Her Private Dancer. Cami DaltonЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 couldn’t do any form of dance. The stress of dancing in toe shoes was the actual culprit that aggravated her weakened knee. Unfortunately, ballet was all she’d been taught. Her mother, Madeline Devereaux, had never allowed anything else.
Phoebe frowned. Maybe Tiffany was right and pissing off their mother was motivation enough.
While Tiffany blathered on in the background, Phoebe pictured herself in one of her sister’s outrageous getups and, not surprisingly, a frisson of excitement pulsed low in her belly. She pressed her hand to her stomach. Her imagination went to town and she could almost see her body undulating to a throbbing beat under a row of hot stage lights. She licked her lips and envisioned a gorgeous man in the audience, all his senses focused on her while she swayed her hips and…doggonit! How did Tiffany plant these crazy ideas in her brain?
Phoebe narrowed her eyes and slammed the phone book shut. Fantasizing about being a sexy showgirl and actually trying to be one were two different things. No matter how enticing the prospect seemed, if she ever actually had to go onstage and perform half-naked like that, she’d probably have the worst panic attack of her life.
Tiffany must have sensed a negative answer coming her way because she jumped in before Phoebe could speak, and said, “I know the Mirage isn’t exactly your kind of place, Phoebe, but you’ve got nothing to lose. Face the facts, you’re in a rut, and now’s your chance to get out of it. Listen, there’s more to life than what you’re living. It’s time to decide what you want and go for it. Take me, for example. I look at life like sex. You can either lie back and get screwed or climb on top and ride the hell out of it. That’s my motto.”
Phoebe almost dropped the phone. After a minute of pure speechlessness, she cleared her throat then said, “How beautiful. Truly touching, and I mean that. You should cross-stitch it on a pillow.” She wiped her hand over her face then shook her head. “Unfortunately, I don’t view infiltrating the Mafia the same as riding the hell out of life. Look, Tiffany, I think it’s about time you swung down from the, er, saddle, so to speak, and learned to clean up one of your own messes. I’ll come to Miami and stand by your side.” Phoebe’s voice rose as she picked up steam. “But there is no way I’m going to dance on that ship in a sequined bikini so you can sun yourself on some darn beach. So, save your breath. There’s not a single thing you can say that will make me change my mind.”
Tiffany remained silent until Phoebe felt she’d scream. Finally, her little sister spoke. “Phoebe, I know you think I’m being a jerk, but, honest, it’s not me I’m trying to protect.”
Phoebe slumped against the wall and rubbed the back of her neck. “Tiffany, what are you trying to tell me?”
Her sister then spoke the two words guaranteed to change Phoebe’s mind. “I’m pregnant.”
PHOEBE’S ANKLES wobbled precariously in her three-and-a-half inch high heels and she cursed under her breath. It wasn’t easy to run in screw-me shoes while balancing a tray of deviled eggs and a gift-wrapped Crock-Pot, but it had taken her forty minutes longer to navigate through the Miami traffic than she’d planned and she couldn’t mess this up by being late.
One of the showgirls, Candy, was getting married and Phoebe had been invited to the bachelorette party. Oddly enough, after only three days, she seemed to be fitting in better with the showgirls than she ever had at her previous jobs. Probably because she was Tiffany’s sister. And probably because, for the first time in her life, she was the worst dancer of the bunch.
Phoebe grinned and thought to herself, “I’m a showgirl.” There were times when the absurdity of it almost made her laugh out loud. So far, she was enjoying herself, too. She’d only been in town a couple of days but things were going remarkably well. Exactly as she’d planned.
Thanks to Tiffany’s grossly exaggerated reference, the Mirage had hired Phoebe on the spot. Of course, not surprisingly, she hadn’t been asked yet to join Mr. V. on his Mafia Reunion Cruise next Saturday, but she wasn’t alarmed. It was one thing for Mr. V. to make Phoebe a showgirl on the spur of the moment. Another for him to welcome her right in with open arms to witness his illegal activities. Besides, she still had plenty of time. Well, a week to be exact, but her first performance was in two nights and Phoebe knew that Mr. V. and his right-hand man, Sonny were waiting to see how she held up onstage.
She’d also spoken with Officer Carlos Alvarez. Though he’d been understandably angered at Tiffany’s impromptu honeymoon, he’d agreed to present Phoebe’s offer to his captain. Which reminded her that she had an appointment with Alvarez in the morning to discuss the specifics of the case. They were meeting at Tiff’s condo, where Phoebe was staying. As a precaution, Alvarez had told her not to risk coming down to the police station a second time. Though the detective doubted Phoebe was being watched, he’d told her not to underestimate Sonny Martorelli.
She fought back a chill, the thought of being watched 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