Her Private Dancer

Her Private Dancer
Cami Dalton

Phoebe Devereaux could never forget Trace McGraw. In college he used his moves to give her a night she'd never forget.Now he's using those talents as a male stripper on the cruise ship where she works as a showgirl. But Phoebe can't afford to be distracted. She was hired to help the police nab some onboard mobsters. Still, Trace sure knows what turns her on….Undercover reporter Trace can't believe sweet, innocent Phoebe is now dancing on a ship in nothing more than feathers. Of course, he can't believe he is bumping and grinding in a thong for a story! He needs this scoop about a possible Mafia operation. But what he wants is to do a little private dancing with Phoebe….

“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 camidalton@earthlink.net or visit my Web site at www.camidalton.com.

Happy reading,

Cami Dalton

Her Private Dancer

Cami Dalton

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

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 (#u7d4b7e25-5dea-5f33-8c5e-602d1d9dc3c3)

Chapter 1 (#u2df72ee1-9066-5287-8623-2cfd0856f404)

Chapter 2 (#ue6efcceb-3ad8-536d-b0e4-f22852c07070)

Chapter 3 (#u36b6c946-1f25-57c4-922e-11ea2c52b2ba)

Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

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 port for international waters where the ship threw open its casino doors then aimlessly wandered the Atlantic for a few scheduled hours of gambling, drinking and watching Vegas-style reviews. Glitzy productions complete with showgirls. During the regular cruises, that is. On the Ladies Only nights, the entertainment distinctly veered into dangerous territory. At least for Trace McGraw, newest member of the dance troupe, the Ladies’ Knights. Miami’s answer to Chippendales.

He almost sneered at the apropos comparison, but somehow kept his stupid smile plastered in place. Damn, he hated this cover. And this story. And his editor, Manny….

Trace cast a quick glance at the other male dancers on the floor, and wondered if they’d ever felt the same bone-deep humiliation he was experiencing. Obviously not, if the guy dressed as Tonto and gyrating away with some woman’s hand down his thong was anyone to go by. Disgusted with just how far down his career had actually plummeted, Trace mentally hurried Delores along and shifted his stance to counter the floor’s subtle pitch and roll.

All things considered, though, he should probably look on the bright side. At least he didn’t have to get completely naked. Wearing this damn butt floss was definitely torture enough without being forced to show the full monty. Of course, his suede vest alone, worn open and shirtless, was sufficient to have him blushing like the proverbial virgin in a whorehouse—not to overdo the whole western theme here. The ten-gallon hat, chaps and thong were merely a bonus.

Delores finally finished slipping the bill into the spandex at his hip when Marge piped up, saying, “My turn. You’re not in any rush, are you, cowboy?”

“Of course not, ma’am,” Trace answered, hiding his grimace along with another healthy sigh, while Marge searched for more cash.

It wasn’t easy to pinpoint the exact moment that had led to this, but if he had to make a guess, he figured it was Christmas, fifth grade. The year his sister Gwen had given him the sound track to Saturday Night Fever. The same year Pittsburgh had its worst blizzard in history and the snow had fallen so hard he couldn’t go sledding or even build a damn snowman. The infamous year he’d caught disco fever.

Bored out of his mind, he remembered splashing on some Aqua Velva—another pitiful example of what the females in his family considered a Christmas present—and dancing around his room like John Travolta Jr. in training for the Solid Gold olympics. If Gwen had just given him the sports-magazine subscription with the free football phone as he’d asked, he wouldn’t be in this mess. Because if he’d never learned to dance, when his editor, Manny, had spotted him at a colleague’s wedding reception six weeks ago, Trace would’ve been just like every other rhythmless white guy in the place who froze in panic when the music started.

The waistband of Trace’s skimpy underwear snapped back into place like a rubber band and Trace snapped back to the present.

“Well. You’re a big one, aren’t you?” Delores glanced at her friend. “Did you see him, Marge?”

Marge rolled her eyes. “I’m old, not blind.” Turning to Trace she said, “So what do they call you, big guy?”

“Probably Big Guy,” Delores crowed, smacking her knee, and they both laughed uproariously.

Trace shook his head, and in spite of himself felt a grin tugging at his mouth. The frisky pair reminded him of the two old men from The Muppet Show. Watching them, he chuckled softly.