Relief washed over her. “That’s all? Good grief, isn’t that enough?”

Not by a long shot. He softened his tone. “What did you think I’d find?”

“Too many things for us to go into now. Matt’s returning. And I really don’t want my hair ruined just because you chose a warped time for deep discussions.” More anxious than not, Priss stood. “One more thing, though.”

Trace stood, too. “Yes?”

Matt opened the door and tapped his foot.

“I don’t give a fig what Murray thinks about it. No one is seeing me naked, not for any reason.”

Trace touched her jaw, smoothed his thumb over her chin. “Not even me?”

On a sigh of pure exasperation, Matt shut the door again.

“Not if you have hot wax with you, no.” Priss met his gaze without flinching. “Otherwise…I might be willing.”

He tried to hide his surprise—and his pleasure. “Is that right?”

She shrugged. “Let’s just say I understand what motivates you, so I can maybe get beyond it.”

Not kissing her proved impossible. It was tricky, but Trace managed to bend close without losing his good eye on the edges of silver foil. He brushed his mouth over hers, felt her warm breath, the softness of her lips, and had to force himself to draw away.

“Don’t worry about any of that. I…” Damn. He shook his head. “I convinced Murray that you weren’t the type to allow it.”

“Not the type?”

“I believe I used the term country bumpkin. I said you’d revolt, and he agreed to leave you au natural. You can thank me now.”

Priss snorted. “It’s humiliating, knowing you discussed that with him, with Matt and probably with your buddies Chris and Dare, too.”

He cupped his hands around her neck. “I know, and I am sorry. But surely it’s better than the alternative of—”

She smashed a hand over his mouth. “I’d have hurried along my plans to kill Murray before letting anyone invade my privacy that way.”

“You are not killing anyone.” Regardless of solid motivations.

“That’s not for you to decide.”

It was, but she hadn’t accepted it yet. Trace caught her wrist, kissed her palm and lowered her hand. “Dare and I agree that you can leave here fully conscious. Just know that until everything is resolved—”

“Everything, meaning what?”

He ignored her interruption. “—you’ll be watched. Forget privacy, Priss, because you won’t have any. Until I’m satisfied that you won’t throw a wrench into my plans, you’re going to have a tail 24/7.”

For reasons Trace couldn’t understand, she smiled at him. “Fine by me.” She patted his chest. “Just don’t plan on being satisfied anytime soon.”

She stepped around him to pick up her cat, opened the door, and said into the room, “Hairdresser, I’m ready. Let’s get this over with.”

TWO HOURS FELT LIKE TEN as Trace paced the kitchen, waiting for Priss’s unveiling. Chris and Dare were with him, but Molly had gone along with Priss and Matt.

He glanced at his watch again. “Can’t you hurry Matt along?”

Busy at the computer, Chris made a face. “For the umpteenth time, no. He’s creating art, or so he says. Leave him to it.”

“I’m going to be late.”

“You’ve got plenty of time,” Dare told Trace as he finished making sandwiches. “Even if you hit traffic, which you shouldn’t, you’ll get back with a couple of hours to spare.”

“I’ll have to get Priss settled before I take off.”

“Jackson’s on hold. He’ll be ready when you are.”

From the doorway, Priss asked, “Who’s Jackson?”

All three men looked up.

As if in slow motion, Dare set aside the knife he’d been using to cut chicken salad sandwiches into quarters.

Chris pushed back from the computer and let loose with a low whistle.

Trace stared. Damn, he’d known she was a looker, no disguise could hide that. But he hadn’t realized…

Matt beamed. “Stunning, am I right?”

“Well, say something, guys.” Molly slid in around the two of them and came forward, grinning. She carried a bag of products that Priss would use to re-create her current look. “Doesn’t she look fantastic?”

“Yeah, she does.” Dare pulled Molly in close, kissed her and whispered something in her ear. She looked at Trace and laughed.

Chris saluted his friend. “Great work.” And then to Priss, “You can copy it?”

“I’m not an idiot. It’s a little makeup and some hair product. Easy-peesy.”

Trace barely followed the conversation. Priss’s long hair had been trimmed and shaped so that now it somehow fluffed around her face, looking like she’d just come from a little bedroom activity. The subtle red coloring showed more, and looked sexier.

Green eyes that had always been direct now looked sultry and suggestive, even while she awaited his verdict on the results. Her lashes looked longer, her lips more lush—and none of it was obvious.

She looked good enough to tempt a saint, and it dawned on Trace that Murray, who was nowhere near sainthood, would think so, too.

Furious at the situation, at the overriding conflict of what he had to do versus what he wanted to do, Trace drew a tight breath. “Yeah. Fantastic.”