Kitabı oku: «Her Private Dancer», sayfa 3

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.

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!”

3

TRACE FROZE. He wanted to move, but couldn’t. If only to clap his hand over top of Barbie’s blabbering mouth. It was like watching a car accident he couldn’t prevent. In slow motion.

Phoebe cocked her head, her expression clearly confused. “Stripper?”

Barbie chuckled and shook her head. “As if you didn’t know. And I thought Tiffany was the wild sister.”

Phoebe frowned and looked toward him.

He refused to meet Phoebe’s gaze—not easy since he was still holding her, and her face was only inches from his own. Barbie said, “Come on in.” The buxom showgirl smiled and waved for him to follow, but his feet felt as if they’d been trapped in hardened cement. “Good thing you finally got here. The girls were getting a little rowdy. But I’m sure they’ll be much happier now that the ‘Sea Stud’ is here.” She stopped and ran her gaze over him from head to toe.

Trace cringed and thought, damn Barbie and her big mouth, anyway. Of all the demeaning things he’d been through in the last couple of weeks, the stupid nickname the customers on the ship had come up with had to be the worst. Unfortunately, the Mirage had been only too happy to cash in on the situation and had started hanging posters of him in costume from the neck down all over the ship. And while he was mostly glad they hadn’t used his face, he was also disgusted to realize that some small part of himself balked at the idea of being just a body. As if he were a piece of meat.

“Sea Stud?” Phoebe’s voice came out a squeak. “You mean that guy in all those posters on the Mirage?”

Barbie nodded. “You didn’t know that was Trace?”

Phoebe merely shook her head, though he could feel her body go stiff as a poker in his arms.

Trace’s mind churned. How the hell was he supposed to get himself out of this one? And how much truth should he tell her? That he wasn’t even a male stripper but really a reporter for a tabloid rag because he’d lost his job at the Herald?

He could just picture himself trying to explain that particular fall from grace. You see, Phoebe, it’s like this. I got fired from the Herald because I wouldn’t sleep with the boss’s daughter in the supply closet during the annual work Christmas party. Unfortunately, I’d imbibed a little too much yuletide cheer, and between the alcohol and the shock of being dragged into the dark little room on my way back from the john, Jeanine had my pants open and zipper down before I could wrestle her off me. Now wait, this is the really funny part. Jeanine’s dad, my editor, walked in on us and she blamed the whole thing on me. Not only did he fire me on the spot, he started a smear campaign that pretty much killed any chances of me getting hired by the sort of newspaper a person would read outside of a line at the grocery store. Frankly, Phoebe believing he was a male stripper was less embarrassing.

Phoebe swallowed. “So, that’s your body in those posters.” Her cheeks turned rosy. “Uh, it’s a good shot. Nice abs.”

Those same abs tightened, but for the moment Trace was saved from having to give an explanation when the bride-to-be, Candy, walked into the small foyer. She placed her hands on her hips. “Hey, what’s the holdup?” Candy asked.

“Yeah, you two.” Barbie reached out and grabbed his sleeve, which left him with no choice but to let her pull him inside.

“Wait a minute.” Candy winked at Phoebe. “If anyone should be carried over the threshold it’s me. I’m the one getting married.”

“Candy’s right,” Phoebe said. She pushed against his chest. “You can put me down now.”

Automatically he tightened his hold. “Sorry, ladies. No can do. Phoebe’s hurt.” Hurt and nuts if she thought he’d give her up that easily. Not after that lip lock she’d just given him back in the hallway. For her, that kiss was nothing short of a proposition and it was one he intended to take her up on.

Trace ignored Phoebe’s huffy exhale and shook his head at the other two women. “She stepped on some glass outside and can’t walk. If one of you would tell me where the bathroom is, I’ll carry her there. Oh, and I’ll need some tweezers. Maybe some first-aid stuff, too.”

“Oh, brother,” Phoebe mumbled as she crossed her arms over her chest. She turned her face away from him and studied the wall.

“Are you okay?” Candy asked her, stepping closer. “I hope it’s not bad.”

“I’m fine, really, but thank you. It’s just a cut. He refuses to listen.” Phoebe jerked her thumb toward him.

“Are you sure?” Barbie asked. “Right now your dancing’s not so great, kid. The last thing you need is an injury.” She lowered her voice, “Especially if you’re still hoping to get in on the extra money Saturday night.”

Wait a second, Trace thought, frowning. In the midst of worrying about his own lies, he seemed to have forgotten that Phoebe had told a few humdingers of her own. A sinking feeling settled in his stomach, like when an informant took back everything he’d said only an hour before the paper went to bed, and his heart pounded. How the hell did she know Barbie and Candy? And what the hell was she doing on the Mirage? “What the hell are you guys talking about?” he interrupted, his voice overly loud, but apparently this didn’t matter since none of them listened to him anyway.

Candy nodded to Phoebe as if he hadn’t spoken. “You’ve got the right equipment—you just need to learn how to use it better.” Candy quirked her mouth. “A lot better. No offence, Devereaux.”

Phoebe laughed, sounding genuinely amused at the insult. “None taken.” Then she hesitated. “But you think I’ll be good eventually, right? I mean, I’m not a lost cause or anything?”

