Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [20]
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.
With that decision, even knowing that Trace had already sent the photo to himself, Priss was able to relax a little again.
Nodding at the box under Twyla’s arm, Priss asked hopefully, “Are those the boots?” If she had to wear those mile-high heels a minute longer, she’d cry. In her day-to-day life, she didn’t bother dressing up, and she didn’t bother trying to impress the opposite sex. She wore her old-faithful jeans with casual tops and, more often than not, sneakers.
Out of the corner of her eye, she looked at Trace. Given his response to seeing her, she wouldn’t have to work hard to get attention from him. She now knew that, in the future, if she wanted anything, all she had to do was strip down. Like