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 woman squeaked. “I mean it—get up.” Her pelvis pushed against his, trying to buck him off. Their limbs were so jumbled it must have looked as if they were playing a bizarre, X-rated game of Twister.
“Ptthew.” He finally worked his head to the side and spit out the strands of hair filling his mouth. “Stop moving,” Trace barked, the words harsher than he meant to sound as he gasped for breath. She didn’t listen, but then the way his night was going, this shouldn’t surprise him. Great, he thought in disgust. His groin tightened, responding like any normal red-blooded male would if holding a writhing female and contorted into a position that a Cirque du Soleil performer would envy, and he could feel himself swelling up to a regular blue-steeler. Her feminine cleft perfectly aligned with his growing arousal. He understood the woman’s alarm, but all this moving around only made his problem worse.
“Please,” he panted, “just stop moving. I’m stuck.” Knowing if he pulled up too hard or fast he’d rip half the hair from her head, he tried to keep his upper body still as he wriggled his hand out from underneath her luscious bottom. They were so close he could feel her muscles tighten through the fabric of her clothing. Her body suddenly went rigid.
Hell, she must’ve just noticed his killer hard-on.
“You’ve got two seconds before I start screaming.” Her words, if not her tone, should have been enough to deflate the near phenomenon taking place in his pants. They weren’t.
Compelled to defend himself, Trace pointed out, “Hey, I know you’re upset, but if you remember, you’re the one who ran into me.”
She huffed. “I’m sorry! It’s dark and I didn’t see you. I’m not trying to be rude but you’re lying on top of me like a dead fish. Well, mostly dead,” she muttered. “And you keep poking me.”
Heat crept up his neck. For all the appreciation she was showing, he should just yank her bald and let her live with the consequences.
The woman started wiggling again. “Ow, it really hurts.”
Trace made a strangled noise. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but moving around underneath a man is not the way to get his body to stop ‘poking’ you.”
She immediately stilled. “Um, I was talking about that pin or whatever it is you have on your shirt. It’s pok—uh, digging into my chest.”
Trace winced. “Sorry,” he mumbled and tried to shift his weight with little success. He’d forgotten about his stupid costume and the fake police badge. In the last week he’d been a cowboy, a construction worker, an Indian and now a cop. Why the hell women got turned on by seeing him dress up like one of the Village People was beyond him. “If you just give me a minute here, I’m caught in your hair,” he said, his jaw clenched as he carefully started to untangle the silky mass from what seemed like every possible spot of attachment on his body. Why me? he wondered. As if being felled by this wiggling wacko wasn’t bad enough, in less than half an hour he’d be dancing at Candy’s bachelorette party. Last week when Barbie and Candy had asked him to perform, Trace had figured this would be a good chance to find out what the showgirls knew about the Mirage’s secret cargo, as well as the private cruise he’d recently overheard a couple of Mr. V.’s men discussing. Especially since Mr. V.’s niece, Angie Venzara, would be at the party tonight, too. But the reality of stripping down to the ridiculous triangle of spandex and string, that even now was chafing the hell out of him, and doing it in such intimate surroundings, had Trace rethinking his master plan. He wished his costume came with a gun so he could just shoot himself now and be done with it. Damn, his life sucked.
Trace sighed. “Okay, I think that’s it.” Determined to be free before he embarrassed himself even more, he tried to stand and immediately identified the final obstacle. He cleared his throat. “I never thought I’d say this to a woman, but you’re going to have to unclench your leg from my back. If you want me