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Trace of Fever
Lori Foster
CAUGHT IN THE CROSSFIRE OF VENGEANCE AND DESIRE Undercover mercenary Trace Rivers loves the adrenaline rush of a well-planned mission. First he’ll earn the trust of corrupt businessman Murray Coburn, then gather the proof he needs to shut down the man’s dirty smuggling operation. It’s a perfect scheme – until Coburn’s long-lost daughter saunters in with her own deadly plan for revenge. With a smile like an angel and fire in her eyes, Priscilla Patterson isn’t who she seems to be.But neither is the gorgeous bodyguard who ignites all her senses. Joining forces to plot Coburn’s downfall, Priss and Trace must fight the undeniable heat between them. For one wrong move, one lingering embrace will expose them to the wrath of a merciless opponent…




Praise forNew York TimesandUSA TODAYbestselling author Lori Foster
“Foster writes smart, sexy, engaging characters.”
—New York Times bestselling author Christine Feehan
“Known for her funny, sexy writing”
—Booklist
“Foster’s latest is pure entertainment and a joy to read.”
—RT Book Reviews on Back in Black
“Foster outwrites most of her peers.”
—Library Journal
“Intense, edgy and hot. Lori Foster delivers everything you’re looking for in a romance.”
—New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz on Hard to Handle
“Lori Foster delivers the goods.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Tension, temptation, hot action, and hotter romance—Lori Foster has it all! Hard to Handle is a knockout!” —New York Times bestselling author Elizabeth Lowell


Dear Readers,
I’m pleased to give you Trace of Fever, book two of my new series of über alpha hunks featuring private mercenaries who are big, capable, a little dangerous and (I hope) oh-so-sexy. If you read the first book, When You Dare, then you already know why I call them my men who “walk the edge of honor.”
My novella in the anthology The Guy Next Door got things started by introducing you to characters related to the heroine of When You Dare. Next out is Savor the Danger.
To see more about the books, visit my website at www.lorifoster.com. And feel free to chat with me on my Facebook fanpage—www.facebook.com/pages/ Lori-Foster/233405457965.
I’m very excited about this new series, and I hope you will be, too!


Trace ofFever
Lori Foster


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To the Animal Adoption Foundation, a no-kill animal shelter in Hamilton, Ohio.
The AAF does remarkable work for animals. Liger, one of the cats that my son adopted from the shelter, is featured in the book. If it wasn’t for the AAF, a truly beautiful, lovable, BIG cat might not be a part of our family now.
The AAF will always be one of my “pet projects” whenever I do fundraising.
To learn more, visit www.AAFPETS.com.
Lori

CHAPTER ONE
ARMS CROSSED AND HIS shoulder propped against the wall outside the elaborate, corner high-rise office, Trace Rivers considered his options. Having an inside source would shorten his job. As a pseudobodyguard, he hadn’t been given the opportunity to uncover shit yet, and he was getting antsy. But if he could turn someone who was privy to the info he needed, then he’d get somewhere.
Murray Coburn was dirty. Trace knew it. Hell, a lot of people knew it. But they couldn’t or wouldn’t touch the bastard without rock-solid evidence. The legal system had failed.
Trace would find the evidence eventually, though, and then he’d mete out his own form of justice.
Until then he had to contend with the odd assortment of disreputable punks and bullies working for Murray.
He also had to contend with Helene Schumer, better known as Hell—a name that suited her well. She never missed an opportunity to grope him, to boss him, to make his job more trying than necessary. But as Murray’s current paramour, Hell had privileges denied to others.
If Murray uncovered her perfidy, he’d kill her without remorse. That thought didn’t bother Trace at all, but Murray would also lose trust in him, and that couldn’t happen.
The unsavory idea of using Hell didn’t sit well with Trace, but it would be expedient, especially since the lady acted like a nymphomaniac around him.
As she approached now, her intent obvious in the slanting of her eyes and the curve of her painted mouth, Trace did his utmost to ignore her. Luckily he was saved from her assault when the timid receptionist, Alice, approached with a message.
Using the name he’d given for this cover, she said, “Mr. Miller?”
Trace kept his gaze on Hell, but replied, “What is it?”
“There’s a woman downstairs asking to see Mr. Coburn. Your presence is requested to see what she wants.”
In theatrical fanfare, Hell paused with her feet braced apart, her hands on her rounded hips, her chin at a haughty angle. “A woman? Who the hell is she?”
The receptionist ducked her head. “No idea, ma’am.”
“Tell them to keep the woman there until I arrive.” Though he could have communicated directly with the staff downstairs, Trace dismissed the young woman to do the chore, to remove her from Hell’s wrath. Hell’s viciousness was one of the things Murray seemed to enjoy most about her, so he never required her to curb her more cutthroat tendency of mauling the messenger.
“I don’t want another woman seeing Murray.”
Vicious and territorial. Of course, she had to know that Murray screwed anything in a skirt, with and without consent.
“He’s out anyway.” The bastard had left two hours ago, and though he’d been favoring Trace as his personal protection, this time he’d taken another man with him.
“Find out who she is and report back to me.”
“I don’t think so.” Everyone in the organization feared Hell, almost as much as they feared Murray. Except for Trace; he felt only contempt—for them both.
And maybe that accounted for Hell’s constant pursuit, and Murray’s apparent regard.
As he started toward the elevator, Hell stepped in his way. In her spiked heels, she stood eye-level to his six-foot height. Her long dark hair hung sleek down her back, her lips and nails painted shiny red. A sheer camisole, stretched tight over her enhanced boobs, was cut low enough to display not only her cleavage but damn near her navel and tucked into a pencil-thin skirt. She looked killer-gorgeous, as always.
Gorgeous, and evil. She stared at his crotch. “How convenient for you, that you’re being called away.”
God, Trace despised her. “Yeah? How’s that?”
As daring as always, she reached out a hand and cupped his balls through his slacks. “I anticipated a private moment with you.”
Far from enjoying her touch, Trace didn’t trust her not to mutilate him. He grabbed her slender wrist and squeezed the delicate bones. Though he knew he caused her pain, her lips parted and her eyelids went heavy.
She licked her lips and searched his gaze. “If you were naked, I would have my nails in you right now.”
Which was a damn good reason not to get naked with her. Trace smiled in triumph. “But not this time, Hell.” He removed her arm by squeezing until she gasped and her fingers opened. He tossed her aside. “I have work to do.”
“Trace?”
On a sigh, he turned back to her. “What?”
“I want you to take me shopping.”
“Not in my job description, doll.”
“It is—if Murray orders it.” She rubbed her reddened wrist over her breasts. “And Murray will order anything I want.”
Having nothing to say to that, Trace turned away from her and stepped into the elevator. When the doors closed, he let out a breath of relief.
Since he’d infiltrated the organization three weeks ago, posing as a bodyguard, Hell had been the toughest part of maintaining his cover. Eventually he’d have to deal with her. As a medicinal chemist, she supplied any and all drug persuasions that Murray might need for his human trafficking venture. Lackeys captured the women and Murray, the bastard, sold them to the highest bidder—after Hell ensured their compliance through risky drugs.
Trace looked forward to the moment when he’d deal with her.
When it came to annihilating the scourge, he didn’t discriminate against women. Helene Schumer had to go; the world would be a better place without her.
PRISCILLA PATTERSON SIMPERED and feigned distress as two hulking brutes tried to bully her toward a secluded conference room of the office building. What they intended to do to her there, she couldn’t say.
They were not gentle, making her show of defenselessness difficult to maintain. Her arm got twisted; someone pulled at her ponytail, making her gasp.
And then suddenly, a quiet but stern voice spoke up. “Let her go.”
Just that easily, she was free. She twisted to find a face to go with that deep voice, and froze.
Wow.
Unlike the Neanderthals who’d taken pleasure in manhandling her so roughly, this man looked smooth and debonair and … sexy.
He strode toward them with a frown that brooked no arguments. Standing easily six feet tall, he was muscular but not overly bulky, clean-cut but not in a too-polished GQ way. Very fair hair, straight and a little too long, contrasted sharply with the most piercing golden-brown eyes she’d ever seen. He wore khakis and an obviously expensive black T-shirt. She detected the bulk of a Kevlar vest beneath the shirt.
A black-leather shoulder holster held his gun. The belt around his waist carried two extra magazines, a stun gun, baton and mace. His black lace-up steel-toed boots could be deadly.
The man was ready for anything.
But maybe not ready for her.
That bright caramel gaze drifted over both of the hulks with contempt. “I’ll handle her from here.”
Grumbling, the men moved away.
He took her arm. “Come with me.”
Priss tried to resist, but he was far more physically persuasive—without really hurting her—than the other men had been. “Where are we going?”
“Farther away for privacy.”
“Oh. Okay.” In her flat shoes, she hustled along beside him, feeling very short and suddenly unsure of herself. “You work here?”
He didn’t reply but drew her around the corner, shielding her from prying eyes. He, on the other hand, stayed in view, and Priscilla assumed it was so he could keep an eye on the others.
Cautious and suspicious—qualities she appreciated.
He gave her a very slow perusal, from her dark reddish-brown hair in its high ponytail, to her crisp blue blouse and her over-the-knee, old-fashioned skirt, to her flat-heeled Mary Janes … and then back up again. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh.” She pretended to be flustered by his direct stare. And truthfully … she was. But only a little. This was too important for her to fudge it.
She hugged her big satchel purse to her chest and said with just the right quaver, “I came to meet Murray Coburn.”
“Why?”
She widened her eyes. “Well, that’s actually private.”
He stood there, waiting, his gaze unflinching, direct.
Ha. He didn’t know her fortitude if he thought a little stare-down would discomfort her. Pasting on what she hoped was a winsome smile, Priscilla blinked her eyes at him. “Oh, I should introduce myself.” She held out a hand. “I’m Priscilla Patterson.”
He looked at her hand, and his left eye twitched.
He didn’t touch her.
“Yes, well …” She tucked her hand back in close to her body. “Will you please tell Mr. Coburn I’m here?”
“No.” And then, striking an exasperated stance, he asked again, “Why do you want to see him?”
When she started to look away, he caught her chin and lifted her face. “I don’t have time for this, so stop the coy act.”
This time her eyes widened for real. He knew she was acting? But how?
Shaking his head, he released her. “Fine. I’ll have the men show you out.”
“No, wait.” She caught his arm—and was stunned at the unyielding strength there. It was like grabbing thick rock. “Okay, I’ll tell you. But please don’t make me leave.”
He crossed his arms, which effectively shook off her touch. “I’m listening.”
“Murray is my father.”
So still that he looked like a stone statue, the man stared at her. Only an infinitesimal narrowing of his eyes showed any reaction at all. “You’re fucking with me.”
Okay, so coarse language didn’t really shock her, not anymore, not at twenty-four when much of her life had been spent on the sordid side of survival. She still gasped. “Sir, really.” Fanning her face as if to alleviate a blush, Priscilla frowned at him. “I assure you that I’m serious.”
A noise at the front of the lobby drew his attention, and after a quick look, he cursed low. Catching her arm, he dragged her farther out of view and bent close. “Listen up, lady. Whatever harebrained plan you have to cozy up with Coburn, forget it.”
With complete honesty, she said, “Oh, but I can’t.”
He snarled, and then he shook her. “Trust me on this—you don’t belong here. You don’t belong in this building, much less anywhere near Coburn. Be smart and take your pert little ass out the door and away from danger.”
Pert little ass? Frowning, she looked behind herself. From what she could see, her ass—pert or otherwise—looked nonexistent thanks to the shape of the skirt.
A deliberate choice.
But because he looked genuinely concerned, which was surely at odds with the duty that would be assigned to him, Priscilla shrugged. “Sorry. I didn’t come this far just to walk away.”
Footsteps sounded behind them. His jaw tightened. “There’s a back exit. Go down the hall, hang a left, go through the—”
So stubborn! “Excuse me.” Priss stepped around him just as a behemoth rounded the corner, followed by the two men who’d bullied her earlier and another, equally disreputable-looking fellow.
She’d seen plenty of pictures, so she knew right away who stood before her.
Murray Coburn.
Dark, slick, massive in build with an enormous neck and back, he looked exactly as she’d expected, right down to the trim goatee and calculating gaze.
“What’s going on here?” Murray sized her up, and though she knew she wouldn’t be to his liking, his gaze turned smarmy. “Who are you?”
Again Priss held out a hand. “Priscilla Patterson. I’m your daughter.”
TRACE SWALLOWED DOWN a curse. He wanted to toss the girl, in her ridiculous clothes with her ridiculous ponytail, over his shoulder to carry her out the front door—away from harm.
He wanted, quite simply, to kill Murray in front of her, then kill the rest of them, too. Little Ms. Patterson might be traumatized for life, but damn it, she’d be alive.
Unfortunately he couldn’t do a damn thing except stand there looking bored and mildly put out.
Murray’s gaze swung to him, blue eyes as cold as the arctic zeroing in. “What the fuck is this, Trace?”