The two women shared a look then Barbie said, “You’ll have to work your fanny off before Tuesday, but me and the girls can help you.”

Phoebe beamed. “I was hoping you’d say that. Thanks. You guys are the best.”

Barbie and Candy laughed. “Hey, you’re Tiffany’s big sister. We’re all family on the Mirage.”

The muscles over Trace’s ribs tightened until he could barely breathe. “Hey,” he interrupted again, giving Phoebe a quick shake. He was going to get her attention this time no matter what, except now that Trace had it, he couldn’t speak because the thoughts swirling inside his head were so ridiculous he felt like an idiot to even ask. “You’re gonna think I’m crazy, but, well, you’re not—I mean, this is so stupid, because there’s no way—” He stumbled over his words while Phoebe’s eyes glittered with a certain malicious satisfaction that made his stomach clench. “Tell me you’re not a showgirl on the Mirage….”

Phoebe lifted her pert nose in the air, her lips curving smugly. “Sorry, Stud of the Sea. No can do—”

“Sea Stud,” Barbie and Candy corrected in unison.

Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” She flicked her finger under his chin. “Looks like you and I’ll be working together. I can’t wait to see you do your little routine. Who knows? Maybe I can even pick up a few pointers.”

“HERE WE GO, kids.” Barbie flipped on the light then stepped aside for him to enter the bathroom. “You can set her down then I’ll show you where the stereo is. You brought a tape for your music, right?”

Phoebe patted him on the shoulder. “Trace is a professional. Of course he brought his tape.”

Heat crept over his face. “I’ll check out the sound system in a minute. She’s going to need some help—”

“No, I don’t,” Phoebe cut him off, then fiercely whispered into his ear, “Put me down.”

Trace dumped her cute butt onto the rim of the tub, his lips twisting at her muffled grunt, then closed the door in Barbie’s startled face. He turned the lock, not about to let anything or anyone interrupt him.

“Well, okay,” Barbie’s muffled voice spoke from the other side. “But hurry it up. The crowd is getting restless. Especially Angie.”

Trace winced. He’d mostly agreed to dance at this little shindig because of Venzara’s niece, Angie. Rumor had it she used the male dancers on the Mirage like her own personal stud service. Not that Trace was interested in joining her stable, but at this point he’d date the stage manager, Phil, if it meant getting enough information so he could write a real story. Trace sighed. At the moment, Angie was the least of his worries.

He turned around and faced Phoebe. There was really no place to go in the small room, so he leaned back against the door and crossed his arms. She was smoothing down her hair, looking into the mirror above the sink from her perch on the tub. She pretended to ignore him, but he’d caught her sneaking glances his way more than once. Pursing his mouth, he stewed over the load of garbage she’d fed him in the elevator. Lagging dance production, his ass. He’d pictured her helping some struggling inner-city troupe, charitably promoting the arts. Not shimmying around a casino ship in feathers and heels.

“You lied,” he said flatly.

She jumped at his voice then dropped her arms. “I thought that was my line, Officer McGraw.”

Trace narrowed his eyes. “Touché. But then that shouldn’t be much of a surprise to you since you’ve always accused me of being a liar.”

She lifted her chin. “Only to juggle all of your women. I should have realized the habit would leak into other areas of your life.”

“Then what’s your excuse?”

She looked away and busied herself with her skirt, pressing out the wrinkles. “I told you the truth. The Mirage, er, needed my expertise and I agreed to help with choreography and things like that, as well as, um, giving the girls a few pointers on technique.”

“That’s not what it sounded like when you were talking out there to Candy and Barbie. In fact, it seemed like, if anything, you needed their help.”

“I guess you misunderstood. Could you hand me the supplies from the medicine cabinet? We better be getting out there.” She gave him a cool smile. “It seems your adoring fans are pretty anxious to see you.” She raked him with her gaze, narrowing in on the fly of his pants before shrugging her delicate shoulders. “As I said before, I barely remember our time together in college. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see what all the fuss is about.”

He leisurely stroked his thumb over the handcuffs dangling from his belt. “You’re lying again, kitten. Don’t push me. Unless you want to play a round of bad cop captures naughty showgirl.” But just referring to Phoebe as a showgirl was too much for him, and he clenched his jaw until the bone all but throbbed, then blurted, “Since when are you a dancer on the Mirage?”

She raised her eyebrows to a haughty angle. “Not as long as you, I’m sure, oh great Stud of the Sea. I only started a few days ago.”

“Sea Stud,” he mumbled.

She tucked a fall of silky hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry. What was that?”

He gritted his teeth. “Sea Stud. You keep saying, Stud of the Sea. It makes me sound like some kind of sick cartoon logo for a weird brand of tuna.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, right. Sea Stud is much more dignified.”

Trace took a deep breath and forced himself to let it out slowly. “Never mind. Let’s talk about something more important. Like why you’re a showgirl.”

“Why are you a stripper?”

He felt pretty confident one of the blood vessels near his temple was going to burst if she didn’t answer him soon. “You first.”

Trace had no doubt that Phoebe was purposely goading him. She peeked from beneath her lashes and said, “You mean something along the lines of, you’ll show me yours if I show you mine?”