Trace of Fever. Lori Foster

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СКАЧАТЬ Just because she acts old and flighty, don’t let her fool you. She’s sharp as a tack and as cutthroat as they come.” Catching her chin, Trace tipped up her face. “Where are you staying?”

      Priss gave in without hesitation. “I got a place a few blocks away from that hotel. It’s a dive, but they didn’t ask too many questions when I wanted to rent by the week and pay in cash.”

      Smart. And devious. Trace put his hand on the doorknob. “Don’t bitch about the clothes that you try on. Blush all you want—”

      “What makes you think I’ll blush?”

      “If you don’t, we won’t take them.” Her eyes widened a little over that, and Trace almost smiled. “We’re not leaving without a variety of outfits. Tomorrow, after Twyla has gotten a fix on your size, I can come back to pick up more.”

      “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.

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