“A nuisance, that’s all. I was just getting rid of her.” Trace clamped a hard hand onto her arm.
With a flick of his hand, Murray stopped him from taking a single step. He dismissed the other men and after they’d walked away, he looked at her again. His brows were down in that fierce way that made most people quake in fear.
It was an affectation wasted on Trace.
Beneath his well-trimmed goatee, Murray’s mouth was flat and hard. “Bring her up to my office.”
And with that, he walked away to the private elevators.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Glaring at the girl, Trace asked, “Happy now?”
She looked almost smug when she said, “Getting there.” She gave a pointed look at his hand on her arm.
Ignoring that silent command, Trace high-stepped her toward an empty conference room on the lobby floor.
“Hey!” She tried to free herself, but couldn’t.
Funny thing, though, Trace noticed that she moved in an expedient, stylized way that, against someone without his level of skill, might have gotten her free. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
She worked up a few tears, letting them glisten on her long dark lashes. “You’re hurting me.”
“Not yet,” Trace told her, unmoved by the false show of emotion. “But the idea of putting you over my knee gets more tempting by the second.”
That left her tight-lipped and silent—with no remnant of tears to be seen.
Trace propelled her into a room and toward a conference table with chairs. “Sit.” When she started to defy him, he filled his lungs and made a move toward her.
She dropped into a seat. “Why are you doing this?” Hands gripping the chair arms, she summoned up lost bravado and lifted her chin. “You heard what Mr. Coburn said. He wants you to take me to his office.”
“Yeah. But I heard what he didn’t say, too.”
She shook her head. “What are you talking about?”
“I have to search you.”
Aghast, she said, “I beg your pardon?”
“Beg all you want.” He was so pissed right now, he might enjoy hearing it. “I’m still going to check you over. Everywhere.”
Her eyes widened in alarm.
Too late, honey. Trace nodded at her, grim, but sort of anticipating it, too. “Every nook and hollow, honey, inside every piece of clothing.”
She sputtered, and Trace noticed the flush blooming in her cheeks.
With her entire small body pulled tight in rebellion, she gasped, “You’re insane!”
Trace propped his shoulders against the wall. “If you want to see Coburn, I have to ensure you aren’t hiding a weapon, or a transmitter, of any kind.”
“No.”
“Fine.” Perfect, in fact. “Then leave. Right now.”
She hesitated. “But …”
Again, Trace took his gaze over her. She tried to hide her body under the prim clothes, but he wasn’t fooled. He’d bet his favorite knife that this particular babe was in no way innocent. Whether or not she was Murray’s spawn, he couldn’t say. There did seem to be something of a resemblance in the color of her hair, though hers was a shade or two lighter than Murray’s. And when she connived, which she’d been doing from jump, she had a certain look about her that reminded him of Coburn.
Trace glanced at the chunky black watch on his wrist. “Make up your mind, but make it up fast. What’s it to be? Do you want to leave, or do you want my hands all over you?”
The new gleam of tears looked authentic, but her chin didn’t lower. “I’m not leaving.”
Trace pushed away from the wall. “Up with you, then.” He caught her elbow, drawing her to her feet. The top of her head barely reached his chin. She had a delicate bone structure, but was clearly filled with underlying steel.
He turned her. “Put your hands flat on the table and spread your legs wide.”
For a span of five seconds, she didn’t move. Her shoulders were rigid, her neck stiff. That high, dark red ponytail hung almost to the middle of her back. Freed, her hair would just kiss the top of her ass.
He smoothed his hand down that long tail—and his palms burned.
As if in slow motion she plopped her heavy, loaded purse onto the tabletop. First her left hand, then her right, landed on the table, fingers opened for balance.
Trace gently kicked her feet back a little, then said, “Open up, honey.”
Her narrow back expanded on a breath of courage. She lifted her right foot and dropped it back down a few inches away.
Trace took great pleasure in saying softly, “Wider.”
When she still barely moved, he stepped up behind her. Holding her waist, he nudged her feet far apart, as far as the skirt would allow.
The muscles in her bare calves strained. The skirt pulled taut around that rounded behind. Her shoulders remained as proud and stiff as ever.
They were in a position of lovers, so it was no wonder that he suddenly noticed her delectable scent. Baby soft, and woman sweet.
His nostrils flared—and he forced himself to step away.
“Stay like that.” Moving to the side of her, Trace upended her purse on the tabletop. Photos, pen, notebook, makeup, brush, comb, mirror, tissues, calculator, candy bar, book … “Jesus, everything but the kitchen sink.”
“Bastard,” she whispered.
He tsked. “Now, is that any way for a schoolgirl to talk?”
“I’m a grown woman.”
“Yeah? How old?”
He could almost hear the sawing of her teeth before she ground out, “Twenty-four.”
Trace opened her wallet and checked her driver’s license. “Twenty-four,” he agreed. “But dressed like a parochial pupil.” With no more than a casual glance he memorized her address. Seemed odd that she’d live in the same state as Murray if they’d never met.
Soon as he could, he’d have the address checked out.
But just in case Murray had the same thought … Trace glanced at her, saw her gaze was averted, and slid the license into his pocket.
He rifled through the rest of her belongings, searched the interior of the purse for any hidden pockets. “Speaking of your clothes …” He glanced at her. “I’m not fooled, so you can save the prim act.”
She whipped her head around to burn him with a look. The tight ponytail emphasized her high cheekbones, the straight bridge of her nose. “You’re suggesting what, exactly?”
Trace examined a photo of her as a younger girl with a woman who looked a lot like her. Maybe her mother.
Even when young, she’d still looked pugnacious, as if preparing to take on the world. The photo left him unsettled. “You’re up to something, and I don’t like it.”
“It’s none of your business.”
He continued his examination of her belongings, saying casually, “Who gets killed around here is my business.”
There was a pause, but no real fear. “You think my own father would kill me?”
Trace scrutinized her. She was more subtle, but in her own way, he had no doubt that she could be every bit as lethal as Hell. The edge of danger was there in her clear green eyes, in her too-cool voice. Under the circumstances, she was one amazingly composed cookie.
He’d have to remember that.
As she watched him look her over, Trace stepped around behind her. “Eyes forward.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“As well you shouldn’t.” He put his hands on her throat. Silk. Warm, sleek silk. Slowly, he dragged his fingers down to her shoulders, then down each arm. So slim, and so damn young.
In a real pat-down, he’d be thorough, but fast. Not this time. If he could get her out of here, he was willing to cross the line. Priscilla Patterson might be an enigma with a double agenda, but he still didn’t want to see her slaughtered. And if she played with Coburn, that’s what would happen.
“Easy now.” He put his hands over her breasts—and realized she’d bound herself. He quirked a brow. “Hiding something?”
Strained, she rasped, “I’m modest.”
“Uh-huh.” He went down her ribs to her concave belly, over the lush swell of her hips, the length of her thighs, and back up under her skirt.
She jerked.
Voice low and rough, Trace said, “Be still.” Keeping one hand on the small of her back, he reached up between her legs. Very skimpy panties—and nothing else.
Well, heat. Lots of heat.
He brought his palm to the soft flesh of each inner thigh, cupped over her crotch where he felt her springy curls beneath the silky material of underwear, and—
“You can tell I’m not hiding anything!”
“You’re hiding something, all right.” Reluctantly, Trace brought his hand out but his fingers and palm continued to tingle. For a moment, he clasped her hips and just held her like that, bringing himself under iron control. When she started to straighten, he said, “Not yet.”
Her forehead hit the tabletop and she groaned. Her legs were still straight, leaving her bottom high, in the perfect position for sex. This way, a man would go so deep—
As if knowing his thoughts, she locked her hands over her head and gave a low growl, bringing a reluctant and crooked smile to his mouth.
She didn’t intimidate easily, and he’d tormented himself enough. “Straighten up so I can unbutton your blouse.”
“Why?”
“I need to go beneath the binding.”
She started to shake. Trace had a feeling it was repressed rage, not nervousness. But she did straighten her arms, levering her chest up and away from the table.
As he started on the small buttons, she asked, “What will my father say when I tell him what you did to me?”
“Why don’t you tell him and find out? But know this—it’s what he expected me to do.”
She twisted to look at him over her shoulder. “You’re serious?”
“He’s a high-level businessman with plenty of enemies. Protecting him is my job. No one here knew he had a daughter, so why should we just believe you?” The buttons were all opened now, so Trace turned her to face him.
Wide elastic circled her upper body. It could have been a girdle or some such, definitely not meant for a woman’s chest.
It was so tight, he didn’t see how she could even hide her breasts under there, much less anything else. But then, he’d stopped looking for a real weapon almost from jump.
This little exercise was all about making her rethink her plan.
“You can breathe with that restriction?”
“I breathe just fine.”
He met her gaze. “Lower it.”
Her arms hung loose at her sides, her stance relaxed, and Trace knew what she planned. He saw it in her eyes.
Smiling again, this time in anticipation, he whispered, “Try it.”
She looked startled. “What?”
“You want to attack, honey. I see it.” He looked at her mouth. “If your modesty is worth blowing whatever plans you have, then go for it.”
Her teeth locked. She seemed to be considering it.
“But know,” Trace told her, crowding in a little closer, “you can’t best me. Whatever you think you know, whatever capabilities you think you have, it’s not enough. Not even close.”
Time ticked by slowly while they stared at each other. Her breathing deepened, her eyes narrowed.
“Now or never,” Trace taunted, and he knew that for whatever perverse reason, he wanted her to react. Every nuance, every flicker of her thick lashes, fascinated him. Never had he met a woman like her. She had to be as crooked as Murray to be involved in any way, but still she intrigued him.
Slowly, her gaze still locked with his, she lifted her hands, hooked her fingertips in the top of the elastic binding, and began tugging it down.
Trace continued to watch her face; he saw her lips part on a deeper, cleansing breath. She had to be more comfortable now, but why hide her curves in the first place?
Reaching toward his back, he withdrew his knife and clicked it open.
Priscilla’s gaze finally left his, but only to look at the blade in curiosity. She tipped her head, then brought her attention back to him. “Automatic switchblade, ergonomic handle, three-and-a-quarter-inch blade.”
“You know your knives.”
“I know weapons.” She still didn’t look scared as much as defiant. “What do you plan to do with that?”
“Don’t move.” Trace tried not to stare at her breasts, now reddened with deep groves showing from the squeeze of the damned elastic. Her nipples were dark pink, soft and luscious.
Catching the top of the binding, he stretched it out from her body and slipped the tip of his blade inside. Like carving through butter, the elastic separated as he sliced the knife downward. It fell away from her body.
Looking her over, Trace replaced the knife in a back pocket. His gaze zeroed in on her breasts. “You really tortured those poor beauties.”
She didn’t make a sound.
“Care to tell me why?”
Her chin lifted. “Boobs are distracting.”
“That’s usually the purpose, right?”
Rather than answer, she held up her palms. “Do you mind?”
His abdomen clenched. Trying not to sound affected, Trace gestured with his chin. “Knock yourself out.” Please, go ahead, he thought. Touch yourself.
With a slight moan, her head tipped back and she put her hands to her breasts in a slow, deep massage. Her eyes closed and she heaved another deep breath.
Definitely affected, Trace noted that her hands were small, and her breasts … were not. It was sinfully enticing, watching her soothe the irritated flesh while making those soft, cooing sounds of pure pleasure.
Such a contrast it made, her feminine, unadorned hands with the short, clean nails—rubbing over those pale, voluptuous breasts, working them as if to alleviate an ache.
Trace clamped his hands over hers, and her eyes shot open.
Through his teeth, he said, “That’s enough.”
The tip of her tongue came out to moisten her lips. “Getting to you?”
“Trust me on this, you don’t want to find out.” His hands were twice the size of hers, so his thumbs and each fingertip sank into pliable, soft flesh. Acutely aware of that, of her, he said, “Will you leave now?”
Her small nostrils flared on a quick inhalation. “Not on your life.”
Furious, Trace pushed back from her but kept his tone calm and detached. “Button up your blouse and tuck it back in.”
She did so in haste, proving she hadn’t been as comfortable with her partial nudity and provocative display as she’d wanted him to believe. “It’s not going to fit right now.”
Stepping to the side, Trace jammed all her belongings back into her purse, glad that he’d kept the license. When shit went south, as it was bound to do, he wanted a way to identify her. Given all his computer expertise and resources in the government and military, tracking her would be a piece of cake.
“Done?”
She smoothed her hair and nodded. “Now may I see my father?”
It pissed him off enough that Trace didn’t reply. He just handed her purse to her, took her arm and started her out the door.
Gut instincts told him that things had just gotten horribly complicated. And he could put the blame squarely on Ms. Priscilla Patterson’s too-proud shoulders.

