Trace of Fever (5 page)

“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 heart-felt,
“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.

T
HE 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?”

P
RISS 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.