Her Private Dancer. Cami Dalton
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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.”
“Tiffany, I’m a little old to be enticed into one of your harebrained schemes simply to annoy our mother.”
“No, you’re not. Besides, you’re going to take my place on the Mirage because you love me and want to help me. Sending Mom over the edge is just a happy coincidence.”
The corner of Phoebe’s mouth curved upward. Sometimes she didn’t know why she bothered trying. Winning an argument with Tiffany was impossible, and for a brief moment, Phoebe actually allowed herself to consider Tiffany’s request. It wasn’t as if Phoebe