CHAPTER TWO
PRISS STRODE INTO THE private elevator as if she had every right, as if her heart weren’t bumping hard against her ribs, as if her nerves weren’t sorely jumbled.
Keeping her cool had taken real effort, but good God, of all the scenarios she’d planned for, expected and discounted, being intimately groped by a man like him, a man so unlike the other men in the organization, had never factored in.
In the elevator, he held silent, but she saw him twice look at her blouse. She could feel his gaze, damn it, deep inside herself. And she knew what he was looking at.
Without the binding, her boobs were far too noticeable. The damned buttons gaped and the material strained.
“Enjoying yourself?” she asked with a heavy dose of sarcasm.
If anything, her jibe only made him intensify his study. He stood there, negligence personified, his hands clasped behind his back, his stance casual and relaxed. “I can see the outline of your nipples.”
She nearly strangled on her fury. “Go to hell!”
“What are you? C cup? Maybe even a D?”
Oh, God, she did not want to stand here alone with him, closed up in such a small space with his heat and scent invading her lungs. “None of your damn business.”
He lifted his hand in front of him, not to touch her, but to imagine it covering her right breast. His face screwed up while he pretended to heft her. “I’d say a full C.”
A fine trembling started in her neck and went down her spine. She needed to stay composed to face off with Murray Coburn, but for whatever reason, this man wanted to demolish her control. “I say go kill yourself.”
He cracked a smile.
And what that smile did for him…. She couldn’t deny that he was devastatingly handsome. Probably a cutthroat villain, but still gorgeous. That disheveled fair hair and those intense, oddly colored eyes … she shivered.
He lifted a brow. “Cold?”
“No.” She had to distract him. “So I didn’t catch your name.”
“No one gave you my name.”
“It’s a secret, then?” She tried to hunch her shoulders to make her chest less noticeable. “How strange.”
“That doesn’t help,” he said of her posture, “and if you’re really interested?” He held out a hand. “Trace Miller.”
She disdained touching him again. “Is that your real name or an alias?”
With a grin, he retracted his proffered hand. “What do you think?”
“I think you took my driver’s license.”
He went still for a heartbeat, giving her a small measure of satisfaction. Lifting her hands in a “woo-woo” way, she intoned, “I know all, see all.” Then she curled her lip. “And besides, you suck at stealth.”
The elevator stopped and the doors opened with a silent whoosh. Trace took her elbow to keep her from stepping out. Bending to her ear, he said on a mere breath of sound, “Actually, I excel at stealth, which tells me that you have to be trained to think otherwise. So now I’m wondering, what is a trained and deceptive woman doing here, claiming to be the daughter of one of the most powerful and fearsome businessmen in the area?”
Shoot. She shouldn’t have baited him. He was good, and of course he’d know it, the egomaniac. When she tried to pull free, he easily restrained her.
And then another voice intruded.
“Well, well. What the fuck is this?”
Priss looked up at the female, and then had to look up even more. Good God, an Amazon. A really spiteful-looking Amazon all decked out in killer duds as if on the make.
Putting on her sweet and innocent face, Priss said, “Hello. I’m here to see Murray Coburn.”
And suddenly Trace was in front of her. She realized why when the Amazon tried to crowd closer, no doubt to intimidate her physically. Wow. Priss braced herself behind him, trying to see what happened. His big shoulders shifted, flexed under her hands, and then he went still again—all without making a sound.
The Amazon had been forced back several feet, heaving and furious.
Oh, he was good, all right. Really good. She hated to be impressed, but she just couldn’t help it.
Sounding less than charming, Trace said, “Now, now, Hell, retract your claws. Murray wants to see her.”
A venomous snakelike hiss precluded the snarky response. “Did he specify in one piece?”
Priss stiffened. The woman wanted to attack her without provocation?
“No, he didn’t, but until he tells me otherwise, that’s how she’s going to stay.”
Outraged, she fairly screeched, “Damn you, Trace.”
He didn’t budge, and Priss had to admit he made one hell of a blockade.
Was his protectiveness truly motivated just by his hired position? She didn’t think so.
Going on tiptoe to see over his shoulder again, Priss realized he was rock solid, not an ounce of give to his muscles. Huh. She squeezed just a little, fascinated despite herself.
When was the last time any man had caught her interest? Not counting Murray, since her interest in him was all toxic.
The Amazon drew her attention with a slow, contemptible smile.
“One of these days, Trace, definitely sooner than you think, I will settle up with you. Count on it.” And with that she spun on her very high stiletto heels and sashayed away.
“Friend of yours?” Priss asked.
He turned on her so fast, she jumped back a foot.
“You don’t look happy,” Priss noted. What an understatement. “It was just a question. Don’t implode or anything, okay?”
He fumed quietly, and even in his rage, he looked self-possessed. “Under no circumstances will you provoke that woman. Do you understand me?”
Intrigued by the warning, Priss tried to see around him to wherever the woman had gone. He didn’t allow it.
His big, hard hand clasped her face, none too gently. “She will slit your throat and smile while doing it. And no one here will stop her. Do you understand me?”
“Uh …” It wasn’t easy to speak with the way he smooshed her cheeks, but she felt compelled to point out, “You stopped her.”
“This time.” He leaned down, close enough to kiss her, but his eyes said he had far from affectionate gestures on his mind. “I won’t always be around.”
“Duly noted. Now you can stop abusing my face.” He released her and she worked her jaw. “Jerk. I bruise easy.”
His eye did that interesting twitching thing again before he grabbed her elbow and hustled her forward.
The surroundings were decadent. Authentic art on the walls. Twelve-foot ceilings. Polished-marble floors. And tinted windows everywhere.
When she balked, trying to take it all in, Trace all but dragged her. “This way.”
“So dear daddy is rich, huh?”
“You’d be better served to note his power, not his financial status.”
“Got some influence, does he?”
That she’d dropped her Little Ms. Innocent facade didn’t faze him at all. “More than you could realize, or you wouldn’t be here.”
They passed a desk where a cowed woman kept her head down and her shoulders hunched. Pathetic.
To her, Trace spoke gently, as if addressing a child. “He’s expecting us, hon. Tell him we’re here.”
“Yes, sir.” Using an intercom, she announced, “Mr. Coburn, Mr. Miller is here with a young lady.”
“Send her in. Trace, too. I want him in on this.”
Priss started forward, but Trace didn’t, so she got pulled up short. “Well?” She gave his shoulder a shove. “What’s the holdup now?”
He chewed his upper lip, and she could have sworn he looked agonized. After a long hesitation, he yanked her away from the desk and tightened his hold on her arm. “Listen to me, and listen good. Give him no personal information that might make it easier for him to have you tracked. Protect your privacy as much as you can. I’ll stall them as much as I can. When you leave, don’t go anywhere familiar.” His thumb rubbed her arm. “Do you have money on you?”
Agog, Priss stared up at him. “You’re actually trying to protect me?” Had she misunderstood his role in all this?
In a precise, angry tempo, he asked again, “Do. You. Have money? On you?”
“Inside my shoe.”
He straightened, his expression impressed. “Good girl.”
If he didn’t stop referring to her as a child, she just might brain him. And then it dawned on Priss. “That’s why you swiped my driver’s license?” A short laugh—caused by nerves and something else, something sort of like gratitude—escaped her. “You took it so that they couldn’t?”
“Let’s go.” He started her on her way again. “It’s never a good idea to keep Murray waiting.”
At the enormous double doors, Trace turned the knob, took a quick survey inside and gestured her in.
When she entered, Priss saw why he’d checked before letting her past him.
The Amazon waited.
A little more subdued now, she sat on the corner of Murray Coburn’s massive desk. Sunlight poured through the wall of windows behind her, bathing her in a glow, putting blue highlights in her inky-black hair.
Her gaze, narrowed and mean, tracked Priss’s every movement.
Despite herself, Priss stepped a little closer to her self-appointed protector.
“Priscilla Patterson,” Trace said, as if formal introductions were just the thing for the situation. He gestured toward her father. “Murray Coburn. And the lovely lady with him is Helene Schumer.”
Lovely lady? Priss bit back a gag.
Behind his desk, Murray surveyed her. “You made it this far, girl, so don’t start cowering now.”
Had she been cowering? Well, hell. That was the impression she wanted to give, but this time, it hadn’t been feigned.
She felt like she’d entered a viper’s nest.
“Where do you want her?” Trace asked, taking personal responsibility for seating her.
Murray’s gaze crawled all over her, lingering on her breasts. She wanted to clobber Trace for that.
“The chair there will do,” Murray said, indicating a padded seat in front of his desk, far too close to the Amazon’s pointy-toed shoes.
Priss eyed the woman. What was it Trace had called her? Hell—short for Helene. Yeah, that suited her.
Sinking back into her veneer of shy reserve, Priss gave a tremulous smile. “Thank you so much for agreeing to see me. I know this is a shock, that I’m a shock. And I wouldn’t blame you if you’d refused me.”
Air unchanging, Murray said, “Sit.”
That one blunt word, said as a succinct command, left her nettled. Priss wiped all hostility from her manner and moved forward. Gingerly, she perched at the edge of the chair, ready to bolt if the Amazon took aim at her head.
Trace stood behind her. To Murray, he probably looked positioned to restrain her if necessary. Priss hadn’t known him long, but she was a good judge of character, and despite whatever role Trace Miller played in her father’s evil enterprise, she knew he wouldn’t hurt her.
To get the ball rolling, Priss opened her mouth—and Murray forestalled her.
“I’ve never fucked a red-haired woman.”
“Oh.” His bluntness unsettled her. So he’d make no pretense of being a smooth businessman, of being anything other than a crude bully? He had enough money and power that he didn’t have to bother hiding his true nature in the sanctity of his office?
Or did he already know she’d never have the chance to share what she learned?
If only she could blush on cue, Priss thought, but that little trick eluded her. Instead, she touched her long ponytail. “My hair color is that of my grandmother. My mother had darker hair.” She nodded toward the woman perched on his desk. “Beautiful, much like hers.”
Hell leaned toward her, her body vibrating with menace.
With a casual lift of a hand, Murray warned the Amazon to stay back. She retreated, but she wasn’t happy about it. Slowly, her father came out of his seat.
Priss eyed him warily. Would he try to kill her outright, as Trace suspected?
When Murray propped a hip against the front of his desk, Priss nearly melted with relief. Until his big feet bumped against hers.
No way in hell was he unaware of the contact. Priss fought the need to shrivel away from his foul touch. Her gut told her that the understated move was in no way fatherly.
A test? Or a warning?
Whatever Murray’s real intent, she didn’t know. She just knew it made her stomach pitch. Given that she trusted her instincts, she also knew to be on guard.
Murray nodded toward her chest, his gaze heated, his mouth a little too slack. “Braless?”
Now her face flamed. “I—”
Trace shifted. “She had herself bound with some sort of tight sports bra. But since that could have concealed a weapon, I cut it off her.”
He hadn’t been kidding about telling Murray! Priss waited to see how he’d react. It wasn’t what she’d expected.
“I see.” Murray’s gaze lifted to hers. “Your mother was busty?”
Good God, the cretin hadn’t yet asked her mother’s name, but he wanted to know her bra size? He was more disgusting than she’d ever imagined.
Inside, Priss churned with fury, but outside, she stammered like a virgin. “She was, yes.” Belatedly, parts of her rehearsed spiel shot to the forefront of her mind. “After you left her, she never wanted another man. So she did her best to … conceal her figure.”
“As you did with whatever undergarment Trace removed from your person?”
“Yes.” She tugged at the material of her blouse, trying to get the gaping front to close. “I’m not at all comfortable like this.”
“What you have is an asset. You should be proud.”
Oh, this was soooo not a father/daughter conversation. “Sir, I want you to know—”
“Give me your mother’s name.”
Well, ‘bout damn time! A deep breath didn’t ease the tension in her chest. “Patricia Patterson.” Priss waited, but there was no recognition, and predictably, no real interest. She forged on. “I’m twenty-four, so it would have been close to twenty-five years ago that you knew her.”
“I’d have been thirty-two.” He rubbed at his goatee in fond remembrance of the past, then caught himself. “She’s dead?”
Priss ducked her head, as much from grief as to hide the incandescent rage she felt when she thought of the way her mother had suffered before finding the grace of death. “Yes. Three months ago.”
“How?” Murray asked.
“She had a stroke. It didn’t take her right away….”
As Priss replied, Murray turned to Hell and requested a drink. He even smiled at Hell’s disgruntlement and gave her an intimate kiss that left his mouth shiny with the red gloss of her lips.
His disinterest in her struggle couldn’t have been more plain.
As Hell slipped off the desk and went to the other side of the room to pour the drink, Murray pulled out a hanky and wiped his mouth.
All while Priss told the emotionally draining, all too horrific story of her mother’s ordeal.
When she’d contrived this plan, she’d expected an unfeeling monster. She’d been prepared for a sleazy villain. But this … this total lack of propriety … the man was a psychopath. He couldn’t possibly possess a single ounce of real emotion.
Somewhere along the way to building his empire of corruption, he’d become so comfortable with his power and influence that he didn’t bother hiding his innately vicious nature anymore. He had a network of conspirators who would lie for him, cover for him, and enable him.
Involuntarily, her hands curled into fists. While Hell handed Murray his drink, Trace gave a barely perceptible nudge to her shoulder. He didn’t look at her, and his stance remained alert, on duty as it were, but she caught his warning all the same.
It could be deadly for her to show her hand this early in the game.
With ice cubes clinking, Murray sipped his drink, and then asked, “So she suffered?”
Jaw tight, Priss nodded. “Immeasurably, yes.”
He took another drink. “I don’t remember her.”
Of course he didn’t. Theirs hadn’t been a true relationship by any stretch. He’d used her mother for financial gain, and only by the turn of fate had her mother escaped with her life intact.
Deliberately, Priss relaxed her muscles. “I understand. It was a long time ago.”
“I won’t give you a dime, you know.” He swirled the drink, clinking the ice cubes again while smiling at her. “If you’re here for money, you’re wasting your time.”
As if she’d take anything from him—other than his black heart. “Please, you misunderstand. I don’t want or expect anything from you. It’s just that, with my mother gone, I’m alone now.”
Murray’s eyes glinted, and they went over her again. “No other relatives? No husband or at least a boyfriend?”
“No, sir. That’s why I wanted to meet you. And …” She tried for shyness. “That is, if you were interested, I thought we could get to know each other.” She rushed to add, “No obligation at all, I swear. It’s just … you’re the only family I have left now.”
That request pushed Hell over the edge. “Don’t be pathetic.” Moving to stand in front of Priss, she put her hands on her hips and thrust her breasts forward. “Why should Murray believe you’re family? How could he possibly be related to a homely little bitch like you?”
Trace snorted, and Murray laughed.
“What?” After an evil glare at Trace, Hell whipped around to face Murray. Her arms went stiff at her sides, her hands knotted. “You see a family resemblance?”
“Not at all. But despite the absurd clothing, she’s far from homely.” He gave Trace a man-to-man look. “What do you say, Trace?”
“Sexy.”
Grinning, Murray lifted his drink as if in toast. “There. You see, Hell?”
She snatched up a paperweight from Murray’s desk. “She won’t be so sexy when I finish with her.”
Jesus, Priss thought, stunned by the violent intention. Was now the moment when she should run? But no, once again, Trace stepped in front of her. He even managed to catch the projectile when Hell let out a screech and threw it.
Not at all affronted by her outburst, Murray laughed aloud, then jerked Hell around to face him. “You are such a jealous bitch, Helene, and usually it amuses me.” His laughter died and his gaze hardened. “But not now.”
Taking that warning to heart, Hell retreated.
In a milder tone now, Murray said, “This is business.” He tweaked Hell’s chin. “And you should know better than to ever interfere with business.”
For whatever reason, that appeased Hell. She even gave a lazy smile. “I see.”
“Business?” Priss asked. Could it really be that easy to get in his inner circle?
Holding out a hand toward her, Murray snapped his fingers, but not understanding, Priss waffled.
Trace took her purse from her and handed it to the big man. He dumped the contents onto his thick mahogany desk, picked up her wallet and searched through it.
Frowning, he asked, “No ID?”
Trace had been right about the driver’s license. His boldness blew her away. “I, uh, only recently moved here. From North Carolina, I mean. That’s where my mother and I lived.”
“If you didn’t drive, then how’d you get here?”
“Bus?”
“You’re asking me?”
Priss realized how she’d said that, and rephrased her answer. “I didn’t know if you meant here, as in your office, or here, Ohio. Either way, I took the bus.”
Murray’s eyes narrowed. “Where are you staying?”
Her brain scrambled, but with Trace’s warning in mind she came up with a lie. “I’m in a hotel.” She named the location, which was a good five miles from where she’d actually rented an apartment.
Hell picked up a photo. “Your mother?”
“Yes.”
She smirked. “I see why Murray left her.”
Oh, soon, Priss thought. Very soon she would make Hell pay for that insult. “My mother never blamed him. She said she knew it was a brief affair and hadn’t expected anything more.” Transferring her attention back to Murray—in time to see him studying her calves—Priss said, “That’s why she never contacted you about me. She knew you hadn’t been involved enough to want responsibility for a child.”
He laughed. “Is that what she told you?”
“Yes. That you were a powerful, accomplished man, and that she couldn’t burden you, knowing your preferences.”
“She was protective of you.”
“Yes.”
“And she was right.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
Priss saw that they were twice the size of Trace’s arms, to match Murray’s thick neck and colossal back. But put to the test, Priss would place her bet on Trace every time. He had a quiet but lethal edge to him that instilled confidence in his ability. He might not be savage like Murray, but he would be effective.
Probably why Murray had hired him.
Behind his goatee, Murray’s lips curled in a smirk. “I never wanted a child, but you’re here now, aren’t you?”
Priss took that as a rhetorical question and kept her mouth shut.
Taking her arm, Murray pulled her, not gently but without overt hostility, from the chair. Not giving her much choice, he turned her in a circle, inspecting her from every angle. “I’ve made up my mind.”
“About?” she asked hopefully.
“We’ll get acquainted over lunch.”
Still recovering from that sudden spin, Priss said, “Oh! Yes. Lunch would be great.” I could kill you over lunch. There’d probably be plenty of time.
“But not just yet.”
Confused, Priss said, “What?”
Murray surveyed her with a critical eye—and disdain of her person. “You’re not exactly a fashion plate, now, are you? If I’m to be seen with you in public, we need to do some … adjustments.”
“Adjustments?”
“Surely you realize that more flattering clothes are required, along with a makeover of sorts.” Before she could protest, Murray said, “My treat of course.” And then with a smarmy smile, he continued, “It’s the least I can do.”
Sounding bored, Trace asked, “Want me to take care of it?”
Murray nodded. “Yes, that will work. Take her shopping for a new wardrobe, and then make an appointment at the salon. Total do-over, Trace. Hair, makeup, waxing …” He gave a salacious smile. “Whatever she needs.”
Priss tried not to look as appalled as she felt.
Trace continued to look bored. “No problem.”
By way of dismissal, Murray said, “On your way out, stop by Alice’s desk and set the lunch appointment on my calendar.”
“Do you have a specific date in mind?”
Still holding Priss’s arm and giving her that very non-paternal appraisal, Murray shrugged. “Whenever I’m free after she’s had the work done.”
“Got it.”
Priss gaped at the autocratic management of her life. No one had even bothered to consult her. “Shopping?” She tried to sound appreciative. “That’s so … generous of you, but really, I don’t need—”
Hell loomed near again. “Do you realize what an important man Murray is? Do you realize his stature in society? He can’t be seen with you when you look so—” she searched for a word, and settled on the not-so-insulting “—common.”
“Oh, but …” But Priss really wanted to deck Helene. Just one good palm shot to the nose, hard enough to leave her a bloody mess, but not hard enough to drive her cartilage into her brain. Priss forced a nervous smile. “It’s just that I didn’t want to impose.”
Hell made a rude sound. She scooped up the contents of Priss’s purse and dumped it all in her arms. “You imposed the minute you showed up here claiming a relationship. Accept Murray’s generosity. You need it.”
“Down, Helene. That’s not necessary.” Chuckling at the exchange, though it wasn’t in the least funny, Murray asked her, “Isn’t that right, Priscilla?”
“Well, of course…. I mean …” She struggled to get everything back in her purse. “If you’re sure that’s what you really want to do—”
He dismissed her ramblings. “Drive her home, Trace. Make sure that she’s secure.” He gave Trace a telling look. “Wherever she’s staying.”
“I’ll see to it.” And again Trace took her arm to lead her from the room.
Behind her, Priss heard Hell muttering something indistinct and she heard Murray laughing some more while playfully shushing her.
After closing the doors behind them, Trace gave her arm a jerk, drawing her from her thoughts. “Come on, then.”
Mulish, Priss made him drag her every step. He only went as far as the poor receptionist’s desk. “Hey, hon. Can you check Murray’s calendar for me? He wants me to set up an extended lunch.”
“Sure, Trace.” After tucking her short brown hair behind her ear, Alice began typing. Her slender fingers flew over the keyboard. While she did that, Priss again studied Trace. He spoke so kindly to Alice, in a tone he hadn’t used on Hell, or on her. He actually sounded … gentle. Kind.
So, did old Trace have something going on with the mousy secretary? Priss considered it—and shook her head. No, not likely.
Alice peered up at Trace with big brown eyes. “He’s free tomorrow for a few hours.”
No, no, no. She wasn’t ready yet.
Trace frowned, and to Priss’s relief, he said, “That’s not enough time for me to prep her.”
Alice glanced at Priss with new sympathy. “Oh. I see.”
Oh, what? What did she see? Priss wondered. Put out that Trace so thoroughly ignored her, she started over to a leather chair to sit, but without looking away from Alice, Trace caught her wrist and kept her ensnared beside him.
“Early next week he has three hours free. That’d give you through the weekend to … finish.”
“That’ll work. Pick a swanky place and set the reservation. Wherever Murray likes best, okay? I’ll get the details from you later.”
Priss tapped her foot in impatience. She couldn’t cross her arms, not with the way Trace kept her trapped in his hold, so foot tapping was the only way to express her annoyance.
But then Trace’s big foot came down over hers, not hard, but with a clear message. He didn’t even look at her while he gave the silent order for her to be still. The jerk.
“Got it,” Alice said.
“Thanks, honey.” He straightened again and, after removing his foot, turned his dangerous stare on Priss. “Let’s go.”
Without a word of complaint, she followed him to the elevator. She was more than ready to breathe in some fresh air untainted by corruption and evil.
This time the elevator took them all the way to the basement and into a private parking garage.
“I parked out—”
Trace jerked her closer, making it almost look as if she’d tripped, when she hadn’t. As he helped her straighten, he breathed near her ear, “Monitored.”
“Ah.” She knew better than to start looking around, but the idea of surveillance made her skin crawl.
Was Murray watching her even now? She fought off a shiver of dread.
When Trace stopped at a spiffy, shiny-clean, black Mercedes with darkened windows, Priss lifted her brows. “Wow.”
He opened the passenger door, and she more than willingly got in.
“Buckle up.” He shut her door, circled the hood and folded his big body in behind the wheel. With both doors closed, he took several deep breaths, then braced his hands on the steering wheel, squeezing and working until his knuckles turned white and the muscles in his forearms bulged.
Impressive. Knowing no one could see her through the dark windows, Priss lifted her brows. “Is it safe in here?”
By way of answer, he whipped his head around to pin her in place with white-hot rage. “I should save myself a lot of trouble and just kill you now, before Murray has me do it.”
Oh, shit. Priss reached for the door handle, but the locks clicked into place, and she knew she wouldn’t be going anywhere, not unless Trace wanted her to.
Possibilities and probable scenarios winged through her mind. Should she fight right now, or wait until they were out on the street? How should she attack? Face first, or the more susceptible crotch?
She peeked over at Trace, and knew no matter what she tried, he’d be ready. Well, hell.

