Trace of Fever

by Lori Foster

  “Just how much stuff am I expected to take?”

  He shrugged. “Four, maybe five outfits. But no matter what, don’t forget your role.”

  “Of a timid little mouse?” She fluttered her eyelashes dramatically.

  “It’s a stretch, I know. But you started it, so try to keep up.” Trace pulled the door open, determined not to smile at her antics. In truth, he enjoyed bantering with her far too much. It was risky, in more ways than one.

  As soon as they stepped inside, Twyla was there. She had to be sixty-five, but insisted on dressing like a stage performer with an abundance of garish makeup. She drew on her black eyebrows with such a severe arch, she had a look of shock about her at all times.

  “Trace, how lovely to see you!” She floated toward him, her long caftan drifting out behind her while her perfume wafted ahead.

  “Twyla.” He allowed her to kiss his cheek—and to squish her aging bosom against his chest. While removing Twyla’s dark lipstick from his jaw, Trace nudged Priss forward. “We need a wardrobe makeover. I’m hoping you can get us set up with two outfits today, and then after you know her size, maybe pull a few more together so we can come by tomorrow to look at them.”

  “Hmm.” Twyla ran a professional gaze over Priss. “Turn around.”

  Wary, Priss did a slow, uncertain turn.

  “Keep going.”

  When she faced Twyla again, her cheeks were hot. Interesting. Did she blush at being sized up, or was she really that good at maintaining her cover? Soon enough, he’d find out.

  “Shoes? Undergarments? Jewelry?”

  “Why not?” Trace gave Priss a warning frown. “Get her started while I step outside to make a call. But I’ll want to see her in each outfit.”

  “Of course.” Twyla clamped onto Priss’s arm. Her long painted nails looked obscene against Priss’s pale skin. Trace watched as Twyla yanked her forward in the same manner one might use with a recalcitrant mule.

  Looking back over her shoulder, Priss said, “Trace?”

  That small voice, accompanied by the look of fear on her face, almost got to him. She was such a contradiction in so many ways that she kept him off-kilter. “You’ll be in good hands, Priss. I’ll only be a moment.”

  Refusing to be drawn in by her, he stepped out into the bright sunshine and, using the prepaid phone, put a call into his friend Dare.

  “Macintosh.”

  With his free hand, Trace rubbed the back of his neck, trying to work out the growing tension there. “It’s Trace, and I’ve got a small conundrum.”

  “How can I help?”

  “I’m going to need a backup tail.”

  “For you?”

  “No, for Priscilla Patterson.”

  “Huh.” Dare made a sound of amusement. “Sounds like an interesting conundrum.”

  “She’s claiming to be Coburn’s estranged daughter, and she showed up saying she hoped to get acquainted with him.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah. But it gets better.” Even as he spoke, Trace surveyed the surrounding area—and spotted the dark car parked half a block away. His gaze went right on past so no one would know he’d noticed it. “I’m being watched so I have to make this fast. She left a dark blue Honda Civic two blocks up from Coburn’s office. I need it moved someplace safe before he or his henchmen find it. Wouldn’t hurt to have the plates switched out, too, just in case.”

  “No problem. I’ll send Jackson up to take care of it, and then he can stick around as the tail, and anything else you need him to do.”

  Trace nodded. “Yeah, that’ll work.” Jackson was a newer recruit to the operation, but credible to the extreme. “I’ll call you later tonight.”

  “Consider it done.”

  Having Dare Macintosh involved really helped lighten the load. “Thanks.”

  “Trace?” Dare hesitated only a second. “Watch your back.”

  “You bet.” He hung up and reentered the shop. After accompanying Hell here on one of her extravagant shopping expeditions, Trace already knew the routine. He went on through the front of the establishment, past a thick velvet curtain and into the back dressing rooms.

  Everything was ornate and fancy, with luxurious fabrics and mirrors everywhere. Taking a cushioned seat and propping his feet up on a small round lacquered table, Trace inspected the various curtained dressing rooms. Beneath the hem of one curtain, he saw small, narrow feet.

  Priss.

