Trace of Fever

by Lori Foster

  She tipped her head, then said with a straight face devoid of humor, “You think my ass is luscious?”

  He fought off another grin and shrugged. “Even for a man with hands my size, it’s big enough for a handful. But it’s not out of proportion with your equally notable rack.”

  That must not have been the sweet talk Priss wanted, given her darkening expression.

  Both hands fisted. “Pig.”

  “You asked.” Trace pulled up next to a ’72 Chevy 4x4. The rough body of the truck was mostly green but with a driver’s side beige truck-bed panel. “This is a protected, private garage. If you’re ever in danger, on the run, and you know your car has been made, you can pull in here and switch out your ride for another.”

  That stunned her. More observant now, she sat up higher and looked around. “Hey. That’s my car.” She pointed to the blue Honda.

  “Yeah. I had it moved here.” He watched her. “Had the plates changed out, too.”

  That left her eyes rounded. “How many of these cars are yours?”

  “Five.” They ranged from disreputable to nondescript to ultimately expensive and classy. Whatever was called for, the vehicle would match.

  When no longer in this area, they’d be traded in for different cars, stored in a different garage rented in the appropriate place.

  Trace patted her thigh in a dispassionate way that didn’t even come close to representing how he felt. “Get Liger and I’ll get his stuff and our food.”

  “So there is food for me?” she quipped. “Because, you know, you did promise me breakfast.”

  “Did I?” He hauled out the big cat’s belongings, two water bottles and the bag of breakfast.

  “Yeah, and I’m famished.” Arms overflowing with the giant kitty, Priss followed him to the passenger door of the truck. She eyed the rusty, mismatched exterior, the loose residue of dirt in the truck bed, the redneck bumper stickers in various stages of wear. “Slumming it?”

  “Being cautious.” He opened the door and stored Liger’s stuff behind the bench seat. “Hop in and buckle up.”

  “The seat belts work?”

  She sounded dubious. “Yeah, smart-ass. Safety first, you know.” He took the cat from her, which sent Liger into a deep, rumbling purr. That the cat liked him was almost a compliment.

  After Priss had secured herself, Trace gave Liger a few strokes along his furry back, then handed him into Priss. “He’ll ride in your lap?”

  “I’m not about to stuff him into a carrier, if that’s what you’re asking. He’d complain the entire way.”

  The carrier would have been more convenient for his plans, but he could improvise.

  Trace went around to his own side of the truck. “Let’s get the food together before we get on the road.”

  He made sure to give her the biscuit first. He really did want to ensure that she ate, since it was going to be a long day for her and she wouldn’t get another chance until they got to their destination.

  “So do I need a code to get into the garage?”

  He shared a password with her. “Punch it in, then press Enter and the gate will lift. On your way out, it opens automatically at your approach.”

  What Priss didn’t know was that the gate had a two-step function. A secondary, numerical password cleared the login. If anyone accessed the garage without the numbers, an alert was sent out, notifying him of the breech.

  Whether she wanted him to or not, Trace would be aware of Priss’s use of the hidden garage.

  And he would know if she shared the password with anyone else.

  “You won’t forget?”

  “No.” Priss appeared unconcerned with the simple configuration of letters. “Should be easy enough to remember. So, care to tell me why all these precautions are necessary?”

  “That you don’t already know the answer to that just shows how naive you are.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do.” Only after Priss had taken two big bites of her biscuit sandwich did Trace pick up her water bottle, open it and hand it to her. “Here you go.”

  Distaste curled her lip as she accepted the water. “This is all we’ve got?”

  “Yup. Drink up. You need to stay hydrated.” And he needed to get her to Dare’s secure home without risking his friend’s identity or location.

  As if water were somehow objectionable, she wrinkled her nose as she dutifully drank.

  Though Trace watched her with regret and attentiveness, she didn’t appear to notice. In no time she’d finished off half the bottle—more than enough.

  Small as she was, it shouldn’t take long now.

