Her Private Dancer. Cami Dalton
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knew from experience they were big, and astonishingly blue, and, at only the slightest glimpse of their brooding intensity, could make anything with ovaries want to rip off her clothes and drop spread-eagle to the ground. It brought new meaning to the phrase stop, drop and roll. Except with Phoebe. With her it had always been panic, overreact and run. Well, all but that one time. Unfortunately, she didn’t feel much like running now, either.
Phoebe scowled and tried to ignore the almost magnetic tug his six-foot-two form exerted over her own shivering mass. What the heck was wrong with her? Since when did she let an insignificant thing like a square and masculine jaw snare her interest? Or deep-set bedroom eyes? Or a flawless nose, more narrow than not, that led to a mouth with lips just plump enough to make her picture them shiny and wet, and wonder if they’d taste as good as she remembered…?
Phoebe realized the direction of her thoughts and could have kicked herself. Jeesh. She should be running and fast. That night may have been earth-shattering for her, however it was just one of many for Trace. True, said an insidious voice in her head. But that was a long time ago, and since you’re a new and liberated woman only interested in your next good time, there’s always the chance that if you ask real nice, he might be willing to shatter the earth for you again.
Phoebe flinched and told the sex-starved portion of her brain to shut the hell up. Then she looked into Trace’s beautiful frowning face and her pulse leaped and her own nearly shriveled-on-the-vine ovaries all but quivered. Jerking herself back to reality, she tried her hardest to appear bored with him and the entire discussion. The last thing her pride needed was for him to realize how much he still affected her. Or how much the memory of his betrayal still hurt.
“Listen,” she said, waving her hand, “all that stuff happened a long time ago. I don’t even know why we’re arguing.” There. That sounded pretty good.
He stilled for a moment then slowly shook his head and took a step closer. The scent of pine and something intrinsically Trace wafted through the humid air, tickling her nose and bringing with it a rush of memories. Sexual memories. Amazingly graphic and sexual memories. You’re pathetic, she told herself, and it was all she could do not to walk over to that tree there behind him and knock herself unconscious.
“You don’t?” he asked.
He was too close, but Phoebe couldn’t have backed up to save her life. She dug her fingernails into her palms and forced herself to laugh. “Not really, no. Heck, we were practically kids.” Any second her nose was going to grow into a great sequoia.
The real problem was that Phoebe remembered too much. Like how he’d replaced her with another woman less than twenty-four hours after she’d left his bed. Phoebe had been at ballet practice that next day and hadn’t been able to meet with Trace. Except she’d finished early and, like a lovesick fool, had headed straight for Trace’s apartment hoping to surprise him. Unfortunately, she’d been the one surprised. By the beautiful girl with him at his front door.
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