CHAPTER THREE
AWARE OF PRISCILLA seething beside him, Trace put the car in gear and headed for the exit ramp. “What does your car look like and where did you park?”
“Umm …”
He sensed her tensing beside him, probably waiting for sunlight to hit the car before she launched herself at him. Such a foolish, but brave, consideration.
He shook his head. “I never hit a woman.” He glanced at Priss. “First.”
Confusion softened her hostile edge. “What?”
“I don’t suggest you try me, Priscilla. I’m seriously pissed enough right now to give you that paddling you so very much deserve.”
Understanding that he’d just been letting off steam, her shoulders slumped. She even scoffed. “Paddling? Don’t be an ass.” She dropped her purse onto the floor in front of her seat and put her head back. Almost as an afterthought, she said, “I’d never allow that.”
She honestly thought she could stop him if he was inclined toward a little discipline? What a joke. But she was correct to relax. He had no intention of abusing her in any way.
Far as he was concerned, she’d been abused enough for one day.
“I parked two blocks away, just in case, ya know? It’s a dark blue Honda Civic coupe.”
“I’ll have someone pick it up.”
“Just like that, huh?” She stretched, yawned. “You don’t need my keys?”
“No.”
When she slipped her feet from her shoes, wiggled her toes and let out a sigh, Trace’s temper shot up another notch. “Feel better now?”
“Well, yeah.” She turned her head to see him, and even smiled a little. “Knowing that you’re not really thinking about murdering me is a huge relief.”
“Don’t get too comfortable. You’re not out of the woods yet.”
She shifted toward him. “Yeah, I get that. So what’s going on here? What’s with the wardrobe and all that nonsense?”
“You require a whole new look to showcase your dubious charms.”
“My …” Her jaw went slack as everything finally fell into place. “That son-of-a-bitch! I told him I was his daughter.”
“You think Murray cares about a kid he’s never known? Get real.” Trace couldn’t believe her naivete. “No way in hell will he allow anyone a claim on his empire. Being related makes you a bigger possible threat, not more endearing.”
“But … people saw me with him. A whole building full of people!”
“People who work for him.” And that said it all—or should have.
“And they do what he says, when he says?”
“That’s about it.” Those who wouldn’t be an accomplice to his ruse of legit business, or an alibi when the facade cracked, would be as susceptible to harm as Priscilla.
“So, what’s he going to do, sell me to the highest bidder?” When Trace scowled, not about to confirm or deny that, she asked, “Out of the country, or just someplace isolated? I bet he has contacts in California and Arizona, right?”
Trace did a double take. What did Ms. Priscilla Patterson know about any of that? Murray Coburn hadn’t gotten his fame by making mistakes or leaking information. “Come again?”
“Oh, give it up, Trace.” Rather than look afraid, or even worried, by the reality of Murray’s malevolence, she seemed speculative. “We both know how Murray made his fortune, right?”
Dangerous. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”
She turned so that her shoulders were in the corner of the seat and she half faced him. “You need me to go first? Is this a test of some kind? Fine. No problem.” She leaned toward him. “Human trafficking.”
Trace tried not to show any reaction.
“I assumed the sick bastard would stick with immigrants. I mean, I know the employment agencies—profitable as they might be—are just a front for the real moneymaker.” She looked out the window at the passing scenery—and didn’t ask where he took her. “But if Murray discovered good income with homegrown females, I guess he could be expanding his business enterprises.”
No way in hell would Trace corroborate any of her supposition—and it had to be supposition. No way in hell could she have any hard facts, because they were few and far between, and near impossible to uncover.
Trace didn’t trust her, not in any way, shape or form. But her theory brought about some interesting questions. “What do you know about human trafficking?”
In a barely audible mutter, she said, “More than I want to.”
A chill of alarm ran down Trace’s spine. “What was that?”
She gave an aggrieved huff. “Look, I’m not stupid, okay? Before coming here, I did as much studying on the subject as I could. I know how so many poor immigrants are abused, promised good jobs only to be recruited into prostitution and worse. And I read that white females are in higher demand, because they’re not as commonly traded as immigrants.”
Trace did a little more white-knuckle squeezing. “If that’s what you think, then what the hell are you doing here?”
She shook her head, making that long reddish ponytail swish. “No more questions.”
His teeth came together. “Oh, no, you don’t, Priscilla. Refusal is an option you don’t have. If you want to live through this, which is still doubtful by the way, you will tell me everything.”
She sighed. “It’s a horrid name, isn’t it?”
Lost, he glanced at her. “What? Priscilla?”
“Yes. Mom shortened it to Priss, so that’s what people call me—at least, the people who know me well. But that’s not much better.” She rubbed at tired eyes. “It makes me sound stuck-up, like a straightlaced Goody Two-shoes. I thought finally, for once in my life, my name would be worthwhile.”
“Because you wanted Murray to believe you’re some Little Ms. Innocent?”
“Yeah.” She eyed him. “You don’t think he bought it?”
Trace snorted. “He’s not a fool. I don’t think he’s completely onto you, but he’s definitely suspicious.”
“But you are onto me?”
“I know you’re a fraud, Priscilla. I know you have something planned, something that might get us both killed. And I know you’re out of your league.”
She looked sleepy. “All that, huh?”
While she was being marginally agreeable, Trace pushed his luck. “Is he really your father?”
“What do you think?”
“I think skewed personal vendettas are the most dangerous kind.” And somehow, this was personal for her. Because of her mother? Likely. Especially if she had no other family.
“Personal vendettas are always a good reason to get involved.” She studied him. “So why are you here?”
Trace kept his gaze on the road ahead. “It’s a job.”
“Bull.” She laughed, and the sound was pleasant despite the strain. “Okay, so you’re good at deciphering situations. Me, too. Wanna know what I think?”
Trace tipped his head toward a squat brick structure with a purple awning out front. “There’s the boutique where you’ll shop.”
She didn’t pick up on the subject change. “I think you’re more than capable of killing, but not innocents. You kill people who deserve it. You’re good, so that means you’re a professional of some kind. Government operative maybe?”
When he sat there, stony-faced, she shrugged.
“Okay, maybe not. I suppose you could be an independent contractor. Actually, that’s a better fit because you seem like the independent sort, more so than a man who takes orders.”
Good God. He didn’t look at her.
She smiled. “The way I see it, everyone knows Murray is scum, but he has friends in high places. He does big-time contributions to political campaigns and that buys him enough immunity. For added insurance, he has a few senators neatly tucked into his pocket.”
If that was all he had, the authorities could have eventually brought him down—and Trace wouldn’t be on the case right now.
He pulled into a parking spot on the street across from the boutique. “We’re here.”
Priscilla reached for his arm. “Extorting women from other countries is dangerous enough. But when you start tampering with legal citizens, someone is bound to get fired up. Whoever that someone is, he hired you to shut down Murray’s operation.”
Interesting take. Except that no one had hired him. No one needed to. “That’s one hell of an imagination you have there, Priss.” Trace pulled free of her unnerving touch. She was good, he’d give her that. But she’d missed the motivation entirely.
Human trafficking had hit him on a very personal level, so he’d made it his mission to demolish anyone and everyone involved, starting with the biggest, most obvious organizations. Thanks to his best friend, Dare Macintosh, they’d made great headway already.
And now he wanted Murray Coburn.
Trace left the car, put change in the meter, and went around to Priss’s door. She’d just stepped out when his phone rang. Again, not trusting her to be more than a foot away from him, Trace held her arm while he answered. “Miller.”
“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?”
“Why not?” Trace gave Priss a warning frown. “Get her started while I step outside to make a call. But I’ll want to see her in each outfit.”
“Of course.” Twyla clamped onto Priss’s arm. Her long painted nails looked obscene against Priss’s pale skin. Trace watched as Twyla yanked her forward in the same manner one might use with a recalcitrant mule.
Looking back over her shoulder, Priss said, “Trace?”
That small voice, accompanied by the look of fear on her face, almost got to him. She was such a contradiction in so many ways that she kept him off-kilter. “You’ll be in good hands, Priss. I’ll only be a moment.”
Refusing to be drawn in by her, he stepped out into the bright sunshine and, using the prepaid phone, put a call into his friend Dare.
“Macintosh.”
With his free hand, Trace rubbed the back of his neck, trying to work out the growing tension there. “It’s Trace, and I’ve got a small conundrum.”
“How can I help?”
“I’m going to need a backup tail.”
“For you?”
“No, for Priscilla Patterson.”
“Huh.” Dare made a sound of amusement. “Sounds like an interesting conundrum.”
“She’s claiming to be Coburn’s estranged daughter, and she showed up saying she hoped to get acquainted with him.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. But it gets better.” Even as he spoke, Trace surveyed the surrounding area—and spotted the dark car parked half a block away. His gaze went right on past so no one would know he’d noticed it. “I’m being watched so I have to make this fast. She left a dark blue Honda Civic two blocks up from Coburn’s office. I need it moved someplace safe before he or his henchmen find it. Wouldn’t hurt to have the plates switched out, too, just in case.”
“No problem. I’ll send Jackson up to take care of it, and then he can stick around as the tail, and anything else you need him to do.”
Trace nodded. “Yeah, that’ll work.” Jackson was a newer recruit to the operation, but credible to the extreme. “I’ll call you later tonight.”
“Consider it done.”
Having Dare Macintosh involved really helped lighten the load. “Thanks.”
“Trace?” Dare hesitated only a second. “Watch your back.”
“You bet.” He hung up and reentered the shop. After accompanying Hell here on one of her extravagant shopping expeditions, Trace already knew the routine. He went on through the front of the establishment, past a thick velvet curtain and into the back dressing rooms.
Everything was ornate and fancy, with luxurious fabrics and mirrors everywhere. Taking a cushioned seat and propping his feet up on a small round lacquered table, Trace inspected the various curtained dressing rooms. Beneath the hem of one curtain, he saw small, narrow feet.
Priss.
The feet didn’t move for the longest time, so Trace cleared his throat. “Step out so I can see, Priss.”
He heard a loud groan, and then in a whispered hush, “It’s indecent.”
He’d known it would be, and still his pulse sped up. Resisting the urge to clear his throat, Trace said, “I’ll be the judge of that. Now stop hiding.”
The curtain parted, she peeked out, looked around and didn’t see Twyla, and with her face twisted in disgust, she took one long step out.
Without even realizing it, Trace dropped his feet back to the floor and sat forward. Beneath his skin, he burned. Muscles twitched and tightened. “Turn around.”
Eyes rolling, Priss did a turn—but far too fast for a thorough exam. And still it was enough.
God almighty, the girl was built with luscious curves and blatant sensuality. There’d be no hiding flaws, not in that sheer bit of nothingness.
But she had none. She was … perfection.
His mouth went dry. “Again, slower this time so I can actually see you.”
She gave a low complaint, but did as told.
The zigzag design of the sheer mesh dress left key places exposed, like her thighs, her belly, and an abundance of cleavage. It crossed over her breasts, just barely hiding her nipples with the doubling of fabric. Same for the notch of her thighs, and the cleft of her rounded behind.
Only an idiot would misunderstand Murray’s intent in having her dressed so provocatively—and Priss wasn’t an idiot. Is that why she went along?
Twyla strode back in with a pair of black stiletto heels. “Nice.” She tilted her head back to give a practiced study of Priss in the mind-blowing dressing. Brows down, she gave a few yanks to the material, lowering the neckline, rearranging the hem a little higher. “For this getup, you don’t need hose. But try on these shoes.”
Priss looked agonized. “I can’t walk in those.”
“Guess you’ll have to learn, won’t you?” Twyla handed the impossibly high heels to her.
When Priss bent to slip them on, Trace just knew one of her breasts would break free of the meager constraint of mesh. He held his breath, waiting, but no, she stayed in place.
Barely.
Priss straightened again, and he saw that she had gorgeous legs. Really gorgeous. Long and firm and sleek.
Damn. Trace rubbed a hand over his mouth. Murray would go nuts seeing her like this, whether she was his daughter or not.
He drew a breath and fulfilled his role. “She needs her hair loose.”
Priss shot him a killer look, but she didn’t argue as Twyla began working the rubber band free without concern to any hairs that snapped free.
“I’ll take it.”
Twyla gave him a questioning look, but handed over the rubber band, now entwined with several long hairs. Trace stuck it in his pocket.
That took care of one chore; collecting a sample for the hair follicle test.
Priss’s long hair tumbled down in thick, shining hanks that landed over her shoulders, around her breasts and, as he’d suspected, to the top of that stellar ass.
“We’ll take it,” Trace said, because if he’d said anything else, Twyla would be onto him.
“Shouldn’t we know the price?” Priss asked while fingering the material, trying to cover herself more.
She tugged at the hem, and Twyla smacked the back of her hand.
Trace interrupted before any real hostilities could start; he had no idea how much more Priss could take without losing her cool composure. “Make the next one a little more reserved, for everyday wear. Maybe some tight jeans and a few halters.”
Trying to appear uncertain rather than furious, Priss said, “And maybe some shoes that are more practical?”
Twyla looked to Trace.
He shrugged. “We don’t want her falling on her face. Get her something with a thicker heel.”
“Ankle boots will work,” Twyla announced. “With those legs, they’ll look great.” Then Twyla added to Priss, “With this dress, undergarments are out.”
Priss squeaked. “I have to be naked underneath?”
Twyla ignored her; Trace couldn’t. “You want to look your best, Priss. Trust Twyla. She knows what she’s doing.”
“Indeed.” Twyla waved toward a stack of undergarments on an ornate table. “I assume you want to see her in the selection I choose? With her coloring, I think it’s best to stick to black and red.”
“Yeah.” Trace frowned at the rasp in his voice, and firmed his tone. “I’ll see them on her.” It was expected, he told himself. What would Murray think if he dodged the duty? Twyla would tell him, no doubt about that.
After that lame bit of rationalizing, Trace made himself sit back again. Aware of Priss staring at him with wide eyes, he avoided her gaze and said, “Let’s wrap it up though. I have a lot to do yet today.”
“She can model the underwear for you while I go grab some jeans and halters.”
As soon as Twyla left the room, his gaze jumped to Priss’s furious face. She looked scalded, her cheeks were so hot, and ire lit her green eyes.
He had not one iota of sympathy for her. Not yet anyway. Very softly, almost as a goad, he asked, “Regrets?”
Those burning green eyes narrowed. She grabbed a fistful of underwear and, without a single totter on the stilettos, stalked back behind the curtain.
In an agony of suspense, Trace watched the movements of her feet.
She left the heels on, damn her.
He saw her step into a tiny scrap of black lace and his lungs constricted. A few seconds later, she stepped out.
This time he didn’t leave his seat. He wasn’t sure he could. His eyes burned and his cock twitched. Gaze glued to her, he said, “You know the program.”
Smug at his palpable reaction, Priss turned—oh, so slowly. The panties were no more than a thong, leaving her entire delectable backside beautifully bare. For such a small woman, she had wide shoulders that tapered to a minuscule waist, and then flared again to those incredible hips. She wasn’t skinny by any stretch, but her waist dipped in and there was only the slightest curve to her belly. The bra lifted her breasts until they looked ready to tumble over the strip of material meant to restrain them. Again, her nipples were barely concealed.
“Well?” Giving him a coy look, Priss flipped her hair over her shoulder. “What do you think?”
He thought he wanted to fuck her, bad, even knowing she was off-limits.
Propping his forearms on his knees, his hands hanging loosely, Trace looked her over again. Hell, he couldn’t stop looking her over. She had no tattoos, no piercings to mar her fair, beautiful skin. And with those tiny panties leaving little to the imagination, he didn’t need X-ray glasses to see that she’d never been waxed. Little Ms. Priss liked to keep it natural.
Why the hell that excited him, he couldn’t say.
“Cat got your tongue?” she fairly purred.
Trace forced his gaze off her mound and up to her face. “Adequate.”
“Hmm. Maybe the others will be better.” She hefted her breasts in her hands, rearranged the elastic of the thong, and basically tortured him. “Sit tight, okay? I’ll be right back.”
Witch. She knew she looked good and she wasn’t above mocking him now that Twyla wasn’t around to see.
Never in his life had he known such a brazen, sexy and self-confident woman—who also managed to be somewhat … pure.
Pure sensual appeal. Pure innocence.
Pure trouble.
Calling himself a masochist, Trace settled back in his seat and waited for her next reveal.
IGNORING THE FLUTTERING of her stomach and how her pulse sped with nervousness, Priss pulled on the red ruffled boy-short panties and ridiculous matching bra. This set covered more skin, but was sheer enough that, if Trace looked close, he’d be able to see through it.
And she knew he’d look closely. He’d already seared her with the heat of his intensity.
As a modest woman who cared little about attracting male attention, the entire scenario was torturous for her. She figured it may as well be torturous for Trace, too.
Priss drew a breath, shored up her audacity and parted the curtain with fanfare.
GOD ALMIGHTY. Trace gripped the arms of the chair and tightened his abdomen. He searched his brain for a blasé response, and finally said, “Cute.” So damn cute that if she didn’t get changed fast, he’d be on her and to hell with his cover. “Hustle it up already, will you? We’re running out of time.”
PLEASED WITH HIS noticeable turmoil, Priss stepped back into the small room and changed into the heart set. The thong had a red heart in front that just barely covered her triangle of pubic hair, and the lace bra had red hearts, almost like pasties, only big enough to hide her nipples. She wasn’t unfamiliar with exotic lingerie, but never before had she worn it. When it came to underwear, she was more into comfort.
Her embarrassment lingered, and already her feet ached from the arch of the shoe. But she drew in a breath and asked with saccharine sweetness, “Trace, are you ready?”
No. He wasn’t ready. Somehow he had to regain control of this situation. Right now she had the upper hand, and that was untenable.
With the perfect plan in mind, Trace shook his head, but said with what he hoped sounded like indifference, “Quit stalling.”
And then he pulled out his cell phone.
This time, she was all but naked. What little material covered her proved mere decoration, like icing on a very sweet cake—a cake he wouldn’t mind eating, slowly, top to toes and everywhere in between.
Priss stood with her hands on her generous hips, her feet apart, her shoulders back.
How such a small woman packed so many perfect curves, he didn’t know. But she managed it with flair. Boy, did she ever.
“Good enough.”
When she smiled at him, he lifted the cell phone and used it to take a picture.
Squawking, Priss leaped behind the curtain and her face went up in flames. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Suddenly shy?” Content with her appalled tone and burning-red face, Trace looked down at the phone. Oh, yeah, that’d do. He pushed a few buttons, then put the cell phone away. “Don’t worry, honey. I emailed it to myself.” His smile felt like a leer. “No one else will see it.”
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 temptress.
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 heartfelt, “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 most men, he became putty at the sight of a naked woman.
Not an ideal situation, but to gain her end goals, yeah, she could deal with that.
Twyla produced the boots, and they were unlike any Priss had ever seen. Studs decorated the vamp of the black leather boots with a peekaboo toe. At least they did have a thicker heel.
“Oh, how cute,” Priss gushed, even though she thought they were absurd. “I’ll just go try these on.” She tipped her head and looked at Trace. “Did you want to see these outfits, too?”
He scrubbed a hand over his face and, without a word, indicated for her to get a move on.
It was all Priss could do not to gloat. Especially since Twyla hung around, forcing Trace to endorse his ruse. The big faker. Even as she tugged on the skin-tight jeans, Priss wondered if Trace was as deadly as she’d assumed.
Not that she doubted he could kill, but had he? Anytime recently?
It took mere seconds to pull on the boots and don a halter. The first one, made like a silk corset, fit her like a glove. Trace approved it with a terse nod.
The second, made of stretchy lace and resembling a camisole, was the most comfortable. He barely looked at her in that one, but Twyla gave it her stamp of approval.
The last, red with white polka dots, was Priss’s favorite for the simple reason that it was the most concealing.
Trace appeared to agree. “She’ll wear that now. Get her more of the same jeans, in different washes, and a few cocktail dresses. I’ll come by tomorrow to pick up everything.”
Twyla began collecting the items. “This goes on Murray’s tab?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
Trace kept his gaze off Priss, annoying her. She wouldn’t let him get away with that for long.
In fact, as soon as they were alone again, she intended to call him on a few things. And then she’d make him pay for putting her through that little rendition of exhibitionism.

