, and the middle-class suburban housewives who solicited them. Apparently a growing problem Manny felt would send the Daily Intruder’s circulation skyrocketing. Obviously Manny was an idiot. An idiot who knew his readership and who’d threatened to fire Trace if he refused the story.
As much as Trace hated the assignment, he found himself reluctant to give up the finer things in life like food and shelter. And after his first night on the job, he had a hunch there was a much bigger story taking place on the decks of the Mirage.
It was a well-known fact the Mirage was owned by the supposedly retired ex-Mafia boss Angelo Venzara. Or Mr. V., as he was called by his employees. But last night when Trace had gotten lost and wandered near the hold, he’d seen enough to have him reassessing Venzara’s supposedly reformed status. Specifically, the two armed thugs who’d been carrying an unmarked crate toward Angelo Venzara’s private area of the ship.
A couple of calls to some of Trace’s old sources confirmed that things onboard might not be all they seemed. In the past few months, the Mirage had made a number of hastily scheduled launches during its off-hours. And been spotted loading unmarked cargo during one of the cruise’s island stops in the Bahamas. Even without his journalistic instincts cranking up to full alert, Trace had come across enough evidence to know that Mr. V. was up to something. And with his much-hated cover already established, Trace was going to find out. Because if he was right, it was a chance to get his career back, and that was worth anything. Even doing the electric slide in his skivvies.
A group of young lovelies a few feet away tried to catch his attention, banging their drink glasses on the table top and waving money from their hands like little flags. Trace laughed softly. Maybe he needed to get a better attitude. He had to admit that whatever this cover cost his pride it was more than made up for in horny women. After all, what red-blooded male wouldn’t enjoy all these screaming females anxious for a chance to get him naked?
He tipped the brim of his hat to the two feisty seniors. “Thank you, ladies. It’s been a pleasure,” he said, genuinely smiling this time.
“I’ll say!” Delores sent him a wink.
Chuckling, he turned to leave, but before he’d made it more than half a step, he felt a hard smack across his semi-bare ass. His eyes widened.
“Great chaps!”
“Even greater buns!” His frisky friends hooted with laughter.
Trace sighed and shook his head. Then again, maybe his attitude had been just fine all along, not to mention a whole lot safer.
1
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, you don’t know when you’re coming back?” Phoebe Devereaux said into the phone. “How long can you just hang out in the Caribbean when you don’t have any money?” Phoebe managed to keep her voice one level below shouting. If she lost her temper now, she’d never get the whole story out of her little sister.
“I mean, I don’t know when it’ll be cool for me to come back. I told you, that cop, Alvarez, is going to be majorly pissed off when he finds out I skipped town. I keep telling him that Mr. V. is legit, but Alvarez won’t chill out,” Tiffany said. “And money’s not a problem. My boyfriend Tony’s going with me.”
Phoebe cradled the phone to her shoulder and massaged her throbbing temples. Since they were kids, Tiffany had been getting into trouble. Always the faithful big sister, Phoebe had rescued her from too many scrapes to count. Most of which, from the moment Tiffany had hit puberty, included a man. The no-good, love-’em-and-leave-’em bad-boy type that was Tiff’s favorite.
Phoebe shook her head, her gaze finding the open window across from her. The sound of the neighbor’s lawn mower floated inside her cozy little kitchen while a soft breeze ruffled the curtains. What had started out as a fairly perfect day lazing around at home, Tiffany had managed to destroy in less than five minutes. No surprise there, really, considering the source.
“Okay,” Phoebe finally said, plunking her glass of iced tea down onto the countertop and pushing it away. At the moment, she was a little too tempted to round up the one and only bottle of liquor in her house and spike the heck out of it. “I want you to start over at the beginning, and this time don’t leave out a single thing.”
“Oh, all right.” Tiffany heaved a sigh worthy of the stage. “But then I really have to leave, so pay attention this time.”
Phoebe didn’t respond. She was too busy grinding her teeth.
