Trace of Fever (10 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Would Priss understand?

Would she forgive him?

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

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

Right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are you?”

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

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

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

“Yeah. Is that a problem?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you referring to something specific?”

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

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

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

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

“Come again?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah. You don’t say.”

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

“Shy?”

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

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

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

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

“What, exactly?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, I can handle it.” But he’d need a safe place to stash Priss, just in case this was a diversion.

Murray continued with smooth intent. “And if I need him shot to impress the other buyers?”

Trace shrugged. “I’ll shoot him.” Then he added, “But I can impress the others without wasting a bullet, if you’d prefer that.”

“Good man.” As always, with the confirmation of imminent violence, Murray returned to his good humor. “I’ll see you at seven, then.” And with that, he disconnected the call.

In the silence that followed, Trace heard Priss’s deep breathing. He didn’t want to look at her, to acknowledge what he’d done to her, but he couldn’t stop himself.

While he’d spoken to Murray, she’d shifted a little and now she slumped toward him with her head in an awkward position.

Ignoring Liger’s eerie stare of accusation, Trace reached past Priss and released her seat belt.

As she tumbled toward him, he eased her head down to rest against his thigh. Her long ponytail bunched in his lap, and Trace smoothed it out. In the darkness of the garage, he couldn’t see the red highlights in her amazing hair, only the deep browns.

Visually examining every inch of her, Trace noted that her smooth, soft skin looked very pale, her long lashes left shadows on her cheeks, and her lips were slightly parted.

So were her knees.

For the longest time, Trace just looked at her. For once, instead of being on guard, her expression appeared serene and at peace.

When sleeping.

When drugged.

He couldn’t keep his hands off her, off the warm flesh of her arms, the silk of her hair. To him, the ponytail looked torturous, pulling at her scalp.

Feeling like a bastard, Trace withdrew his knife, lifted her hair and, using just the tip of the blade, cut through the rubber band.

Priss didn’t stir.

After massaging her scalp to ease any conceived discomfort, he spread out the long locks, trailing them across his lap, feeling the coolness, the weight of her hair.

Jesus, she was dead to the world, so why was he was tormenting himself like this? He wasn’t going to take advantage of her right now, so he’d be smart to buckle her back in and get this cursed trip over with.

The cat jumped up into the seat to watch him more closely. Cautiously, given that soul-deep stare, Trace reached out to rub Liger’s ear, and got a small meow in return.

“I won’t hurt her.” But he knew he already had.

Maybe in acceptance of his statement, maybe out of feline laziness, Liger curled up against Priss’s side and started purring. He overflowed the seat, but didn’t seem to mind.

He only wanted to be next to Priss.

At least the cat trusted him, Trace decided. It was a start.

Taking the time to rearrange both woman and animal, Trace buckled Priss back into her seat and let Liger get comfortable next to her. He started the truck, put it in gear, and drove from the garage.

With Priss so soft, warm and sexy beside him, it was going to be a very long drive.

A
T THE FUZZY EDGES OF HER
mind, Priss realized that the radio music had suddenly stopped—and she was no longer in motion.

The stillness closed in around her.

Confusion gnawed on her contentment, and she peeked
open one eye to see Trace behind the wheel of what looked like the dashboard to an old truck.

Window open, he spoke outside the vehicle, into what looked like an intercom. Priss stayed very still and listened.

“No one followed us. But I might need a minute or two to bring her around.”

Another voice, deep and mellow, came through an intercom, but Priss couldn’t catch what was said.

“Yeah,” Trace replied. “She’s been out pretty damn hard.”

Out? She tried to think, but that hurt her head. The truck moved forward, slowly now, and stopped beneath some shade.

Little by little, as the fog cleared, memories tumbled back in.

Being at the garage. Eating breakfast. Talking to Trace, being kissed by him…

Drinking the water.

Oh, God.

Everything slammed back into her sluggish brain. Trace had drugged her!

How long had she been out? What had he done to her? She attempted to take inventory of her body, but other than remaining lethargy, nothing seemed amiss.

The sudden pounding of her heart did more to revive her than anything else could have. She had to concentrate hard to hide her awareness, to keep from jerking upright and lambasting Trace with her fury.

Where were they, and what did he have planned?