  The feet didn’t move for the longest time, so Trace cleared his throat. “Step out so I can see, Priss.”

  He heard a loud groan, and then in a whispered hush, “It’s indecent.”

  He’d known it would be, and still his pulse sped up. Resisting the urge to clear his throat, Trace said, “I’ll be the judge of that. Now stop hiding.”

  The curtain parted, she peeked out, looked around and didn’t see Twyla, and with her face twisted in disgust, she took one long step out.

  Without even realizing it, Trace dropped his feet back to the floor and sat forward. Beneath his skin, he burned. Muscles twitched and tightened. “Turn around.”

  Eyes rolling, Priss did a turn—but far too fast for a thorough exam. And still it was enough.

  God almighty, the girl was built with luscious curves and blatant sensuality. There’d be no hiding flaws, not in that sheer bit of nothingness.

  But she had none. She was…perfection.

  His mouth went dry. “Again, slower this time so I can actually see you.”

  She gave a low complaint, but did as told.

  The zigzag design of the sheer mesh dress left key places exposed, like her thighs, her belly, and an abundance of cleavage. It crossed over her breasts, just barely hiding her nipples with the doubling of fabric. Same for the notch of her thighs, and the cleft of her rounded behind.

  Only an idiot would misunderstand Murray’s intent in having her dressed so provocatively—and Priss wasn’t an idiot. Is that why she went along?

  Twyla strode back in with a pair of black stiletto heels. “Nice.” She tilted her head back to give a practiced study of Priss in the mind-blowing dressing. Brows down, she gave a few yanks to the material, lowering the neckline, rearranging the hem a little higher. “For this getup, you don’t need hose. But try on these shoes.”

  Priss looked agonized. “I can’t walk in those.”

  “Guess you’ll have to learn, won’t you?” Twyla handed the impossibly high heels to her.

  When Priss bent to slip them on, Trace just knew one of her breasts would break free of the meager constraint of mesh. He held his breath, waiting, but no, she stayed in place.

  Barely.

  Priss straightened again, and he saw that she had gorgeous legs. Really gorgeous. Long and firm and sleek.

  Damn. Trace rubbed a hand over his mouth. Murray would go nuts seeing her like this, whether she was his daughter or not.

  He drew a breath and fulfilled his role. “She needs her hair loose.”

  Priss shot him a killer look, but she didn’t argue as Twyla began working the rubber band free without concern to any hairs that snapped free.

  “I’ll take it.”

  Twyla gave him a questioning look, but handed over the rubber band, now entwined with several long hairs. Trace stuck it in his pocket.

  That took care of one chore; collecting a sample for the hair follicle test.

  Priss’s long hair tumbled down in thick, shining hanks that landed over her shoulders, around her breasts and, as he’d suspected, to the top of that stellar ass.

  “We’ll take it,” Trace said, because if he’d said anything else, Twyla would be onto him.

  “Shouldn’t we know the price?” Priss asked while fingering the material, trying to cover herself more.

  She tugged at the hem, and Twyla smacked the back of her hand.

  Trace interrupted before any real hostilities could start; he had no idea how much more Priss could take without losing her cool composure. “Make the next one a li
ttle more reserved, for everyday wear. Maybe some tight jeans and a few halters.”

  Trying to appear uncertain rather than furious, Priss said, “And maybe some shoes that are more practical?”

  Twyla looked to Trace.

  He shrugged. “We don’t want her falling on her face. Get her something with a thicker heel.”

  “Ankle boots will work,” Twyla announced. “With those legs, they’ll look great.” Then Twyla added to Priss, “With this dress, undergarments are out.”

  Priss squeaked. “I have to be naked underneath?”

  Twyla ignored her; Trace couldn’t. “You want to look your best, Priss. Trust Twyla. She knows what she’s doing.”

  “Indeed.” Twyla waved toward a stack of undergarments on an ornate table. “I assume you want to see her in the selection I choose? With her coloring, I think it’s best to stick to black and red.”

  “Yeah.” Trace frowned at the rasp in his voice, and firmed his tone. “I’ll see them on her.” It was expected, he told himself. What would Murray think if he dodged the duty? Twyla would tell him, no doubt about that.

