“It just occurred to me,” Murray said. “I should know if she really is my daughter, right?”

Trace saw how the sunlight shone on Priss’s hair—and yeah, the name Priss suited her, whether she realized it or not. The bright day amplified the red in her long ponytail, showing a dozen different shades of brown and auburn.

She looked nothing like Murray. A good thing, that. “Up to you.”

“I need to test her DNA. Discreetly. Helene said it’d be best to get some of her hair, but it has to have a root attached, so get a couple of good ones, pulled out, not cut. Got it?”

Now that he had the opportunity to slant things however he wanted, Trace pondered the situation. Which would be more advantageous to his plan, if Priss was not Murray’s daughter, or if she was?

He shrugged. At this point, it was all still up in the air, so he’d just have to play it by ear. “Not a problem.”

Murray gave a few more instructions on the type of clothes he wanted to see her in. “Talk her up, see what you can find out, okay? But be discreet. I don’t want her to bolt. Not yet.”

While Trace listened, Priss put up a hand to shield her eyes and looked around. Her nose scrunched up a little and her mouth pursed.

And damn it, she stirred him.

Without meaning to, he used his thumb to caress the soft skin of her arm right above her elbow.

She gave him a quizzical look, then a more pointed look at his hand, her brows lifted.

Trace released her. “I’ll check in later,” he told Murray, and then closed the phone and stowed it back in his pocket.

When Priss started toward the designer store, he caught her arm and she went full circle until she faced the opposite way. Trace led her to the equally small phone store a block up.

“What are we doing?”

“Getting phones.” He had a hell of a lot of stuff to accomplish tonight. It cramped his brain, trying to ensure that he wouldn’t forget anything.

“For me?”

“For myself.”

“But you have a phone,” she pointed out.

“Be quiet.” He went in, towing her along, and bought two prepaid phones with a limited number of minutes on them. Since he changed them out often, it was always a good idea to grab them when he could. Of course he paid in cash. On the way out of the store, he asked, “Where are you really staying?”

“You didn’t buy the hotel?”

“No.” But luckily, it appeared that Murray had. “I’ll figure out how to keep the cover for you, but I’m glad you listened to me when I told you to keep as much private as you could.”

“But not from you?”

“Not from me,” he agreed. He stopped in front of the clothing store. “Murray more or less owns this place. Say nothing inside, got it?”

“Nothing at all, as in being mute? Or nothing as in nothing important?”

She couldn’t seriously find any humor in this situation. “It could be bugged, and Twyla is part of his inner circle. 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?”