CHAPTER FOUR
THE SECOND THEY PULLED away from the curb, Trace beat her to the punch. “Not a word, Priss. I mean it.”
She opened her mouth, but after giving his frown due attention, she retreated. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
He gave her a disbelieving look.
She let out a breath. “Yeah. That question sounded preposterous even to me. For God’s sake, I’ve just been forced into the most revealing outfits for your entertainment, and for Murray’s eventual enjoyment, so all kinds of things are wrong.”
“It’s fucked three ways to Sunday, I agree.”
She scowled, and again started to speak, only to have Trace interrupt her.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, he said, “We’re being followed.”
She didn’t look. She obviously knew better, which sharpened his curiosity about her.
Slowly, barely, she leaned toward the window to use the side-view mirror. “Who do you think it is?”
“No idea, so try not to annoy me for a few minutes.” He dug out his cell phone and dialed Murray. Most people would have to go through Alice, but Trace had a direct line.
That meant he had the ability to interrupt Murray while working, and while doing … other things. This happened to be one of those times.
“This better be good,” Murray complained, grunting a little, sounding winded.
Trace went icy cold with disgust, knowing just what Murray was doing. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“Helene will take that up with you later, I’m sure.” He chuckled and, in the background, Trace heard Hell’s deep moans.
Christ. “I’ll get right to the point.” Right now, Murray was likely trying to keep Helene calm enough so she wouldn’t butcher anyone. She had a mean jealous streak, and Priss had pushed all her buttons. A good fuck would help her expend some energy and tension. “I’m being followed.”
Murray said dumbly, “What’s that?”
“If you put the tail on me, no problem. I get that you’re cautious and I can accept that. I’ll let him follow along like a good employee. But if you didn’t, I’m going to lose the fuck, or shoot him. Your choice.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Murray’s loud guffaws nearly split Trace’s ear drums.
Aware of Priss watching him, Trace turned another corner, going nowhere in particular. “What’s it to be, Murray?”
“Lose him, and if you can’t, feel free to kill him with my blessing. He deserves no less for being a shitty tail.”
“Got it.” More than aware that Murray hadn’t confirmed or denied putting the tail on him in the first place, Trace disconnected the call. “Hold tight, Priss. If I don’t lose the bastard, I’ll have to kill him.”
“Squeamish about a little bloodshed, are you?”
“Not at all.” And obviously, neither was she.
“So what’s the problem?”
“Don’t really have one.” Right now, there were half a dozen people involved in Murray’s operation that he’d take great pleasure in annihilating. “But we have more important things to do right now.”
With that said, he took a sharp turn and accelerated. When he hit a hundred, Priss said quietly, “Okay, maybe this isn’t—”
“Hold on.”
He took another turn, hit the expressway, and got off on an exit two miles down the way. He pulled into an old, dilapidated movie theater another mile off the exit. Steering the Mercedes behind the ramshackle screen, he put it in Park, took out his gun and waited.
Beside him, Priss sat stock-still, her breath held.
Only the rush of muted traffic on the main road could be heard. Gun held balanced on his knee, Trace turned to her. “Breathe.”
She inhaled sharply, almost choking. “You lost him?”
“I think so, but we’ll wait here a minute to be sure.”
Still wide-eyed, she looked around. “Are you familiar with this area?”
“Nope.” Trace visually outlined her face; the pert nose, the lush mouth, the long dark eye lashes and keen green gaze. “At least, not as familiar as you are with fetish wear.”
Her gaze jerked over to him. Those delicately arched brows pinched down. “What are you talking about?”
“You.” Using the gun, he gestured at her body. “In that boner-inspiring fluff called underwear. You’re more than comfortable with it. Hell, a real innocent wouldn’t even have figured out how to wear it, much less used it to taunt me.”
Her lips curled. “Oh, poor Trace. Did you feel taunted?”
“Yeah.” He stared at her mouth. “I did.” It occurred to him that he hadn’t seen a single freckle on her. Not on her face, not on her body.
Curious, given the color of her hair.
He tapped the gun against his leg, drawing Priss’s attention to it. It’d help if she showed just a modicum of uncertainty. Not that he didn’t appreciate her cool cooperation in this now jumbled case, but still … “So tell me, Priscilla Patterson. What did you do before you decided to bedevil me?”
PRISS PONDERED the idea of lying. Again.
“Don’t bother.”
Damn, he was astute. So what the heck? She put her chin up. “I’m the owner of an adult store.”
That annoying gun-tapping stopped. His eyes narrowed, and then he gave a dramatic, negligent shrug. “Somehow, with you, that makes sense.”
“I’m not sure I like it that you think so.” Was he trying to pigeonhole her? Jerk. “And you know, it’s really conceited of you to think I’m here on account of you.”
Trace wedged his shoulder against the door, getting comfortable. “Is that right?”
“Yeah.” Priss reached over and patted his cheek. “You’re just an unexpected perk.” She rested her hands on her thighs, aware of Trace looking at her chest in the stupid halter. “I’m here for Murray.”
“Because he’s your father?”
“Yeah.” She slanted him a look. “And because I’m going to kill him.”
For long seconds, Trace said nothing. He reholstered the gun, shifted back in his seat and put the car in gear. “You’re not killing anyone, Priss, but I’d like to hear more about this dirty little store of yours.”
“I am so killing him, as soon as I can.” And in the same even, nonchalant tone, she said, “The shop is great, not at all dirty. It’s well run—by me—and it stays busy. It supported me and my mother before she passed away.”
Thinking of her mother hurt, so she shook that off.
“How big is it?”
“Not even as big as Murray’s office. Most of our business is DVDs and books, along with the occasional battery-operated item.” She bobbed her eyebrows at him. “The underwear … well, we have a few crazy things, like crotchless panties and pasties and bondage bras, but mostly just for display. When people want stuff, they order out of a catalog, and we get a percentage of the sales.”
Trace drove out, and there wasn’t a single sign of their tail. “Go on.”
“What else do you want to know?”
His gaze kept moving around the area, alert, cautious. His question sounded almost as an afterthought. “You ever wore any of the merchandise before?”
“Nope. I’m a comfy cotton kind of gal.”
He nodded, then tossed out, “How did your mother die?”
Lacking a smooth transition, Priss wondered if Trace hoped to take her off guard, or was it just his way? Even as he questioned her—and listened to her answers—he kept constant surveillance of the area.
When they were on the main road again, he stuck with back streets rather than return to the highway.
“Mom had a stroke.”
“So what you told Murray was the truth?”
She nodded.
Trace drove with one hand and, with the other, he reached over for her knee. “I’m sorry.”
Priss badly wanted to cover his hand with her own, but before she could really think about it, he withdrew again. “You haven’t exactly been nice to me, Trace, so why should I believe you care?”
He shrugged. “We’re each stuck in our role, and you know it.” He glanced at her, then away again. “I lost my parents, both of them, long ago. Regardless of everything else we have going on, I know how it is to go through that.”
Priss accepted his explanation. “Thanks.”
“It was rough?”
“Yeah.” Such an understatement. “Mom suffered for a long time before she died. She was … incapacitated. Unable to care for herself. Little by little, she wasted away, and in the end, her death was a mercy.”
Putting his hand back on her knee, Trace squeezed in a show of comfort. “You cared for her yourself?”
“The best I could.” Her chest hurt, remembering how inadequate she’d been. “There wasn’t anyone else. But I still had to work, and we’d laid low for so long—”
“Staying out of Murray’s radar?”
“Why else? Not that mom thought Murray would have any real interest in me, not as a father anyway. She didn’t trust him, with good reason. And yes, that’s why we had a sex shop. Mom said Murray never would have thought to look for us there.”
“He’d have assumed she went back to her middle-class upbringing?”
Priss nodded. “So she hid where she knew he wouldn’t look for her. But because of our lifestyle, we never had much insurance, or much cash put away.”
They rode in silence for a while, and Priss—thinking Trace’s nosiness had been appeased—closed her eyes. It had been a long, very tumultuous day. And it wasn’t over yet.
After ten minutes or so, Trace asked, “You asleep?”
“No.” It had been so long since she’d had any real sleep, she’d forgotten what it was like.
“Who’s running the shop for you while you’re here?”
“My partner, Gary Deaton.” Priss hated to think about that, because no way would Gary keep up things the way she wanted.
“Partner, as is business, or personal?”
“Personal? Eewwww. Hardly.” Such a repugnant thought made her shudder. “Business only, thank you very much. And actually, he’s not really a partner. More like an employee. I just call him a partner because he works as many hours as me, sometimes more. Right now, while I’m here, definitely more.”
“Anyone else in the picture?”
“No, and what do you care anyway?”
“Just wondering if anyone else is involved in this harebrained plan of yours.” He turned another corner, and they ended up on a road familiar to her. “Or if you have someone back home who’ll start looking for you soon if you don’t check in.”
Priss wasn’t really worried, but she wouldn’t take Trace lightly, either. “Thinking about killing me again?”
He gave a short laugh. “Killing you, no.”
So what was he thinking of doing with her? She didn’t dare ask. Keeping Trace Miller, or whatever his real name might be, at arm’s length was a dire necessity. “Life on the lam doesn’t lend itself to romantic entanglements.”
His thumb rubbed over her knee, and Priss wondered if he was aware of doing it, if he did it on purpose to turn her on, or if it was an extension of the thoughts she saw flickering across his face.
“Trace …”
“It occurs to me that I didn’t see a single freckle on you. Not on your face.” He gave her a quick, level look. “And not on your body.”
“Yeah, so?”
“That’s kind of curious, don’t you think, given the color of your hair?”
Priss lifted his hand and dropped it over next to him. “Okay, first off, hands to yourself. Got it?”
He said nothing, but she saw the corner of his mouth tilt up in the slightest of smiles.
“Secondly, did you happen to notice that my brows and lashes are a darker brown without a hint of red?”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I’m not like some redheads who are …” Her face heated. “Red all over.”
“Yeah?” He glanced at her lap meaningfully. “Do tell.”
Priss punched him in the shoulder. “I don’t like what you’re thinking.”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking.” And with another provoking grin, “Do you?”
Like she’d say it out loud? No way. Priss crossed her arms. “If you were hinting that you think I dye my hair, I don’t. Everything on me is natural.”
“We’ll see.”
“No, we will not see a damn thing!”
Under his breath, Trace said, “I damn near saw today. If I’d moved a foot closer for a better look—”
“Stop it!” Priss felt heat throbbing in her face, and she hated it. “And that reminds me. I want you to delete that damned picture.”
“Not a chance. Seeing you in that getup was a trophy moment for me.” He pulled into a lot, put the car in Park and looked around. Forestalling her anger, he said, “You weren’t kidding. This place really is a dive.”
Well, hell. She hadn’t even noticed that she was back at her run-down apartment. It unnerved her that he’d distracted her enough to make her unaware of her surroundings. That could be deadly.
Sooner or later, she’d take him off guard, and then she’d get his phone and smash it. If he had emailed the picture to himself, well, at least she’d have some payback. Until then … “What now?”
“Now we go in, get some of your stuff and make it look like you’re staying at the hotel. If anyone checks on you there, and you aren’t around, you can always claim you were out late hitting bars or something.”
“Barhopping doesn’t work with my cover.”
His jaw tightened. “I’ll think of something. But from here on out, you’re in survival mode. Got it?”
“No.” Nothing and no one would keep her from doing what needed to be done. Priss tried to open her door, but it still didn’t budge. “Unlock it.”
Instead he pulled her around to face him. He started to blast her, but something funny happened. Instead of reading her the riot act, he stared into her eyes, then down at her mouth. His entire demeanor changed. He looked just as tense, but now for different, hotter reasons.
He still stared intently at her mouth when Priss heard the lock click open. She glanced down and saw that Trace had reached back for the door, all without breaking that disturbing, electrifying visual contact with her.
She met his gaze again, and softened. Damn, but resisting Trace wouldn’t be easy, not if he kept looking at her like that. “You’re coming in, too?”
“Yes.” Suddenly, almost violently, he turned away from her and left the car. Still a gentleman, he strode around to her side and opened her door. “Let’s get this night over with.”
Well. That sounded insulting. Priss would have let herself out, except that she had to extract the room key from a hidden pocket in the design of her purse.
“Fine.” She moved out of the car to stand beside him. “But when we go in, watch where you step.”
“Why?” Taking her arm, he started for the entrance, again surveying the area all around them. “You have land mines hidden around?”
Priss ignored him. “It’s this way.” She took the lead, steering him toward the side entrance. Nearby police sirens screamed, competing with music from the bar next door. “I’m on the second floor.”
They passed a hooker fondling a man against the brick facing of the building. Priss stepped over and around a broken bottle. Tires squealed and someone shouted profanities.
Distaste left a sour expression on Trace’s face. “This dive needs to be condemned.”
“Maybe, but it’s shady enough that no one asked me any questions when I checked in.”
“It’s also shady enough that you could get mugged, raped or murdered in the damned lot and no one would notice.”
Priss shook her head. “I’m not worried about that.” They went up the metal stairs, precariously attached to the structure.
After muttering a rude sound, Trace said, “There’s a lot you should be worried about, but aren’t.”
No reason to debate it with him. Her options on what to worry about, and what to ignore, were pretty damned limited. “This way.”
The ancient run-down house had been reworked in better years to accommodate four separate tenants. She was on the back corner, facing the bar.
Trace nodded toward the rowdy establishment. “It fired up early.”
“My understanding is that it opens with lunch and is going pretty strong by early dinner. It won’t bother me. I’m used to that type of noise.”
Trace gave her a long look, but Priss refused to meet his probing gaze.
Using the key, she unlocked the dead bolt and then the door lock. “Careful now.”
“Careful of what?” Trace asked.
They stepped in and before she could turn on a light, a low growl sounded. Behind her, Trace froze.
But not for long.
Somehow, before she even knew it, Priss found herself behind Trace, pressed to the wall. When she realized he’d pulled his gun, she smacked his shoulder. “Don’t you dare shoot my cat!”
His confusion was palpable. “Cat?”
“Yes, as in a pet.” Priss stepped away from him and found a lamp. Though she’d checked in days before contacting Murray, she wasn’t yet entirely accustomed to the space. She fumbled for a moment before getting the light on.
Liger, her enormous kitty, came over to her and rubbed his head against her shin. Priss knelt down to hug him, to stroke along his broad back. She got a throaty purr in response.
Gun now hanging limp at his side, Trace stared at her. “You have to be kidding me.”
“Put away your gun, Trace.” She dropped to her butt on the floor and let Liger crawl into her lap. Because he was twenty-three pounds of solid love, he overflowed in every direction. Priss laughed as he ran the edge of his teeth along her knee, then rolled to his back.
“Good God. That’s a domestic cat? Really? I’ve never seen one so big.”
“He’s a Maine coon. They’re naturally large.”
“You’re telling me that’s a normal size?”
“For the males, yeah. I found him at a shelter a few years ago. Isn’t he beautiful?”
“Actually …” Trace holstered the gun and hunkered down beside her. “Yeah. He is.”
For whatever reason, that surprised Priss. “You like animals?”
“Sure.” He held out a hand to Liger. “Is he friendly?”
Priss rubbed her nose against the cat’s neck. “Very. He’s also really smart. He’s a big lover boy, aren’t you, Liger?”
The cat watched Trace, then put a giant paw on his thigh. He let out another snarl, making Trace go still.
“That’s just his way of checking you out. He won’t bite,” Priss assured him. “I mean, he will, but not unless you were doing something you shouldn’t.”
“He has his claws?”
Priss glared. “Of course he does. Declawing is cruel!”
Trace paid no attention to her affront. He stroked the cat and Liger closed his eyes in bliss. “He has a tail like a raccoon.”
“I know.”
“What did you call him?”
“Liger.” She hugged the cat again. “Because of his lionlike ruff, and his stripes.”
“He’s the wrong color.”
True. Being mostly black with gray and white stripes, Liger didn’t resemble a lion or a tiger. “I was going by size and that great roar of his.”
The cat abandoned her to crawl up on Trace’s lap, then stretched up to sniff his face. Trace grinned, petting Liger and rubbing under his chin. “He really is a nice guy, isn’t he?”
“He’s wonderful. Maine coons are like big affectionate dogs. They enjoy attention and have, for the most part, very gentle natures.”
“For the most part?”
“He detests bugs and can get pretty vicious with them.”
Trace laughed at that mental image, but then sobered. “I hate to tell you this, but he’s going to be a big problem.”
Priss froze. “What are you talking about?”
“Sorry, honey, but he has to go.”