  Priss glanced his way. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  “In a minute.” Settling his shoulders back against the door, Trace kept his gaze on her, unwilling to break that last small connection. “You go ahead.”

  She gave him a funny look, but then, even to his own ears he sounded especially gentle, and remorseful.

  “Suit yourself.” Priss finished off her sandwich, and then she finished off the water. After gathering up her wrapper and the empty bottle, she let the cat down onto the floor of the truck, onto a blanket she’d placed there. As she straightened again, she yawned and stretched.

  “Comfortable?” Waiting for what would happen left Trace’s every nerve ending sizzling in anticipation.

  “I’m fine.” Priss frowned at him. “You know, since we’re just sitting here shooting the bull…”

  When she trailed off to yawn again, Trace encouraged her, asking, “What is it?”

  For a moment, she fiddled with her seat belt, but then she met his gaze. “I don’t know what to think.”

  Hell, she’d put him in such a tailspin, he didn’t know what to think, either. “About what, exactly?”

  Priss licked her upper lip, a habit he’d already recognized as a sign of uncertainty. She wanted to ask him about the kiss, about why he’d stopped. He’d bet his life on it.

  But instead she asked, “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll find out when we get there.”

  She let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “So I’m just supposed to go along blindly and see where I end up?”

  After drinking that water, she didn’t really have any choice. His stomach knotted with the awful reality. “Trust has to start somewhere, honey, and it’s going to have to start with you trusting me.”

  That didn’t sit well with her at all. “Because you don’t trust me, I gather?”

  Trace saw her eyes going vague and said softly, “Not even a little.”

  She fought the sleepiness sinking in. “Then why did you kiss me?”

  Could one small admission hurt at this point? He didn’t know, and he didn’t really care. He looked into her slumberous eyes and said, “I had to taste you.”

  Her arms loosened; her hands relaxed on the seat at either side of her hips. She let her head slump back against the seat. “I don’t understand.”

  Which part, Trace wondered, the kiss, or this? Watching her fade, he almost hated himself.

  It was done, Trace told himself. Necessary but unfortunate. There was no point in second-guessing things, indulging in self-recrimination.

  He picked up her wrist, puzzling her. “It’s okay, honey.”

  “What is?” She half laughed, then frowned and lifted one limp hand to her head. “What are you talking about?”

  While looking at her, wanting her, Trace said, “Don’t fight it.” If she fought it, it’d kill him.

  Alarm swept some of the vagueness from her beautiful green eyes—but she couldn’t muster up enough concern to react as she’d probably like to. “It?” Then she looked at the water bottle. “Oh, no.”

  “The drug won’t hurt you so don’t get worried about it. You’re just going to sleep, that’s all.”

  “I don’t want to sleep!” She struggled to stay awake, her expression filled with deep hurt and awful fear. Damn, damn, damn. He couldn’t take it. “Come here, Priss.” H
e pulled her closer as he leaned toward her, and he put his mouth to hers. Gently. Softly. A careful eating kiss, thorough and yet reserved.

  When he let up, her eyes were closed, but still she whispered, “Why…why did you kiss me again?” In the next instant, she slumped against him, boneless and limp, held back only by the seat belt.

  Even though Trace knew she wouldn’t hear him, he put his face in her neck and said in a raw whisper, “Because with you, Priss, once just wasn’t enough.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  HE’D DONE A LOT OF atrocious things in his lifetime. He’d maimed many men, killed more than that, all without this awful, gnawing remorse. The things he did were part of the job, his self-assigned duty to society. He removed the scum, or took them out of commission, without blinking an eye.

  Along the way, he’d occasionally had to manipulate an innocent, always without real harm.

  But this time, with Priss…an unbearable churning of guilt, regret and anger left him keyed up and furious.

  What was it about Priscilla Patterson that turned him inside out like this? More than most, he understood the need for a clear head, for uncompromised dedication to seeing the job through.

