Trace of Fever. Lori Foster
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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 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