by Cami Dalton
* * *
12
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Trace walked onto the cruise ship, and as usual, the first thing he noticed was the rich aroma of tomato sauce wafting through the hallways. It was enough to make his stomach turn. As far as he was concerned, he never wanted to see another damn noodle in his entire life. Mr. V. had had Trace eating more spaghetti in the last two days than any man should have to consume. And to think, he hadn't felt a single ounce of sympathy for that poor schmuck Bobby.
The second thing Trace noticed was Phoebe's presence. She was somewhere close by. He could sense it, and every hair on his body practically stood at the alert.
"Hey, Trace." Phoebe stepped into view, walking around the corner.
He took one look at how she was dressed and almost punched the wall. Forcing himself to study her, he tilted his head and tapped his finger against his bottom lip. "You know, I just can't tell. It looks like you're pretending to be the exciting Phoebe, but I could be wrong. You're so good hiding your many boring parts, and letting the wild ones all hang out." Here, he purposely stared at the nonboring parts that were spilling from the neckline of her microscopic top.
Phoebe's cheeks turned pink but her eyes sparkled and she appeared inordinately pleased to have him actively ogle her breasts, considering that the other night she'd all but implied he became a slathering idiot when any old pair was flashed his way. "I need to talk to you about that. It's really important. Did you get my messages?"
"No," he said, stepping around her. He didn't explain that he'd purposely ignored his answering machine. After all, what more could they possibly say. The only thing he cared about now was getting his damn career back.
Though he'd still hold off on his story until the cops made their arrest, it had been a stroke of luck that not only had the regular bartender gotten sick tonight, but Sonny had decided to use Trace as a replacement. His promise to Phoebe notwithstanding, Trace wasn't about to miss the opportunity.
Phoebe scurried around him, trying to keep up with his much faster pace. "I really need to talk to you as soon as possible."
His breath quickened but he tamped down the emotion. "Maybe later. I've gotta go make sure the bar is set up. Open the wine and stuff." He lengthened his strides, hoping to escape before falling to his knees and begging her to give them another chance. Damn he was pathetic.
Phoebe jogged to catch up, wobbling on her stilettos. "Didn't they tell you? There's been a change in plans. I'll be working the bar with you tonight. We'll be together the whole time…"
* * *
Phoebe stood beside Trace, her eyebrows lowered. The showroom was empty except for the long mahogany table where Angie and Mr. V. sat with his new business associates and some of the showgirls like Daisy and Barbie who'd been sent to round out the numbers and provide the men with escorts for the meal.
So far, everything was going right on plan. Well, except for the part where Trace treated her as if she didn't exist. But other than that, she felt pretty good. Angie had easily worked it out so the other bartender, Brett, had been given the night off and Trace switched into his place, as Phoebe had asked. Not all that difficult in light of Mr. V.'s not-so-secret, not to mention anticlimactic mission.
It seemed that if you weren't a cop, Angelo Venzara was no longer quite the security freak he pretended. When Tiffany had said Mr. V. didn't like the police, she'd been making the understatement of the century. The man not only hated any lawmen, but had a rollicking good time driving them crazy with his suspicious behavior whenever he could. A hobby of sorts Mr. V. had taken up in his twilight years. And one that probably still had Alvarez cursing a blue streak as he'd done when the leaf Phoebe had brought him indeed turned out to be from … a tomato plant.
Grinning, Phoebe shook her head, and at just that moment Angie waved from her seat. Phoebe smiled and waved back, grateful for all the other woman's help. Poor Angie was actually very nice, even if she did have a voice like nails on a chalkboard. And she was well informed about the activities on Isola Pomodoro much to Phoebe's delight. Any gaps she hadn't been able to jump herself, had been filled in by Angie during their enlightening conversation last night. Apparently, there was a brawny gardener or two to whom Angie had taken a fancy, and she made regular trips to the island whenever she could get away. The agreement with her uncle—who indulged his niece in all her romantic endeavors—being, she'd tell no one, not even Tony or the rest of the family, what was really taking place on the island until Mr. V. was ready to make his big announcement tonight. Big being a relative term after everything the police had suspected, but still the dream of a lifetime for Mr. V.