  After that lame bit of rationalizing, Trace made himself sit back again. Aware of Priss staring at him with wide eyes, he avoided her gaze and said, “Let’s wrap it up though. I have a lot to do yet today.”

  “She can model the underwear for you while I go grab some jeans and halters.”

  As soon as Twyla left the room, his gaze jumped to Priss’s furious face. She looked scalded, her cheeks were so hot, and ire lit her green eyes.

  He had not one iota of sympathy for her. Not yet anyway. Very softly, almost as a goad, he asked, “Regrets?”

  Those burning green eyes narrowed. She grabbed a fistful of underwear and, without a single totter on the stilettos, stalked back behind the curtain.

  In an agony of suspense, Trace watched the movements of her feet.

  She left the heels on, damn her.

  He saw her step into a tiny scrap of black lace and his lungs constricted. A few seconds later, she stepped out.

  This time he didn’t leave his seat. He wasn’t sure he could. His eyes burned and his cock twitched. Gaze glued to her, he said, “You know the program.”

  Smug at his palpable reaction, Priss turned—oh, so slowly. The panties were no more than a thong, leaving her entire delectable backside beautifully bare. For such a small woman, she had wide shoulders that tapered to a minuscule waist, and then flared again to those incredible hips. She wasn’t skinny by any stretch, but her waist dipped in and there was only the slightest curve to her belly. The bra lifted her breasts until they looked ready to tumble over the strip of material meant to restrain them. Again, her nipples were barely concealed.

  “Well?” Giving him a coy look, Priss flipped her hair over her shoulder. “What do you think?”

  He thought he wanted to fuck her, bad, even knowing she was off-limits.

  Propping his forearms on his knees, his hands hanging loosely, Trace looked her over again. Hell, he couldn’t stop looking her over. She had no tattoos, no piercings to mar her fair, beautiful skin. And with those tiny panties leaving little to the imagination, he didn’t need X-ray glasses to see that she’d never been waxed. Little Ms. Priss liked to keep it natural.

  Why the hell that excited him, he couldn’t say.

  “Cat got your tongue?” she fairly purred.

  Trace forced his gaze off her mound and up to her face. “Adequate.”

  “Hmm. Maybe the others will be better.” She hefted her breasts in her hands, rearranged the elastic of the thong, and basically tortured him. “Sit tight, okay? I’ll be right back.”

  Witch. She knew she looked good and she wasn’t above mocking him now that Twyla wasn’t around to see.

  Never in his life had he known such a brazen, sexy and self-confident woman—who also managed to be somewhat…pure.

  Pure sensual appeal. Pure innocence.

  Pure trouble.

  Calling himself a masochist, Trace settled back in his seat and waited for her next reveal.

  IGNORING THE FLUTTERING of her stomach and how her pulse sped with nervousness, Priss pulled on the red ruffled boy-short panties and ridiculous matching bra. This set covered more skin, but was sheer enough that, if Trace looked close, he’d be able to see through it. And she knew he’d look closely. He’d already seared her with the heat of his intensity.

  As a modest woman who cared little about attracting male attention, the entire scenario was torturous for her. She figured it may as well be torturous for Trace, too.

  Priss drew a breath, shored up her audacity and parted the curtain with fanfare.

  GOD ALMIGHTY. Trace gripped the arms of the chair and tightened his abdomen. He searched his brain for a blasé response, and finally said, “Cute.” So damn cute that if she didn’t get changed fast, he’d be on her and to hell with his cover. “Hustle it up already, will you? We’re running out of time.”

  PLEASED WITH HIS noticeable turmoil, Priss stepped back into the small room and changed into the heart set. The thong had a red heart in front that just barely covered her triangle of pubic hair, and the lace bra had red hearts, almost like pasties, only big enough to hide her nipples. She wasn’t unfamiliar with exotic lingerie, but never before had she worn it. When it came to underwear, she was more into comfort.

  Her embarrassment lingered, and already her feet ached from the arch of the shoe. But she drew in a breath and asked with saccharine sweetness, “Trace, are you ready?”