CHAPTER FIVE
SNATCHING THE GIANT cat away from him, Priss held him protectively.
With his chin tucked into the longer hair on his chest, Liger continued to purr.
Priss looked equal parts alarmed, furious and defensive. “Listen to me,” Trace said …”
“No, you listen.” It was the darkest, coldest tone he’d heard from her. “If you touch one finger to my cat, I’ll …”
She didn’t finish the threat, unable to think of anything dire enough.
Rolling his eyes, Trace rose back to his feet and surveyed her apartment. It was clean but ragtag, spare beyond measure, and in no way secure. “I’m trying to make sure the cat stays safe. Anything or anyone that can be used against you is in danger. That’s why I asked you if you were involved with anyone else in any way.”
“Oh.”
He cut his gaze to her. “What did you think? That I was hitting on you?”
Her right shoulder lifted. “You had just seen me all but naked.”
God, he didn’t need her to remind him; the image would be forever burned into his brain. “You flaunted your near nakedness, but here’s a news flash for you, Priss. You’re not the first naked woman I’ve seen.”
“And probably not the best-looking, I know.” Hefting the big cat in her arms, Priss stood and went to a well-worn couch. She collapsed onto it in a sprawl. She looked at Trace through slumberous eyes and an edge of curiosity. “But you looked like you enjoyed the show.”
What the hell did she want? A confession that she’d deeply affected him? Well, she wouldn’t get it.
“I have a pulse, so of course I enjoyed it.” The apartment was really no more than two spaces, the living, eating and sleeping area all rolled into one, and a tiny bathroom with stained sink and toilet bowl, and cracked tiles in the shower. There were no barricades, no alternate escape routes other than a window in the bathroom and one behind the couch. It wouldn’t do. Almost absently, he added, “You’re stacked, Priscilla Patterson. And that’s a problem, too.”
“Too?”
“The cat?” Fists on his hips, Trace turned to face her, and saw desolation in her big green eyes. As susceptible to real tears as any other guy, he gentled his tone. “Priss. You need to move Liger someplace safe.”
She shook her head, and hugged the cat tighter. “There isn’t any place. I’m all he has.”
And he was all she had? Looked like it. Trace frowned as he considered things, then he withdrew the prepaid phone again and dialed Dare.
His friend answered on the second ring. “What’s up?”
“I need a favor.”
With a shrug in his tone, Dare said, “Name it.”
“The conundrum I told you about? Well, she has a cat.”
“Is that a euphemism, or are you talking about a pet?”
Trace grinned. “Pet. A big pet.” He lowered the phone to ask Priss, “How much does that monster weigh?”
“He’s not a monster, but he’s twenty-three pounds.” She stared at him with grave distrust. “And what exactly are you doing now?”
Back to the phone, Trace said, “He’s a twenty-three-pound cat, if you can believe that. Thing is, he’s a sweetheart, so fair game. And I just know he’d make a powerful weapon against her.”
“Yeah.” Dare went thoughtful, but only for a moment. “You want me to keep him out of harm’s way? Hell, my girls would love it. They enjoy all things furry. Since I’m not on assignment right now, I’ll be around to make sure they get along.”
Relieved that Dare had offered, Trace let out a breath. “If you’re sure, I could drive Priss and her cat down there tomorrow. She needs a damned makeover anyway. Coburn ordered it.”
“Damn. That’s not sounding good.”
“No.” But Trace didn’t want to go into Murray’s motives yet. If he did, he’d want to go kill the bastard now instead of sticking with the plan. “Maybe you could arrange for a beautician or whatever to be there, to help cover the trip. If Priss returns with her hair changed, and her nails done up, no one would think anything of it. And Jackson could make sure we got out of town without being followed.”
“Yeah, I think we can manage that. I’m pretty sure Chris has a friend who’s a hairdresser.”
Amused, Trace shook his head. Dare’s wife, Molly, though very pretty, wasn’t into long hours spent at a salon. But Dare’s good friend and employee, Chris, had a variety of acquaintances ranging from football players to beauty queens—all of them guys. “Unless something comes up, I could have her down there late morning.”
“Plan to eat lunch here.”
“Thanks.” The mention of food made Trace wonder—
when was the last time Priss had eaten? Now that she’d slouched comfortably on the couch, her exhaustion showed. He frowned. “I’ll call when we’re on our way.”
After hanging up with Dare, Trace went to the blinds and peered out. The parking lot adjoined the bar on one side, a back street on the other. He didn’t like the layout, or the noise level, or the lack of security. Even the shittiest joint should have some safeguards in place.
This place had none.
“You made arrangements for Liger?”
He nodded. “It’ll just be until you’re in the clear, Priss. That’s all.”
“But we don’t know how long that might be.”
“No.” Trace rubbed his face. “Have you eaten?”
“Not since breakfast.”
And it was now well past dinnertime. “All right. Let’s get your things together.”
“How much should I gather?”
“Everything you might actually need. If I can help it, you won’t be spending any nights here.”
“Such a shame.” She looked around wistfully. “I was already settled.”
He wouldn’t debate it with her. She was moving, period. “We’ll get you checked into a hotel, but not the one you mentioned. I don’t want you any place where Murray knows to look for you.” He’d take her to the same hotel where he was staying, as close as he could keep her.
“Won’t that make him suspicious?”
“I’ll think of something.” He watched her rise from the couch. “After that we’ll grab some food.”
She hesitated. “And Liger?”
“He’ll stay with you for tonight. Then tomorrow we’ll take him to stay with my friend.” Trace watched her, and saw her gearing up for an argument, based on concern and fear. “Don’t look like that. Dare will be really good to him, I promise. He has two dogs who love other animals. Between them, they’ll make him feel right at home.”
Trace knew she didn’t want to. She had that look of stubborn machination coming over her; he could practically see the variety of alternate plans flitting through her thoughts.
He used stark reality to convince her. “Would you rather one of Murray’s henchmen find him? Trust me on this, Priss, they’re more than capable of using the cat to hurt you. It would be … ugly.”
Given the look on her face, she knew exactly what he meant.
Her shuddering breath and trembling lips left fear in his soul. Do not cry. Please. Priss had a body like sin, and the disposition of a hedgehog, but seeing her love for that big fat cat … well, it struck something tender deep inside him.
Very softly, Trace said, “You okay?”
Regaining her self-confidence, she firmed her lips and nodded. “Thank you for thinking of it.” And then in a less intense voice, “I’d die if anything happened to him.”
Which meant Trace would do every damn thing in his power to see that it never came to that. “This way he’ll be safe.” Now if only it was that easy to ensure Priss’s safety. “Let’s get going. We’ll have a long day tomorrow.”
“All right.” She left the cat on the couch and went into the bathroom. In one overnight case, she had everything already packed. From behind the fold-out couch, she produced a large duffel bag stuffed full. “Other than this, I need to get Liger’s litter box and food.” She lifted the cat’s leash and harness off the door knob.
Amazed, Trace looked at her paltry belongings. “You hadn’t unpacked yet?”
“I hadn’t planned on sticking around too long. And I didn’t want to have to leave anything behind if I got boned on this deal.”
“The deal to … kill Murray?”
“That’s right.” Priss’s smile felt like an alarm. “You might think I’m a silly girl acting on impulse, but I had a plan, Trace. A sound plan. And if you hadn’t shown up, I’d be that much closer to ridding the world of a very rotten soul. Now that I know seeing my cat again depends on my success … well, let’s just say I’m doubly motivated to get this over with.”
Trace saw the gleam of success in her eyes, and the cocky tilt of anticipation on her sexy mouth. For a slight, shapely female with an innocent face, she was so damn bloodthirsty.
Contradictions. Nothing but constant contradictions.
So why the hell was he starting to find that so exciting?
PRISS STRETCHED AWAKE IN the much-cleaner and better-smelling hotel room. The sheets were smooth, the pillows soft. She had enough space to actually move around without bumping into anything.
Sunlight crept in around the haphazardly closed curtains. It would be another gorgeous June day. Time to get up—except that she couldn’t move her legs, not with Liger stretched out in full splendor across her. He had her blankets pinned down so that they only covered her waist.
The air-conditioning—something unavailable at the apartment—kept the room cool. With a yawn, Priss crawled out from under Liger and sat up on the side of the bed. Her long hair hung in her face and the now-rumpled T-shirt she wore covered only to the top of her thighs. But for now at least, for this particular morning, she was safe.
So many changes in such a short time.
Her mother’s death had been both a devastating loss and a blessing. Not a day went by that she didn’t miss her, but at least now she didn’t suffer. That had been the worst for Priss, seeing her mother in misery, fading away in small, painful increments.
Leaving her home should have been an upheaval, but with her motivation driving her, Priss had gone through the packing, the driving, and the new town by rote. Comfort took a distant second to reaching her goals.
She’d settled in, found Murray’s location, and even found Murray. She’d been right on track.
And then she’d met Trace … whatever his last name might be. She wasn’t buying the name he’d given her. Trace had as many, maybe more secrets than she did.
She enjoyed sparring with him verbally, found him physically appealing and was intrigued by his cocky attitude of capability. By far, he was the most tempting man she’d ever met.
Because she really didn’t know enough about him to be so captivated, her reaction to him was kind of … well, sick.
Sure, her instincts were good, and her gut told her that Trace was hero material. Despite a lack of facts, she’d already decided he was one of the good guys, an alpha male who would step into danger to protect others, just as he had—so far—protected her.
And her cat.
He was the complete and total opposite of Murray Coburn. So why was he working for that bastard? Or was he?
Liger stretched leisurely, yawning widely enough to show his abundant razor-sharp teeth. He opened his big yellow eyes to blink at Priss, then gave the cutest little meow that sounded small and girlish in comparison to his opulent body.
Priss grinned. “I know. That was a long night. We’re not used to it, are we? And now you want breakfast.” She scratched his head, his favorite spot under his chin and then along his back. “Me, too, buddy. But first things first.”
On her way to the bathroom, which was now twice the size of the one she’d used the day before, Priss glanced at the connecting door.
In the very next room, Trace slept.
Her heart pounded, and that was the biggest change of all. For all intents and purposes, she saw men purely as customers, easily coerced into buying the latest and most expensive porn. She joked with men, argued with and rejected them. Unlike her mother, Priss felt at ease in male company.
But a pounding heart? Nope. Not once had she ever met a man who affected her that way.
Before leaving the bathroom Priss splashed her face and cleaned her teeth. A glance in the mirror showed her looking a little worse for wear.
Not that she gave a flying flip.
Using both hands, she shoved back her hair from her face and gave herself a critical inspection. Before meeting Trace, she’d always accepted herself as a sexless woman, apathetic in most situations, detached from the customary interests of young females, methodical in her approach to life.
Yes, she’d loved her mother. So damn much. But beyond that one single person, no genuine affection had ever touched her. She’d been a woman set on correcting wrongs, with no other available emotions.
But around Trace she felt so much that her head swam with the conflagration of sensations. She’d gone to sleep thinking about him and, she just realized, she’d awakened with him on her mind.
Utterly pathetic.
She had just given Liger his food when a tap sounded on the connecting door. Priss’s heart leaped into her throat.
With excitement.
Not dread, or annoyance, or even indifference.
Pure, sizzling stimulation. Suddenly she was wide-awake.
Tamping down her automatic smile, Priss leaned on the door. “Yeah?”
“Open up.”
Still fighting that twitching grin, Priss tried to sound disgruntled as she asked, “Why?”
Something hit the door—maybe his head—and Trace said, “I heard you up moving around, Priss. I have coffee ready, but if you don’t want any—”
Being a true caffeine junkie, she jerked open the door. “Oh, bless you, man.” She took the cup straight out of Trace’s hand, drank deeply and sighed as the warmth penetrated the thick fog of novel sentiment. “Ahhhh. Nirvana. Thank you.”
Only after the caffeine ingestion did she notice that Trace wore unsnapped jeans and nothing else. Her eyes flared wide and her jaw felt loose. Holy moly.
“That was my cup,” Trace told her, bemused.
But Priss could only stare at him. Despite the delicious coffee she’d just poured in it, her mouth went dry.
When she continued to stare at him, at his chest and abdomen, her gaze tracking a silky line of brown hair that disappeared into his jeans, Trace crossed his arms.
Her gaze jumped to his face and she found him watching her with equal fascination.
A little lost as to the reason for that look, Priss asked with some belligerence, “What?”
