Lori Foster - Trace of Fever

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 temptress.

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 natural.”

“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 heartfelt, “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.

Nodding at the box under Twyla’s arm, Priss asked hopefully, “Are those the boots?” If she had to wear those mile-high heels a minute longer, she’d cry. In her day-to-day life, she didn’t bother dressing up, and she didn’t bother trying to impress the opposite sex. She wore her old-faithful jeans with casual tops and, more often than not, sneakers.

Out of the corner of her eye, she looked at Trace. Given his response to seeing her, she wouldn’t have to work hard to get attention from him. She now knew that, in the future, if she wanted anything, all she had to do was strip down. Like most men, he became putty at the sight of a naked woman.

Not an ideal situation, but to gain her end goals, yeah, she could deal with that.

Twyla produced the boots, and they were unlike any Priss had ever seen. Studs decorated the vamp of the black leather boots with a peekaboo toe. At least they did have a thicker heel.

“Oh, how cute,” Priss gushed, even though she thought they were absurd. “I’ll just go try these on.” She tipped her head and looked at Trace. “Did you want to see these outfits, too?”

He scrubbed a hand over his face and, without a word, indicated for her to get a move on.

It was all Priss could do not to gloat. Especially since Twyla hung around, forcing Trace to endorse his ruse. The big faker. Even as she tugged on the skin-tight jeans, Priss wondered if Trace was as deadly as she’d assumed.

Not that she doubted he could kill, but had he? Anytime recently?

It took mere seconds to pull on the boots and don a halter. The first one, made like a silk corset, fit her like a glove. Trace approved it with a terse nod.

The second, made of stretchy lace and resembling a camisole, was the most comfortable. He barely looked at her in that one, but Twyla gave it her stamp of approval.

The last, red with white polka dots, was Priss’s favorite for the simple reason that it was the most concealing.

Trace appeared to agree. “She’ll wear that now. Get her more of the same jeans, in different washes, and a few cocktail dresses. I’ll come by tomorrow to pick up everything.”

Twyla began collecting the items. “This goes on Murray’s tab?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Trace kept his gaze off Priss, annoying her. She wouldn’t let him get away with that for long.

In fact, as soon as they were alone again, she intended to call him on a few things. And then she’d make him pay for putting her through that little rendition of exhibitionism.

THE SECOND THEY PULLED away from the curb, Trace beat her to the punch. “Not a word, Priss. I mean it.”

She opened her mouth, but after giving his frown due attention, she retreated. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

He gave her a disbelieving look.

She let out a breath. “Yeah. That question sounded preposterous even to me. For God’s sake, I’ve just been forced into the most revealing outfits for your entertainment, and for Murray’s eventual enjoyment, so all kinds of things are wrong.”

“It’s fucked three ways to Sunday, I agree.”

She scowled, and again started to speak, only to have Trace interrupt her.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, he said, “We’re being followed.”

She didn’t look. She obviously knew better, which sharpened his curiosity about her.

Slowly, barely, she leaned toward the window to use the side-view mirror. “Who do you think it is?”

“No idea, so try not to annoy me for a few minutes.” He dug out his cell phone and dialed Murray. Most people would have to go through Alice, but Trace had a direct line.