  Murray and his ilk, his associates and admirers, were a waste of humanity at best, a threat to unprotected people at worst. After what had happened to his sister, no way in hell could Trace let any of them slide. He’d see them all in hell before he quit.

  But with Priss in his arms, her damned oversize cat staring at him with unblinking eyes, Trace wanted to rage against the fates. Why had she come into his life at this particular moment?

  Drugging Priss was necessary; he couldn’t put his friend Dare, or Dare’s new wife, at risk.

  Would Priss understand?

  Would she forgive him?

  “Shit.” After scrubbing a hand over his face, he then drifted it more gently over Priss’s silky hair. She wore that damned ponytail again, which was a shame. He liked her hair long and loose. It was so damned sexy.

  Out of self-preservation, he levered her away from him and into her own seat. Drugged, she looked deceptively sweet and demure.

  Right.

  The woman didn’t have a demure bone in her small, lust-inspiring body, and she epitomized deception. So why the hell should he care if she forgave him or not? They had jack squat in common. It wasn’t like they’d ever be in a relationship—beyond their joint but denied efforts to destroy Murray Coburn.

  Yeah, he believed that to be her motive. Why she wanted to destroy Murray—that’s what he needed to figure out. Once he had all the facts, he could decide how far she was willing to go, and how much she’d sacrifice, who she would sacrifice, to reach her goal.

  Using just one knuckle, Trace smoothed over her temple, her cheek, and down her pale throat, pausing where her pulse beat steadily.

  Shaking his head, he accepted that he was more pathetic than a high school geek on his first date.

  The buzzing of his cell phone brought him out of his absurd mind-set of regret. Liger continued to stare with what looked like recrimination.

  “You don’t know anything about it,” Trace told the cat as he dug out the phone and flipped it open to answer with a succinct, “Miller.”

  “Where are you?”

  Murray. It needed only this. Bland, his constant throbbing of anger tamped into submission, Trace replied, “At this precise moment, or overall?”

  “Never mind that. I don’t really give a shit. I just need to know that you can be back here by seven tonight.”

  Trace’s mind whirled with possibilities, but he still sounded robotic and detached when he said, “To the office?”

  “Yeah. Is that a problem?”

  “You want me there, I’ll be there.” Trace glanced at his watch. Yeah, he had enough time to make the trip, put Priss through the routine and get back. His gaze went to Priss; he’d hate it if he’d drugged her for no reason. “What’s up?”

  “I want you to accompany me on some business tonight.”

  An exchange? The sick bastard wanted him to take part in selling women?

  Both with fury and anticipation, Trace’s heart clenched and every muscle in his body tightened. This was the first time he’d been invited to witness a business deal; it could be the in he’d been looking for.

  Seeing Priss passed out beside him, knowing she might be next in Murray’s deadly game, Trace almost snarled into the phone, “I see.”

  There was a pause, and then Murray asked silkily, “Am I sensing some animus here?”

  “No.” He kept his reply short to minimize the chance of Murray hearing real animus—like the “I’m going to take great fucking pleasure in tearing you apart” kind of animus. “Seven at the office. Got it.”

  “Good. So tell me, is everything going well with Priscilla?”

  Given the perfect segue, Trace rubbed the back of his neck and said, “She’s a bumpkin, Murray.”

  “Are you referring to something specific?”

  Cursing silently, Trace looked away from Priss; even with her passed out cold, he couldn’t bear to see her while betraying her privacy in such a way. His hope was that he could preserve her modesty by gaining Murray’s interest in her…down-to-earth uniqueness.

  She was certainly different from the elite socialites surrounding Murray. As regular patrons of the finest beauty spas, those pampered ladies considered a Brazilian wax a fashion necessity.

  In contrast to their polish, Priss’s wholesome and un-contrived beauty could be considered a novelty.

  “No tattoos, no piercings.” Trace pinched the bridge of his nose and said, “And she’s never been…trimmed.”

  “Come again?”