With a cryptic smile, Trace shook his head. “Never mind. Help yourself, and I’ll get another.”
Oh, crap, she’d snatched away his cup! “Sorry.”
He lifted a hand in dismissal and went to the coffee machine sitting atop the dresser. His jeans rode low on his hips. The sun had darkened his skin, creating a sharp contrast to his fair hair.
Another drink was in order, and another sigh of bliss. Hoping to regain her wits, Priss said, “God, nothing in the world tastes better than that first drink of coffee.”
Trace looked over his shoulder, his attention zeroing in on her mouth, then her chest and finally down to her bare legs. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”
Sensually stroked by that hot glance and the low timbre of his suggestive words, Priss followed him in. So did Liger. Now fed, the big cat strode past her and leaped up to Trace’s bed, disturbing the covers that Trace had already smoothed back into place. Liger chose to stretch across the pillows near the headboard. He pawed the soft cotton a moment, showed his claws, yawned and relaxed.
Trace gestured toward the small round table and two chairs. “Take a seat, Priss.”
Last night, after relocating to the hotel, she and Trace had eaten dinner at that table. It had been … nice.
A revelation even.
They’d shared quiet conversation, talking about everything under the sun without either of them giving away anything too personal or important. Pure chitchat. A way to pass the time.
For Trace, it had seemed mundane, a casual occurrence that he’d indulged many times.
For Priss, it was a profound thing to sit across from a man and really, truly enjoy him—his appearance, his sense of humor and wit, his intelligence and his attention. Even while eating a loaded cheeseburger, he’d stayed alert to every sound in the hallway and parking lot, and every movement she made, no matter how big or small. Having his undivided interest, protected by his irrefutable competence, had been really nice.
“I don’t mind sitting.” But first … Priss finished off her coffee and looked at the full pot. “Is it all right if I get a refill?”
“Help yourself.”
When Priss moved toward the coffee machine, rather than give her room, Trace leaned back on the edge of the dresser and watched her. She could detect his early-morning scent of warm skin, musky male and palpable sex appeal. Delicious.
Would he smell that sinful up close, if she put her nose in his neck, or near that solid chest? Or … maybe lower?
She eyed his gorgeous body, and raised a brow. “Doing a little flaunting of your own this morning, huh?”
“In deference to your delicate sensibilities, I pulled on jeans. Isn’t that enough?”
Enough for what, her peace of mind? Ha. Being around Trace, especially with him like this, half-naked, sent her heart racing like a marathon runner’s. “Maybe it would be,” Priss admitted, “if you didn’t look so good.”
The compliment sent his right eyebrow arching high.
“Oh, come on, Trace. You know what you look like.”
She visually devoured him again, more blatantly this time, and noticed a rise behind the fly of his jeans. For her?
Well-well-well. Flattering.
“I’m sure you’ve had more than your fair share of adoration.”
He recovered with a level look of mockery. “I’m thirty years old, brat, so you can assume I’ve seen some adoration—and suffered bouts of total rejection.”
“Rejection? Really?” She found that hard to fathom. “Either you’ve known some stupid women, or there’s a side of you I haven’t yet witnessed.”
“It’s safe to say that you’ve seen only the side I chose to show you.”
“Hmm.” It was difficult to absorb Trace’s provoking words, given that his body hair fascinated her. It scattered over his chest and trailed down his abdomen. Even the hair on his forearms, covering muscles and large bone, somehow seemed supersexy. It was shades darker than the pale hair on his head, but then, his lashes and brows were dark, too. And that interesting beard stubble …
Unable to stop herself, Priss reached out and stroked her fingers along his jaw. “I like this early-morning side of you. You look … I don’t know. Raw and very manly.”
Other than the narrowing of his eyes, Trace held perfectly still.
Catching herself, Priss dropped her hand and went to the table. “I don’t suppose we could order up breakfast?”
For long moments he continued to study her. “I’d rather we get ready and go out. Anything that can be checked, like room service for two, should be avoided.”
“To maintain both our covers?” Not that Priss expected him to admit to a cover. It was enough that he’d put her in a room close to his, near the ground floor, with access to stairs and back exits that disappeared into busy roads.
“To keep you safe.” Trace joined her at the table. “If Murray suspects you of being anything other than what you say you are—”
“I know, I know. I’m fish food.” She made a face. “We need to talk about something else, at least until I’m awake enough to show my true contempt for good old Murray.”
“How about you tell me why you want to kill him?”
She had wondered when he’d come back around to that. “On an empty stomach? Bleh.”
“You’ll tell me later?”
“Sure,” she lied, “if you’ll change the subject to something more palatable for now.”
“All right.” Trace sipped his coffee with more restraint than she’d been able to show. “How’d you sleep?”
“Like the dead, thank you.”
He gave a theatrical wince. “Bad analogy, all things considered.”
Because Murray might well want her dead. She winced, too. “Sorry.” A glance toward the window provided inspiration for conversation, as sunlight seeped in even with the drapes drawn. “It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day.”
“You and I will both keep the windows covered and, whenever we’re out of the rooms, the connecting door has to be locked.”
“Prying eyes?”
“Anything is possible. My guess is that Murray still has me under surveillance, which is why we were followed. It stands to reason that with you now in the mix, the scrutiny will be amplified.”
True, all of it, but given the impact of Trace shirtless, being mellow and kind, even threats to her person didn’t help her to concentrate. “I thought of a more interesting topic than weather and menace.”
He saluted her with his cup. “Go for it.”
In anticipation of his reply, Priss licked her lips. “How many women have you slept with?”
Trace missed a single beat, but only one, before saying, “A very odd question over morning coffee, and none of your business.”
Priss made a habit of being brutally honest with herself, so she had to admit that she wanted it to be her business. And how would it hurt, as long as Murray didn’t find them out? If her plans went as expected, she wouldn’t be around long enough to get entangled in Trace’s life. Why not find a little enjoyment while the prospect existed?
Who knew when she might ever meet another man who made her feel warm and soft, excited and safe? In twenty-four years, Trace was the first. He could be the last.
And if her plans for Murray went awry? Well, she could end up dead.
Somehow, dying a virgin seemed the ultimate insult. But then, maybe that was just her morbid sense of humor trying to help her keep her fear at bay.
Resting a forearm on the table, Priss leaned a little closer to Trace. “Too many to count, huh? So … were any of them virgins?”
With his coffee cup almost to his mouth, Trace paused. His gaze sharpened, and his shoulders suddenly tensed. “Why are you asking?”
A tinge of heat went up Priss’s neck. Her private life was hers and hers alone—at least until Trace agreed to a little side activity. If he did agree … well, then he’d already have the answer he wanted. “That’s cheating to answer a question with a question.”
Trace sat back, his expression frosted. “No.” He shook his head, disbelieving, even a little pissed. “No way in hell are you trying to claim—”
The buzzing of his cell phone cut him off. He was practically incandescent with smoldering frustration.
Oh, yeah, the cell phone. She needed to grab that when the opportunity presented itself. Odds were she could access his email and delete the photo from his messages, and the phone’s memory. Unmoved by his attitude, Priss sipped at her coffee. “Think that’s Murray?”
The phone buzzed twice more before Trace gathered himself. “More than likely, so don’t say a word.”
After she more or less agreed with a shrug, Trace went to the phone and opened it.
Knowing it’d be Murray, Trace said in the cold, aloof way that impressed his current boss, “Miller.”
“Good morning.” Murray’s jovial voice blasted into his ear. “I trust you’re up and on the clock?”
Well, hell. Something had Murray in a good mood, and Trace had already come to realize that boded ill for those around him. Murray was happiest when tormenting the hell out of others. “Absolutely.” Trace sent a warning glare at Priss. She silently mouthed back at him, mocking him, pricking him further.
“I stewed all night on my darling daughter.” At that Murray snickered. “I don’t trust her.”
“Me, either.” Trace knew damn good and well that Priss was up to her pretty neck in revenge. Somehow, he had to keep the game going, and still keep her from doing anything too stupid.
Like attempting to kill Murray.
If she did try it, she’d end up not only dead, but sorely used and abused first. Just thinking about it made Trace icy cold inside.
No way in hell could she be a virgin.
“You get her clothed?” Murray wanted to know.
“For the most part, yeah. Twyla did a great job. You’ll like her choices.”
“So she’s a looker?”
“Decked out right, yeah, she is.” Trace checked the clock on the nightstand. “I have to stop by there again to pick up a few more things that Twyla was putting together for her. She’ll have enough for a week, including a night out.”
“Good. Take Priscilla with you when you go. From here on out, I want you to stick close to her, see what she’s up to, keep an eye on her.”
“I can do that.” In fact, that worked fine for Trace. If he kept Priss close, he could ensure her safety. Anytime she was out of his sight, he’d have Jackson tail her. If need be, they’d all blow their covers to keep an innocent alive—but it’d piss him off royally if Priss ruined his large-scheme plans by putting herself in such a dangerous position.
He wanted Murray, but he wanted Murray’s contacts, too. He wanted the whole damn rodeo, every fucking one of the corrupt bastards, from the lowest minion to the top dog himself. Anyone who had sold, traded, advertised, transported or handled captive women was on Trace’s radar.
He’d have them, too—one way or another.
A silky tone to his voice, Murray said, “I’m glad you find her attractive, Trace, because it occurs to me that the best way to gauge the truth of her fresh-faced innocence is to take her for a ride.”
Trace froze. He had the simultaneous reaction of rage and … carnal interest. He zeroed in on Priss. She glanced up, caught his expression, and judging by the way her eyes widened, picked up on his conflict.
“A ride?” Trace repeated …”
“That’s the easiest way to see how experienced, or inexperienced, she really is. And since Helene isn’t keen on me doing the riding …”
Drily, his stomach churning at the level of Murray’s sickness, Trace said, “Because she’s your daughter.” He prayed that was the reason, but he had his doubts.
His doubts were confirmed.
“No, no.” Murray gave a deep chuckle. “Helene doesn’t buy the relationship, and even if she did, I doubt that familial connections would factor into her prejudice. One of Helene’s more appealing qualities is her complete lack of respect for societal taboos.”
Yeah, he’d noticed. Trace concentrated on not squeezing the cell phone hard enough to shatter it. “I see.”
“Do you? Then let’s just say it’ll be simpler if you do the honors.” Murray paused before saying with a hint of menace, “You don’t object to that plan, do you?”
Shooting for world-weariness, Trace asked, “Are we talking seduction, coercion or rape?” Priss perked up even more at that. Her green eyes steeled with indignation—directed at him.
But Trace also saw a hint of fear that washed some of the color from her face. Not much had shaken her so far, so what had done it this time?
The idea of being forced?
With his guts burning, he wondered if Priss had firsthand knowledge of such a thing.
He wanted to hold her, to reassure her … but hell if he would. A little fear was just what Priss needed to drive home the jeopardy and wake her up to the foolishness of her plan.
Murray laughed at Trace’s question. “Since I’m making it your job, do you have a preference?”
Closing his eyes against Priss’s expression, Trace shrugged. “I’m not a natural-born rapist, but it’s your show, your call.”
His deference delighted Murray. “I like your attitude, Trace, I really do. You have great conviction to the duty of your post. I’m glad I hired you.” His laughter faded. “Let’s go with seduction first. After all, Helene assures me that for you, seduction should be a piece of cake.”
Trace snorted. “Is she trying to get me killed, then?” What the fuck was Hell doing discussing him like that with Murray?
Murray laughed again. “Now Trace, you know I’m not the jealous sort. I have no reason to be, right?”
“No reason at all.”
“I like to indulge Helene whenever possible.”
Which meant … what? That Helene could have him?
With the game wearing on him, Trace rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You’re generous with her.”
“I don’t mind her admiring eye. It’s often valuable to me. Just remember that my generosity has a limit.”
“Always.”
“So … I may assume that this new assignment won’t cause you any trouble, whether little Priscilla is truly an innocent or not.”
“No trouble at all.”
“Excellent.” Murray’s words reeked of arrogance. “Keep me informed.”
“Of course.” Even as Trace closed the phone, he heard Murray’s humorless laughter, and it left him on edge.
The sick bastard was up to something—but what? And how much damage would it do to Priss?