“Like I said before, there’s going to be a big meeting on the Mirage next Saturday night. Some guys who used to work with Tony’s uncle, Mr. V., are coming over from Vegas and New York and the whole ship is gonna be closed off for customers that night. Nothing illegal is going on, I’m sure, no matter what Alvarez says, but even still, the whole thing is pretty hush-hush. Me and a few of the girls happened to know about the private cruise because Mr. V. himself asked us to work special for the party. Hang out for dinner and drinks then do a shorter version of our show. And well—” Tiffany hesitated “—the cops want me to listen in on the meeting. They’ve tried before to get one of their own people on board, but Mr. V. likes things private and he hates cops. I mean really hates cops. His men can spot a plant a mile away.”
“But why you? Why not one of the other showgirls?”
“W-e-l-l,” Tiffany hedged, “the police have some stuff on me. If I do what they ask, they’ll cut a deal with me and forget about pressing charges. But if I don’t come through, I could do time.”
“Do time! Are you trying to say you might go to jail?” Phoebe wasn’t being naive. Tiffany’s antics had always more than crossed over the lines of propriety, and the men she hooked up with were blue collar at best, spiked collar at worst. She also took particular glee in trying to shock their dysfunctional parents into an early grave, though, as of yet, hadn’t been successful. Phoebe understood why her little sister did these things and in part felt responsible. But Tiffany wasn’t a criminal. She just liked to date them.
Tiffany snorted. “It’s so stupid, because they’ll never be able to make anything stick, Tony promised. Besides, Tony says Mr. V. has gone straight since he retired and that the cops will drop everything once they figure out he’s on the up-and-up.”
“Well, if Tony promised then I’m sure you’re fine.” Phoebe rolled her eyes. “But just so I know, what exactly do the police think they have?”
Tiffany hesitated. “Okay. But don’t freak out. A couple of times I went with Tony when he had to make a delivery for his uncle. Nothing major, I promise. A fake passport, I think. Maybe a couple of handguns, but only once. I swear.”
“Guns.” Phoebe sputtered the word. “You’re dating an arms dealer?”
“He’s not an arms dealer. Cripes, you exaggerate everything,” Tiffany grumbled. “He was only doing a favor for his uncle. You make it sound so serious.”
“It is serious. By the way, Tony’s family sounds great. I think I saw an episode about them on The Sopranos.” She squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose.
Once again Phoebe found herself forced into the role of Tiffany’s savior. Something she’d already sworn she’d done for the last time. Yet, even though Tiffany shouldn’t have ridden shotgun with her gangster boyfriend, Phoebe couldn’t bear to think of her little sister in a prison cell. Which meant that she had to get to Miami today if she wanted to stop Tiffany from making the biggest mistake of her life.
Spying the phone book, Phoebe grabbed it off the shelf and started flipping the pages. “All right, Tiffany, you’re going to listen to me and do exactly what I tell you. First off, break up with that mobster—”
“He’s not a mobster!”
“Of course not. He commits crimes and everyone in his family has names like Scarface or Luigi the Choker. What was I thinking?” Phoebe recognized her mother’s biting sarcasm in her words and immediately softened her voice. “I know you care about him, Tiff, but he’s no good for you.” Phoebe hesitated then forced herself to go on. “After you break up, go straight to the cops and tell them you’ll do whatever they say. I’ll call the airline right now. I’ll try to get a flight out tonight. It’s only six or seven hours from San Francisco to Miami, so I should be there by tomorrow morning. But get ready because when this is all done we’re packing you up and I’m bringing you home.”
“Are you insane? I’d rather let the cops put me in jail than live back under the same roof with Mom and Dad. Besides, San Francisco isn’t home. Miami is. Heck, we grew up here. Just because you chose to buckle under Mom’s nagging and move out west after you left New York City doesn’t mean I’m stupid enough to be on the same side of the country as our parents. Not that they’d want me there, anyway.”