  No. He wasn’t ready. Somehow he had to regain control of this situation. Right now she had the upper hand, and that was untenable.

  With the perfect plan in mind, Trace shook his head, but said with what he hoped sounded like indifference, “Quit stalling.”

  And then he pulled out his cell phone.

  This time, she was all but naked. What little material covered her proved mere decoration, like icing on a very sweet cake—a cake he wouldn’t mind eating, slowly, top to toes and everywhere in between.

  Priss stood with her hands on her generous hips, her feet apart, her shoulders back.

  How such a small woman packed so many perfect curves, he didn’t know. But she managed it with flair. Boy, did she ever.

  “Good enough.”

  When she smiled at him, he lifted the cell phone and used it to take a picture.

  Squawking, Priss leaped behind the curtain and her face went up in flames. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Suddenly shy?” Content with her appalled tone and burning-red face, Trace looked down at the phone. Oh, yeah, that’d do. He pushed a few buttons, then put the cell phone away. “Don’t worry, honey. I emailed it to myself.” His smile felt like a leer. “No one else will see it.”

  Unappeased by that promise, she glared at him. “You—!”

  “Now, Priss. Modesty at this late date is more than suspicious. You wanted my approval.” He shrugged—and struggled to keep his attention on her face and off the curves that showed even beneath the curtain she clutched to her chin. “You’ve got it, with my admiration, too.”

  Before either of them could say any more, Twyla returned. Quickly, Priss released the curtain, but she looked truly miserable now, and on the verge of attack.

  Trace smiled. She deserved to squirm, the little tempt-ress.

  Twyla glanced at Priss, studied her in minute detail, and announced, “She needs a Brazilian bikini wax.”

  Priss strangled on a gasp.

  “Want me to have my girl take care of it?” Hands on her hips, Twyla said, “She always does a good job.”

  Trace fought back a gag. At her age, Twyla was still…no, he did not want that mental image stuck in his head.

  “I don’t know.” Pretending to think about it, Trace looked at Priss. She had murder in her eyes, so yeah, she’d likely figured out that Murray had no intention of being a father, but every intention of using her to his advantage. “There’s a certain appeal to leaving her au natura
l.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’ll give it some thought, maybe discuss it with Murray—”

  Priss choked, earning a frown from Twyla.

  “—and then get back to you.”

  Shrugging, Twyla said, “Suit yourself.” She handed Priss a stack of clothes. “Jeans and three halters.”

  Priss held them in front of her body and said a heart-felt, “Thank God.”

  “Priscilla,” Trace warned.

  He got Twyla’s approval for the stern tone. “Try each of the halters with the jeans, and then we’ll be done for the day.”

  Priss closed her eyes a moment, but that didn’t help one iota. Trace had done her in, but good. Flaunting her body while he looked as uncomfortable as she felt had been hard enough. But with him visually caressing her, and taking a damn photo, she wanted to shrink into the floor with mortification.

  And then he’d had the nerve to discuss things very private to her as if they held no meaning, as if she wasn’t even a real person. Would he really mention it to Murray?

  Oh, God, she’d kill him first. And at the moment, with him looking so damned pleased with himself, killing was a real possibility.

  Okay, she got it. Murray played by his own rules, and somehow got away with it. He had more reach than she’d realized. She wouldn’t turn tail and run—even if Murray allowed her escape now, which she doubted. But no way in hell would she let anyone wax her. Just the thought of it left her shuddering.

  She’d always been a very private person; from the age of five she’d been independent in her bathing. Even her mother hadn’t intruded on her personal hygiene. Anyone who came at her with the intent of stripping her, positioning her, and leaving her hairless would end up maimed. If it came to that particular showdown, she’d win, period.

  As to that photo…Priss seethed, then decided that one way or another she’d get Trace’s phone from him and she’d delete everything. If he lost important information, well, tough titty. It was no more than he deserved after pulling that nasty stunt.

  With that decision, even knowing that Trace had already sent the photo to himself, Priss was able to relax a little again.