And hopefully it was an announcement that as of yet, Trace still didn't know about… Phoebe just prayed that the massive amounts of groveling she planned to do would soften him up when he discovered that Mr. V. was not smuggling drugs, but growing tomatoes. Of course, according to Mr. V., these weren't just any tomatoes. These were a special produce grown from the ancient Venzara family vines originating in Italy and transplanted to Isola Pomodoro. The highly valuable offspring was to be used as the secret ingredient for Mr. V.'s homemade sauce, which he planned to mass-produce and sell. With Renaldo and Delefluente's help.
That is, assuming these men's own homegrown tomatoes or personal sauce recipes didn't win what amounted to be the giant cook-off taking place here on board the Mirage tonight. The final product, if indeed Venzara, Renaldo and Delefluente decided to pool together their considerable cooking talents, was to be called Three Dons' Spaghetti Sauce.
That was the actual reason for the guarded rooms, Angie had explained, claiming each of the three families' tomato plants—the parent vines and seeds originating from the old country, aka Italy, and dating back to the late 1800s—to be more valuable than any street drug could ever dream of being. In her uncle's opinion, even the Ragu family would kill for one of these babies. Especially the Venzara plants, as these tomatoes were by far the best-tasting. And flourishing in the fertile soil indigenous to Isola Pomodoro, almost as if their happy little roots were back in Sicily. And if Delefluente's and Renaldo's tomatoes took to the island even half as well, their company was sure to be a success.
As Phoebe snickered to herself, a clang sounded by the side doors, jarring her from her thoughts. Sonny Martorelli had just carried in the first platter of food with all the pomp and circumstance of a royal banquet. He stopped next to Mr. V. and lifted the shiny dome lid. Steam billowed from the dish and Mr. V. nodded then motioned to Trace.
Trace took the bottle of wine he'd opened earlier and served the guests. As Mr. V. looked up, he spotted Phoebe and smiled. She smiled back and dropped him a secret wink, which made him chuckle.
Mr. V. was apparently a romantic at heart, and had willingly agreed to help Phoebe after Angie had explained the situation—minus the part about the cops, Phoebe's real reason for taking Tiffany's place as a showgirl, or Trace being a reporter. Meaning girl meets boy, girl loses boy, girl wants to lock boy up in one of the staterooms to get him back, what do you say? Fortunately, Mr. V. had said yes.
While Sonny portioned out the servings of pasta, Trace returned and stepped behind the bar, still depressingly successful at pretending she'd turned invisible. Phoebe scowled at his back as the noise from Vincent Delefluente's servers came into the room and the process was repeated in much the same way Sonny had just finished. Robert Renaldo's men came last.
"I didn't realize Mr. V. and his friends were so formal," she commented inanely, desperate for an icebreaker.
"Me neither." Arms crossed over his chest, Trace appeared intent on the men's conversation over the pros and cons of each sauce.
Deciding to use her time wisely, she edged closer to Trace. Her lips were dry and she moistened them with her tongue. "I've been thinking about a lot of things since we last talked."
Trace gave her a strange look then combed his fingers through his hair. "Good for you. That ought to keep you busy," he said, as he moved farther away.
He raised his eyebrows. "I thought we were done. You're breaking a lot of your own rules here tonight, kitten. No talking to me. No meeting with me. No sharing information on the case," he taunted, his voice low.
Phoebe licked her lips. "I was wrong. About a lot of things. I think this will help me make it up to you."
Trace looked skeptical, but his unquenchable curiosity eventually won out. "What's in the stateroom and who told you about it?"
"Angie. And I can't tell you any more down here," she said, talking from the corner of her mouth, playing the game as if it were vital they not be overheard.
He looked over her shoulder at the group at the table. A loud argument had just broken out between Mr. V. and Robert Renaldo over which of their tomatoes had produced the zestiest flavor. "And what will be our excuse if we're discovered missing?" Trace asked.
