Trace of Fever

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 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.