Trace of Fever
Page 16
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 ni**les. 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 tempt-ress.
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 heart-felt, “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.
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 ni**les. 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 tempt-ress.
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 heart-felt, “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.