CHAPTER SIX
IT DIDN’T SURPRISE Trace when Priss jumped up to confront him. “What was that about?” Dread left her pale and angry. “Why were you talking about rape? What are you planning? What is he planning?”
Trace studied her face. Without makeup, her long hair rumpled and hanging in tangles, she was still so damn sexy that he had to fight to keep his body from reacting.
Again.
He wanted to protect her, to soothe her, and he wanted to be inside her. Right now.
Through the oversize T-shirt she’d worn as a nightgown, he could see the generous swell of her breasts, and even the outline of her soft nipples. From the jut of that stupendous rack, the shirt dropped over a flat belly down to rounded, shapely thighs. She was so small boned, Trace thought, her wrists and ankles fragile, feminine.

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Lori Foster

Тип: электронная книга

Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература

Язык: на английском языке

Издательство: HarperCollins

Дата публикации: 16.04.2024

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О книге: CAUGHT IN THE CROSSFIRE OF VENGEANCE AND DESIRE Undercover mercenary Trace Rivers loves the adrenaline rush of a well-planned mission. First he’ll earn the trust of corrupt businessman Murray Coburn, then gather the proof he needs to shut down the man’s dirty smuggling operation. It’s a perfect scheme – until Coburn’s long-lost daughter saunters in with her own deadly plan for revenge. With a smile like an angel and fire in her eyes, Priscilla Patterson isn’t who she seems to be.But neither is the gorgeous bodyguard who ignites all her senses. Joining forces to plot Coburn’s downfall, Priss and Trace must fight the undeniable heat between them. For one wrong move, one lingering embrace will expose them to the wrath of a merciless opponent…

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