Cami Dalton - Her Private Dancer

The woman started wiggling again. “Ow, it really hurts.”

Trace made a strangled noise. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but moving around underneath a man is not the way to get his body to stop ‘poking’ you.”

She immediately stilled. “Um, I was talking about that pin or whatever it is you have on your shirt. It’s pok—uh, digging into my chest.”

Trace winced. “Sorry,” he mumbled and tried to shift his weight with little success. He’d forgotten about his stupid costume and the fake police badge. In the last week he’d been a cowboy, a construction worker, an Indian and now a cop. Why the hell women got turned on by seeing him dress up like one of the Village People was beyond him. “If you just give me a minute here, I’m caught in your hair,” he said, his jaw clenched as he carefully started to untangle the silky mass from what seemed like every possible spot of attachment on his body. Why me? he wondered. As if being felled by this wiggling wacko wasn’t bad enough, in less than half an hour he’d be dancing at Candy’s bachelorette party. Last week when Barbie and Candy had asked him to perform, Trace had figured this would be a good chance to find out what the showgirls knew about the Mirage’s secret cargo, as well as the private cruise he’d recently overheard a couple of Mr. V.’s men discussing. Especially since Mr. V.’s niece, Angie Venzara, would be at the party tonight, too. But the reality of stripping down to the ridiculous triangle of spandex and string, that even now was chafing the hell out of him, and doing it in such intimate surroundings, had Trace rethinking his master plan. He wished his costume came with a gun so he could just shoot himself now and be done with it. Damn, his life sucked.

Trace sighed. “Okay, I think that’s it.” Determined to be free before he embarrassed himself even more, he tried to stand and immediately identified the final obstacle. He cleared his throat. “I never thought I’d say this to a woman, but you’re going to have to unclench your leg from my back. If you want me to stop poking you, that is,” he added dryly.

The woman gasped. “Oh, I d-didn’t realize,” she stammered, her voice turning sheepish.

The pressure on his ribs eased and Trace carefully pushed onto his hands and knees. Out of breath and panting, he kneeled over her, their faces only inches apart. He blinked, looking straight into her cool, gray eyes. No, not just gray. They were silver. Reflecting the light. Unforgettable—like the haunting notes of a long-ago melody.

The light from the street lamp pooled around them and he could just make out her face. The woman’s eyes widened. Her thick dark lashes fanned out to her eyebrows. “Trace?”

He held his breath. Her skin was porcelain smooth, her mouth lush, full and red like a wet berry. She was beautiful. Amazing. He’d only known one other face so perfect.

His heart kicked into a pounding rhythm. “Phoebe? Phoebe Devereaux?”

The only woman he’d ever loved smiled up at him hesitantly. That she’d broken his heart nine years ago hardly seemed important.

“DAMN.” Trace’s chest clutched painfully. Well, at least he now understood his physical reaction to her on the ground. His mind might not have known who it was, but his body sure as hell had.

She shifted and winced. The change in her expression broke his spell and he realized that he was still kneeling over her. Awkwardly he rose to his feet.

“Sorry,” he said, and as she sat forward, Trace backed up a step to give her room. Desperate to tear his eyes away from her, he glanced around the darkened yard. “You dropped some of your stuff. Let me help you.”

He turned his back to Phoebe and started toward the cluster of palm trees a few feet away. He needed a moment to regroup here, and muttering a curse, adjusted himself inside his pants. Trace scowled and with some difficulty leaned over and picked up the dented present from the grass. He couldn’t believe it. Phoebe Devereaux. His college sweetheart.

Trace took a deep breath and combed his fingers through his hair. Well, more like his college obsession, really. Nine years ago, they’d both attended the University of Miami. The first time he’d seen her in the school bookstore he’d felt all but struck by lightning. One look had been enough for him to fall and fall hard. Unfortunately, she’d needed a good hundred or so more, but by their senior year when she’d finally come around, he’d never been happier. For a brief time anyway. Before she’d dumped his ass.

Trace’s hand shook as he fumbled with the crumpled white bow, trying to set it back on top. Get a grip, McGraw. He willed his racing pulse to return to normal. It’s only Phoebe. No big deal. Yeah, right. Trace released the ribbon and watched it fall dejectedly on its side. Too bad his hard-on refused to have the same reaction.

Shaking his head, he walked back to Phoebe and set the wrapped box down next to her. “Wow—” He broke off and cleared his throat. “Phoebe Devereaux. It’s been a long time.” After the major kiss-off she’d given him back in college, Trace knew he should walk away. Give her a brief greeting then turn around and never look back. But he couldn’t. He wanted to know everything. Soak up each detail of the past nine years of her life in a moment. Well, crap. He might as well just rip out his heart now and hand it to her on a silver platter. It’d save them both a lot of hassle.

“Yeah, a long time…” Her voice trailed off as she stared at him.

Trace shook his head, and in spite of the roiling sensation in his gut, felt a smile tugging at his lips. Apparently some things never changed. Phoebe sat gazing up at him as if he were a tasty dessert she couldn’t wait to devour. Of course, if this played out anything like it usually had in the past, rapidly following on its heels would be her expression of self-loathing and disgust, so he didn’t bother getting too flattered. Why she’d always done this was beyond him. Hell, just the thought of Phoebe had always affected him the same way and it didn’t make him want to run out and commit hara-kiri.

Since she didn’t seem to be in any hurry to stop staring at him, Trace decided to return the favor, and what he saw caused his mouth to curve into an unholy grin.

Her sundress lay hiked up around her waist, revealing a tiny scrap of lace he supposed passed for panties. Though he’d always been a sucker for her long sable hair, it looked a little ragged at the moment with bits of grass sticking out and a rather large leaf tangled at the side. On top of that, one of her shoes must have flown south during their tumble, because only a single, lethal-looking high heel graced her arched foot.

It was enough to make a man drool. She was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen and color-coordinated to boot. Shoes, dress and underwear all in a glaring shade of pink that he could honestly say was his new favorite color. He wondered what she’d do if he told her that he could see London, France and every little bit of her underpants. Little definitely being the key word here.

Unfortunately, though not unexpectedly, Phoebe seemed to catch herself making calf eyes and pulled up short, retreating behind a stone wall of composure with a dash of indifference thrown in for good measure, in case he hadn’t taken the hint. Trace narrowed his eyes. It had been nine years. He was a full-grown man. Her denial of their attraction shouldn’t matter. Yet, he felt as if he were back on campus following her around like a puppy dog begging for a date because he was so damn crazy about her he couldn’t stay away.

The same old frustrations from the past, the ones demanding he force a response from her, raged through his body. He was not the only one affected here. Before he walked away, Phoebe Devereaux was going to admit what she had only once in the past, and then ruined by never speaking to him again. That she wanted him and wanted him bad. Though, Trace decided with a smile, he might not make her say it in those exact words.