Phoebe winced. Truthfully, the thought of living with her parents sent chills up and down her own spine. Being within a thirty-minute drive was bad enough. But she wasn’t the one who’d ruined her life and couldn’t be trusted. Tiffany had done this to herself and it was about time good old Mom and Dad helped share the burden of keeping up with their crazy, younger daughter. Though they’d never bothered to concern themselves in the past. But Phoebe would fix that, too. Somehow…
“And I’m not breaking up with Tony,” her little sister continued. “Even though the police have no reason to harass Mr. V., he admitted that some of his uncle’s associates may be a little on the shady side. Tony doesn’t want me around that kind of stuff, especially now that I’m—” Tiffany broke off then finally said, “Well, I’ll get into that later, but he’s quitting the family business for now. And I’m leaving Miami. Only a person with a death wish would spy on Mr. V. and I’m not that stupid. If you want to help the police so much, you work at the Mirage. Hey—” Tiffany dragged out the word “—wait a second…I think I just came up with an idea.”
Phoebe recognized that particular sound in her sister’s voice and it made the little hairs at the back of her neck stand on end. “Whatever you’re plotting, forget it.”
“I really think this can work. Listen, we’re both dancers, right?”
Phoebe practically choked. “I’m a ballet teacher. You’re a showgirl. Big difference.”
“Meaning, I have a good time and get laid more than once a year?”
“Why sell yourself short?” Phoebe snorted. “You could probably get it every hour dancing at that stupid place.” Though truthfully, she didn’t really disapprove of Tiffany’s job as much as she’d just sounded. There were scores of serious dancers who worked on cruise ships. At casinos, as well, for that matter. Still, there was a mile of difference between a tutu and a thong. Yet, in spite of the ridiculousness of Tiffany’s suggestion, Phoebe actually tried to envision herself in one. A thong, that is, and immediately the image came into focus.
She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. Secretly, she’d always wished she could be more like her little sister. Less inhibited. Daring. Confident enough to embrace life and take what she wanted. See an attractive man and go for it—wait a second. The attractive man part of her internal ramblings brought her up short. Back in college, she’d learned her lesson about embracing life and attractive men the hard way, hadn’t she? So what on earth was wrong with her? The one and only time Phoebe had ignored her head and followed her libido instead, she’d ended up losing her heart. She didn’t want to go through that again, did she? Sure, Tiffany had more fun. Just too much of it. Without any thought of the consequences.
“Stop bitching. You’re just jealous because I’m happy and like what I do,” Tiffany said, hitting the nail smack-dab on the head. “Just hear me out. If you got a job on board the Mirage then you could listen in on Mr. V.’s meeting. It’s perfect.” Her little sister’s voice rose with enthusiasm. “Officer Alvarez won’t care who gets the information as long as someone does.”
Phoebe’s mouth fell open. “I thought you said only a person with a death wish would spy on this Mr. V. person.”
Tiffany made a scoffing sound. “I was exaggerating. All right, Mr. V.’s pretty anal about his privacy, but other than that he’s very sweet. Now, his bodyguard, Sonny, can be a little creepy at times, but as long as you don’t let him catch you, you’ll be fine. Come on, Phoebe, help me out here. It’s not like you’re doing anything else. You don’t even have a job.”
Phoebe made a face and stuck her tongue out at the phone. It wasn’t the words themselves that pierced so much, but the sentiment behind them. As if her life only existed to make Tiffany’s easier. “Forget it, Tiffany. It will never happen. And for your information, I still have my job. My knee is fine now. I should be back at the studio any day.” Phoebe wasn’t about to admit that she’d put off giving the prestigious ballet academy where she worked an actual return date. Before Phoebe had reinjured her knee a couple of months ago, she’d already begun to lose interest in her classes.
With the big 3-0 bearing down on her with all the surety of a SCUD missile, Phoebe found herself more than just a little tired of teaching moody teenagers the finer points of the Vaganova method. Especially when said teenagers were constantly harassing Phoebe to ditch the classics and teach them more fun stuff like Who Let the Swans Out? Call her selfish, but there had to be more to life than this.
Then again, if her knee hadn’t given out seven years ago, Phoebe would already have a real life. She scowled down at her leg. The New York City Ballet had been sympathetic yet adamant when they’d let her go from the company. A principal dancer with a bum knee wasn’t in their repertoire.
“Come on, Phoebes,” Tiffany wheedled, using the nickname she’d given Phoebe when they were kids. “Just think about how pissed off Mom will be when she finds out you danced as a showgirl.”
