Without a Trace by Nora Roberts

make her stay locked up in her room, eating a solitary dinner from room service. She attached a wide leather belt almost as if it were a holster. She’d be damned if she’d hole up here like a mouse. She might not be sure what she could do to help with Flynn’s and Caitlin’s release, but there had to be something. Trace O’Hurley was going to have to accept the fact that she was part of this thing. Starting now.
    She moved to the door that joined the rooms and nearly ran into him.
    “I was just coming in to see if you’d stopped sulking.”
    Her chin angled. “I never sulk.”
    “Sure you do, but since you’ve apparently finished, we can go.”
    She opened her mouth, then shut it again. He’d said
we.
“Where?”
    “To see a friend of mine.” Eyes narrowed, he backed up to look at her. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
    Her automatic response was to look down at the wide circle skirt and blouse. “What’s wrong with it?”
    “Nothing, if you’re going to tea at the rectory.” While she sputtered and slapped at his hand, Trace unfastened two more buttons. He stood back, frowned, then nodded. “Helps a little.”
    “I’ve no desire to display myself for your benefit.”
    “Personally, I don’t give a damn if you wear a cardboard box, but you’ve got a role to play. Don’t you have any gaudy earrings?”
    “No.”
    “Then we’ll get some. And darker lipstick,” he muttered before he stepped back. “Can you do anything with your eyes?”
    “My eyes? What’s wrong with my eyes?” Natural feminine vanity began to war with bafflement as Trace strode into her bath.
    “Cabot’s woman hasn’t come straight out of a convent, know what I mean?” As he began to root through her cosmetics, she shoved him aside.
    “No. Just what do you mean?”
    “I mean you need a little more paint, a little more cleavage and a little less breeding.” He picked up a smoky green eye shadow, examined it, then held it out. “Here, try for tart, will you?”
    “Tart?” The word came out of her mouth with beautiful Irish indignation. “Tart, is it? Do you really believe I’d paint myself up so you can display me like a … like a …”
    “Bimbo is what I had in mind. A nice-looking, empty-headed bimbo.” He picked up her scent and gave the atomizer a squeeze. It smelled warmer on her skin, he thought, and he quickly pulled himself back. “This is drawing room stuff. Is this the only perfume you have?”
    She unclenched her teeth only because it hurt to keep them clamped together. “It is.”
    “It’ll have to do, then,” he decided and sprayed it at her. “The hair, Doc.”
    She touched a hand to her wig almost protectively. “What’s wrong with it?”
    “Mess it up. The guy I’m going to see would expect me to travel with a pretty, empty-headed and very sexy woman. That’s Cabot’s style.”
    This time her eyes narrowed. “Oh, it is, is it?”
    “Right. And you have to look the part. Don’t you have anything slinky?”
    “No, I don’t have anything slinky.” Her lower lip moved into a pout as she turned to look at herself in the mirror. “I wasn’t coming on this trip to socialize.”
    “I’ve never known a woman not to have something slinky.”
    If looks really could have killed, he would have dropped like a stone. “You’ve never known this one.”
    Taking it in stride, Trace reached for her blouse again. “Well, maybe one more button.”
    “No.” She pulled her blouse together. “I’m not parading around half dressed so you can keep up your image.” Teeth gritted, she snatched the eye shadow from him. “Go away. I don’t want you hovering over me.”
    “Five minutes,” he told her, and with his hands in his pockets he strolled out of the bath.
    She took ten, but he decided not to quibble. Anger had brought on a flush that she’d added to with blusher. She’d used shadow and liner liberally so that her eyes were big as saucers and had that heavy bedroom look.
    He’d