She smiled slowly and walked her fingers up his arm. "I'll just tell them that I can't keep my hands off you."
His eyes widened almost imperceptibly and he coughed into his hand. "I guess that'll work," he said, smirking. "You sure fooled me."
Phoebe scowled, but Trace wasn't looking at her. He was checking his watch. "Slip away as soon as you can," he said. "I'll meet you outside the Moonlight Casino." And with a last quick glance, he turned his back as if they'd never spoken.
Phoebe narrowed her eyes. He wasn't giving an inch, and while she may deserve the cold-shoulder treatment, he wasn't making this any easier. It was time for a quick trip to the bathroom before they got together. She'd worn underwear under her skirt, but after this latest brush-off she decided to up the stakes. When she was finished with Trace he'd be begging. Guaranteed.
Less than five minutes later, Phoebe stood outside the empty casino tapping her heels.
"You ready?" he asked, quickly scanning the hallway.
She was more than ready, champing at the bit actually. "Yep. Let's go. Follow me."
"So how did you get Angie to talk?" he asked as she led him toward one of the upper berths in Mr. V.'s private portion of the ship.
"There's a tentative relationship between us, since I'm Tiffany's sister and she's Tony's. So I called and we went out to dinner. I really didn't need to do much. Just steer the conversation in the right direction." And so far, everything Phoebe had said was true.
Trace snorted. "Yeah, if you can listen to her voice. The sound makes my teeth ache. It's like two blocks of Styrofoam rubbing against each other."
Phoebe laughed then stopped outside the room Angie had told her to use.
Hands on his hips, Trace stared at the door. "Well, this is your show. Is the door locked?"
Phoebe forced a worried expression. "I don't know," she said, pretending. Her hand had just touched the doorknob when she heard a faint noise. A tapping sound, and Phoebe smiled to herself. She purposely widened her eyes and said, "Hurry. Sonny's coming," then grabbed Trace's hand and pulled him into the dark room.
Silently, Trace brushed past her the second they got inside. The next thing she knew, his lips were at her ear, whispering so softly she could barely hear him. "Come here," he said, tugging her into another room in the cabin then closing the door.
Ridiculously, Phoebe's heart pounded, caught up in the moment as if she were really in danger. Blindly she reached for Trace. He pulled her into his arms and hugged her tight. His chest was hard with muscle and felt so good she could have wept with relief. Then she noticed the taps had grown louder, steadily coming closer. Her decoy, the big jerk, was supposed to have locked the outside door, but he'd followed them into the cabin. What the hell is Sonny doing?
"If he comes in here, just go with whatever I do. Like last time, when we were in the hold. Okay?" Trace whispered and Phoebe changed her mind. Thank you, Sonny.
A lamp clicked on in the outer room, a sliver of light creeping under the door. Staring at the glowing band, they waited. And then the taps were right outside their room and the light dimmed beneath Sonny's shadow. And just when Phoebe was about to get pissed off again at Sonny for laying it on too thick, Trace breathed in her ear, "Here we go." And then he consumed her in one move.
Trace licked into her mouth and slid his hands beneath her short skirt. He flinched as he encountered her naked skin, then his hands flexed, gripping her bottom, and moving her against the throbbing length stretching the front of his pants. Their bodies pressed together. The need to be absolutely silent, as Trace believed, made her even crazier as she played along.
Guilt about deceiving Trace threatened to steal her pleasure, but she couldn't stop now. Not when he was between her legs, his middle finger sliding deep then pulling out, before thrusting two fingers back in. Her spine arched and desperately she moved against his hand. She could feel her essence leaking into his palm, the sounds of him pleasuring her the only noise in the room. His thumb flicked across her clitoris once, twice, and Phoebe jerked in surprise, suddenly coming in a rush of heat.
Her nails dug into his shoulders and her mouth had the metallic taste of blood from where she must have bitten her lip to keep from crying out.
"Damn, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he chanted in her ear, his voice no louder than a breath. "I didn't know you were so close."
