Trace of Fever. Lori Foster
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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 little 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