  Plain speaking didn’t feel right when Priss was the woman under discussion. Trace sought less crude, insulting words. “She’s au natural.”

  Heightened, almost electric delight came through the phone as Murray asked in a hushed, gleeful tone, “You mean…?”

  So he had to spell it out? “Between her legs.” Trace flexed his free hand, trying to release the building tension. Basic, territorial instinct made it nearly impossible for him to discuss Priss so intimately with Murray. “Otherwise, she’s as groomed as any other woman.”

  “But our little Priscilla is too private to bare herself for the full works, eh?” He chuckled. “How novel.”

  In this instance, Trace could speak truthfully. “For her lifestyle, a neat trim might not be de rigueur.”

  “Being lower-middle class, you mean?” He said it with a sneer, as if lack of wealth reflected on her character.

  Trace stared at the far wall of the dimly lit garage. “I got the impression she lives on a tight budget.”

  Murray’s voice went chilly. “It occurs to me that this report means you must have seen her naked.”

  “No.” Not yet. But if Murray had his way…

  “No?” He sounded surprised, and terse with annoyance. “Then how would you know?”

  The image of Priss in the revealing clothes again came to the forefront of Trace’s mind. Not that it was ever tucked too far away. Since first seeing her mostly bare, he’d been far too aware of her and her body. “It was hard to miss with the skimpy panties that Twyla chose for her.”

  “Ah. You don’t say.”

  Definitely terse. Trace continued to talk as if he had no interest in the situation other than the tasks assigned him. “She wasn’t at all comfortable modeling the clothes.”

  “Shy?”

  “Mostly just modest, I think.” And a real fury when the mood struck her. “I’d say she’s the real deal. Innocent, I mean. Like I said, a country bumpkin.”

  He could hear Murray breathing, the sick bastard, but he said nothing. He just waited.

  Finally Murray said, “There’s a certain charm to her lack of sophistication, isn’t there?”

  Yeah. A whole lot of charm. Trace forced himself to focus. “That’s what I told Twyla.”

  “What, exactly?”

&
nbsp; “That it was your decision to make, not mine.” Deference to Murray didn’t come easy for Trace, but he managed. “I know you said to get her done head to toes, but if you liked the idea of her being natural, then I didn’t want to change things. She can always be waxed, but the reverse isn’t true.”

  Tension built, sending Trace’s thoughts toward exit plans that’d keep Priss safe—and then Murray laughed.

  “Ah, you are always thinking ahead, aren’t you, Trace? Always putting my interests first.”

  Always considering ways to kill you. Trace pushed out an angry breath. “You don’t pay me to make decisions for you, Murray.”

  “No, but I have a feeling that if I did, you’d excel at that, too. You have an uncanny knack for knowing my mind. There’s definitely room in my organization for a man of your unique skills to advance up the ladder.”

  Back teeth locked together, Trace said, “Thank you.”

  Done with the frivolous conversation, Murray returned to business. “I look forward to my lunch with Priscilla. Naturally I’ll want you to be there.”

  Thank God. As long as he was close, he could ensure her safety. “All right.” Again, Trace said nothing else. Verbosity was not a trait Murray admired in others.

  “Tonight, I may have some added duties for you.”

  “Anything I need to know about ahead of time?” If it involved participating in the abuse necessary to corral women like cattle, Trace knew that he’d have to advance his plans against Murray.

  He’d kill him and damn the consequences before he’d further damage an already traumatized woman.

  “Our buyer might need a little…education on the proper way to handle a deal.” Amused by the possibilities, Murray chortled. “The ignorant fuck is trying to dicker with me over the price of the merchandise, after we’d already negotiated the details.”

  Trace remained silent. It turned his stomach that Murray truly thought of human beings as no more than a product to progress his wealth. But at the same time, relief that the task could be handled guilt-free eased the tension in his muscles. Hell, he’d take pleasure in demolishing anyone involved in Murray’s business.

  “You can handle that, can’t you, Trace?”