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“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 [email protected] or visit my Web site at www.camidalton.com.
Happy reading,
Cami Dalton
Her Private Dancer
Cami Dalton
MILLS & BOON
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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
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