"Not a problem," Phoebe whispered, causing Trace to actually laugh, though very quietly. Then the light clicked off in the main room and Phoebe suddenly remembered about Sonny. They could hear the outer door shut then the clear slide of a dead bolt locking.
Trace spoke quietly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that to you." He started to step back. "I guess I got a little out of control."
Though she had until they docked before Angie unlocked them from the room, she needed to do this now. "No, you were perfect. You are perfect, at least to me." Phoebe wished she could see him, but what she had to say seemed easier to say in the dark. "We need to talk, Trace. Right now. I've been going crazy since you left. I'm so sorry. I was wrong. Really, really wrong." She hugged him tight, yet he held himself stiff in her arms. "Please forgive me. I know I hurt you. A lot. But I was so scared and stupid." A shaky laugh broke from her throat. "Mostly stupid, and I want another chance. Not at being stupid, of course, but at doing this right," she blathered nervously. "Being together, you and me. I mean, if you can forgive me and still want me…" Her heart pounded in jumpy quivers, her breath panting as she waited for him to say something, anything.
His voice sounded hoarse. "Really. What about all my women? Aren't you afraid that I'll run right out of this room and screw Barbie? Or Angie? Or whoever the hell female I see first—"
"No," she interrupted, shaking her head though he couldn't see. "It was me who I didn't trust. That I wouldn't be able to keep you happy. I was just so scared that I'd love you too much. I had some childish image of what I wanted in a husband, but I realized that what I need is to have those things from my father. But they're things he's incapable of giving—like safety and trust. Pretty stupid, huh? Thirty years old and still wanting my daddy." Pressure swelled in her throat and she could barely speak. She blinked rapidly, staring up into the darkness. "I know you weren't lying. You haven't lied to me once." She stopped, then laughed. "Other than telling me you were a stripper, but even that was partially true." She shook her head. "Please forgive me. I know I screwed up, but I love you. You're the only man I've ever loved." Her voice broke. "Y-you're the only man wh-who's ever loved me. P-p-please don't stop now. I couldn't bear it."
Phoebe waited, her body tense as tears silently dropped from her chin. She dropped her head down, the seconds dragging over her heart, each one feeling like a thousand. Well, that was that. She'd tried, but it w
as too late. She'd hurt him too badly and he couldn't forgive her. And as she started to turn away, she felt his hand on her arm. And then he was pulling her against him and hugging her tight.
He groaned into her neck. "Oh, God, kitten. I love you. I've never stopped. Not for nine years. Nothing matters without you. Nothing. I'm the one who should be scared of losing you. I'm a total screw-up. This is all my fault—"
She pressed her fingers to his lips then kissed him long and hard. When they finally broke apart, she whispered against his mouth, "You are not a screw-up and you'll never lose me. Never. And I'll never lose you. If you say that again I'll, well, I'll bite you."
Trace laughed and swooped her around in a circle. "Anytime, kitten. Anytime."
Then Phoebe hesitated, knowing that there was one more thing Trace needed to know. "There's something else I have to tell you. It's sort of funny really, but you know Mr. V.'s island? Well…"
* * *
The next day, Trace lay back against the pillows stacked beneath his head. He held Phoebe's left hand to the light. Absently, he twisted her finger this way and that, catching the sun filtering through the blinds and sending a sparkle of rainbow prisms dancing across the wall from the big white stone. "Sauce," he muttered. "All this hassle for a big exposé on three old guys making spaghetti sauce."
She squeezed his hand and brought it to her mouth, kissing the back of his palm. "Look at it this way. If you or the police hadn't suspected them of more, we never would have seen each other again."
Trace grunted. "That part I like." Then he groaned. "But a tomato farm. And a sauce company…"
"You've got to give them credit. It's a catchy name. Three Dons' Spaghetti Sauce. I like it." She giggled. "I can understand why they were worried about the plants enough to guard them. They're original vines from Italy. Mr. V. said they were very valuable. And he certainly couldn't expect Renaldo and Delefluente to invest without seeing how well their own tomatoes grew in Isola Pomodoro's lush soil." She laughed harder. "Hey, Mr. V. can hardly be blamed if the cops misunderstood."