at any time in her future enough to make Phoebe want to pirouette herself right around and onto the first plane back to San Francisco. But she’d come too far to wimp out now. Besides, she had no reason to be nervous. She was an intelligent, capable woman. She could do this. Actually wanted to do this. And not just for Tiffany.
Phoebe had come to Miami as much for herself as to protect her new little niece or nephew from any potential harm. She’d allowed Tiffany to believe that it was her pregnancy that had changed Phoebe’s mind, and in a way it had. But it was more the reality of Tiff getting married suddenly and starting a family that had really knocked Phoebe’s world off kilter. Her whole life Phoebe had played it safe, and yet Tiffany was the one with a husband and a new baby on the way. In three months Phoebe would be thirty years old and had nothing to show for it. The men she dated were boring. Her job was boring. Her life was boring. She was in a rut. Tiffany had been right. Go figure.
Well, no more. Phoebe had made a decision. For once, she would take control of her future. She’d always wanted to be more like her little sister and now she could. Performing on the Mirage was a chance to spread her wings. Try a new form of dance. Experience some excitement. Some danger.
Phoebe almost stumbled at this and her chest grew tight. All right, she thought, and steadied her breathing. So she wasn’t completely sold on the danger part. But she liked everything else. Phoebe frowned again. And maybe comparing the bumps and grinds executed onstage at the Mirage to a dance form might be a bit liberal, but she was tired of playing it safe. Always being responsible. Always thinking things through. Tiffany hadn’t, and look at her. Granted, the whole Mafia thing was a drawback, but maybe Tony and Tiffany were right and the police were wrong.
Phoebe had met Mr. V. when she’d first arrived, and the Godfather he wasn’t. Oddly enough, finally seeing Tony’s uncle had been a bit of letdown. A short, round little man, Mr. V. had seemed to be more interested in talking to Phoebe about his special tomatoes than her new job on the Mirage. He’d asked if she liked Italian food and offered to make her a spaghetti feast with his own homemade sauce once she’d settled in. Heck, it had been kinda hard to remain scared of a guy who’d talked about tomato sauce for ten minutes running and wanted to know whether she personally preferred bay leaves or cilantro in her marinara.
Remembering the funny conversation, Phoebe grinned and already felt better. Now was not the time to let one of her panic attacks sneak up on her. Though her primary reason for attending Candy’s bachelorette party was to get a foot in with the other dancers, she couldn’t let the technicalities of her mission distract her from her own private goals. Important private goals. To grab life by the balls and wring every last drop from them. After all, she thought with a grin, why should Tiffany be the only one with a fun motto?
Finally coming to a stop, Phoebe stood before the long row of apartments and squinted, trying to make out the number over the entrance. It was so dang dark out here she could barely see a thing. The one and only street lamp in the entire complex stood beside the last building where a half dozen or so balloons were tied to the door. Bingo, she thought in relief, and took off toward it.
As she hobbled along the sidewalk, she wondered fleetingly whether the sense of camaraderie she felt with the showgirls would last and was surprised at how much she hoped it would. Growing up, Phoebe had always been painfully self-conscious around her peers and—oh, all right, so she’d been more like a tongue-tied mess, though she’d tried hard to relax and be herself, which had only made matters worse.
Add this in with the combination of Phoebe’s success in dance, her top placement grade point average, and a mother who’d never let her do anything that even remotely resembled fun—including wasting time with boyfriends or, heck, even regular friends—and the other kids had all come to the conclusion that Phoebe was one stuck-up prima donna. Throw in a few panic attacks for fun, and it was easy to see why she hadn’t exactly been voted the most popular person in her school. Looking back on it, she was lucky they hadn’t thrown rocks at her in the streets.
However, with age and enough therapy to help even the most screwed-up of Hollywood starlets, Phoebe had overcome the worst of her introversion. Yet, there were still times when she fought the odd twinges of anxiety. Oh, like, say, whenever she let herself think about all the different ways that she could fail in the next few hours being the perfect example. Phoebe grimaced, eyeing the tastefully wrapped present in her arms. Somehow, she doubted giving Candy a Crock-Pot would convince the showgirls that she lived life on the edge. The deviled eggs didn’t exactly say bad to the bone either.
Darn it. Already she was doing this wrong and the realization made her breath hitch. But before Phoebe could get herself more worked up, one of her ridiculous heels caught in the pavement and she tripped forward. The Crock-Pot and eggs flew from her arms and for a brief moment her body seemed to fly along, too.
As if in slow motion she pictured herself landing on her bad knee, injuring it permanently, all of her plans for Tiffany and herself ruined, but there was nothing she could do to stop herself. Until her body mercifully slammed into rock-solid man. Not about to question her good fortune, Phoebe clung tight.
“WHAT THE—oof!” The air whooshed from Trace’s lungs as the crazy woman careened into him.
“Help,” she squeaked.
Trace managed to get out a quick “Whoa, careful,” while he staggered backward from the force of her momentum. Instinctively, he brought up his arms to catch her, then decided this might not have been such a good idea.
Her long, wriggling body molded perfectly to his and he suddenly found his hands filled with her well-rounded bottom. A tingling feeling, almost like an itch, spread through his palms, yet Trace forced himself to ignore the writhing bounty in his hands and reminded his overactive hormones that after the fiasco with Jeanine, he’d sworn off women for good. At least he thought he had. It all seemed pretty vague to him right now with this particular woman’s legs clamped tightly on his thighs and her high, firm breasts pressed into his chest, prodding his skin like two hot brands and making him remember how much he enjoyed being prodded by two hot brands. Especially, when those brands were moving and jiggling around with the rest of her.
Suddenly the bachelorette party he was on his way to perform at seemed rife with possibilities. A concept that made him question his sanity, but he couldn’t afford to waste another second on his wayward thoughts. Not if he wanted to get rid of the human suction cup in his arms before they both went down for the count.
“Hey, hold still,” he warned, scowling. He tried to catch his balance and adjust his footing but this somehow only made everything worse because she squeaked and shockingly started to climb him like a monkey up a tree. He cursed, wondering what the hell was the matter with her and opened his mouth to ask, except a yelp came out instead. She’d stabbed the back of his leg with what had to be one of the most wicked high heels in creation, and his knees buckled forward.
Trace tripped off the sidewalk and they went down hard. Or rather she did. His face landed on something soft and plump, well, actually two somethings soft and plump—oh, all right, technically right smack-dab between two somethings soft and plump—and if he wasn’t mistaken, her knee was shoved up under his armpit.
“I can’t breathe. Get up, please.” The voice beneath him sounded strangled.
You and me both, lady, he wanted to say, but couldn’t since speaking required air and there was none left in his lungs. He tried to move. However, turning his face wasn’t an option either. Not with her long, dark hair tangled around his head as if someone had thrown a net over him, and for a few very long seconds Trace feared he was going to suffocate with his face mashed tightly to her breasts.
All in all, he supposed there were worse ways to go.
The
