Trace of Fever

by Lori Foster

  Was she his daughter?

  “I don’t fucking believe you!”

  Helene’s strident, angry tone shattered his musings. Turning his head to find her in the doorway, Murray scowled just enough to show his displeasure. “You should have knocked.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since you felt you had the right to curse me.” He turned his chair, tipped his head to study her. Then he patted his lap. “Come.”

  Like a good lapdog, she obeyed, but grudgingly. Once she’d seated herself on his thighs, Murray cupped her generous and firm breast. The best money could buy, he thought.

  But Priscilla’s tits had looked real.

  He squeezed. “Now, what did you have to say?”

  Lifting her chin in defiance, she stared at him. Helene wasn’t a woman to quail; that was something he found so enticing about her. No matter the roughness of his mood, his sexuality didn’t scare her.

  Nothing scared Helene. Yet.

  She shook back her long hair so that her breasts were better displayed. “You ordered Trace to fuck that little tart?”

  “This is your business, why?” Through the thin material of her blouse, Murray felt her nipple stiffen. He smiled.

  “You’ve never done that before. When interested, you use the women yourself, and then you sell them off.”

  “True.” And because she accepted the acts as a part of his business, she choked down her jealousy. But with Priscilla, she knew it would be different. He stated the number one reason why. “No other woman, however, has claimed to be my daughter.”

  Fury brought color to her face.

  Anticipating her reaction, Murray said, “You didn’t expect me to give her a trial run, did you?”

  Helene had the good sense not to push him. “I doubt she’s your spawn, but until you know, why not just save her?”

  “Envious of the attention she’s getting?”

  Helene’s eyes sparked.

  Leaving her breast, Murray reached beneath her skirt. He watched her eyes as he cupped his hand, none too gently, over her heated sex. “You have an uncommon interest in Trace Miller, no?”

  Some of her confidence waned. She licked her lips, and Murray saw the moment she decided to challenge him with the truth.

  “Yes, I do.”

  That admission was accompanied by a rush of moisture against his palm. Damn, but her bold sexuality never failed to stir him. “You want him for yourself?”

  Again she measured her response, and chose to be audacious. “I have a new drug that I’d like to try on him.”

  A new drug? Fascinating. Since she’d joined him, Helene had come up with many variants of aphrodisiacs and hallucinogens that alternately made the women compliant, blindly aroused and occasionally comatose. Only on the rarest occasion had her concoctions ever caused death. “It works on men?”

  “I believe so, yes.” She quickly added, “I would only experiment with Trace, and only with your authorization.”

  Murray worked his thick fingers beneath the minuscule crotch of her lace panties. “You know your place, Helene,” he said approvingly.

  “By your side. Or under you. Or over you.” She stifled a sharp moan. “Wherever you want me, Murray. You know that.”

  “Yes, wherever.” Her capitulation to his every twisted desire gave her priority over others; there was nothing Helene wouldn’t do for him. That type of loyalty covered a lot of ground, sexually…and otherwise.

  “Murray,” she whispered, her heavy eyes closing, her smooth face flushing with desire.

  Murray considered things. He hadn’t gotten to where he was by making hasty decisions. “You know, Helene, I might let you have your playtime with Trace. Might,” he emphasized when Helene’s lips parted on an anxious moan. Right now, Trace had shown himself to be an unparalleled employee; sharp, intelligent, exceedingly capable in all ways.

  And still new.

  He was so good that it sometimes stymied Murray, wondering why a man with Trace’s assets would bother working for anyone else. He had the skills to be independent, yet he lived in hotels and made himself accessible day or night. In so many ways, Murray felt that Trace should be an adversary, not a lackey.

  If Trace ever proved untrustworthy, if he failed in any way, Murray might enjoy watching Helene have her way with him.

  “Her way” was seldom comfortable for others.

  “But right now, love, I want you on your knees. You’ve stirred me with your impudence, but my time is limited. Get me off, and you can take care of yourself after I’ve gone.”

  On a broken breath, Helene slid off his thighs and to her knees on the thick carpet. Excitement lit her icy-blue gaze as she opened his belt buckle and slid down his zipper.

  At the feel of her hot little mouth on his cock, Murray closed his eyes and put his head back. Yes, he enjoyed Helene. For now.

  Every good whore had her uses.

  And as far as he was concerned, they were all whores.

  PRISS TASTED LIKE WARM, wanton woman.

  But she kissed like a schoolgirl.

  Drawn inexplicably by the snare of inexperience, Trace teased her lips with his tongue. She had the most amazing mouth, so full and soft, so damn sexy.

  On a shaky breath, she parted her lips, and he dipped his tongue inside.

  Priss went very still, poised on tiptoes, breathing fast and hard through her nose. Unable to help himself, Trace held her head in both hands and fit himself to her more securely, deepening the kiss, gently ravaging her sweet mouth.

  She moaned, excited and accepting, but not really…participating. He had the awful suspicion she didn’t know how.

  Could it be possible? Trace eased back to look at her. Her eyes were closed, her nostrils flared, her body leaning into his, flushed and ripe.

  Over a kiss.

  Slowly, her thick lashes lifted to reveal her dilated eyes. “Trace?”

  Son-of-a-bitch. He knew women, and while he suspected Priss was devious enough to outact an Emmy winner when it suited her purpose, he didn’t think she was faking it now. The woman reeked of sexual purity, of carnal curiosity and a craving of the unknown.

  Why him? Why the hell did he have to be the one to gain her attention? Not that he much liked the idea of anyone else initiating her—Jesus, what an old-fashioned idea—especially not that freak, Murray.

  Priss looked at his mouth with naked yearning. Each deep breath caused her breasts to strain against the soft cotton tee, repeatedly drawing his attention to them.

  Her tongue touched her upper lip, then retreated. “What’s wrong?”

  Trace wanted to implode. Seconds ago, she’d edged near panic at the mention of rape; now she sounded as eager as he felt.

  But he didn’t dare follow through with all he wanted. Not yet. Not with so much on the line.

  “Go get dressed.” Taking a deliberate step away from her, and then another, Trace tried to distance himself from her. He could see the fine trembling in her small but lush body. Her nipples pebbled against the T-shirt, begging for the touch of his fingers.

  Or his mouth.

  A delicate flush warmed her skin.

  He steeled himself against it all. “I’ll see you back here in ten minutes.”

  Confusion, and then shame, shadowed Priss’s hungry expression before that stubborn chin of hers went into the air. “In a hurry to leave, are we?”

  “We have a lot to get done.” Unable to bear the hurt still visible in her gaze, Trace turned his back on her. His pulse pounded and his guts clenched. “Wear your regular clothes, something comfortable for a long ride.” God, I’d like to take her on a long ride, with both of us naked, her straining under me—

  “Where are we going?”

  Pushed to the limit, Trace ignored her question; conversing with her further would do nothing to cool his desire. He needed away from her. He needed her fully dressed.

  Besides, the fewer details she knew, the better. For her, and for him.

  As he ga
thered up his own change of clothes and shaving kit, he said, “Ten minutes, Priss.”

  Priss sauntered up behind him, so close that he felt her nearness like the static of a violent storm. It sizzled along his nerve endings, sent a thrumming through his blood.

  “You are so damn secretive,” she complained, and then to Liger, “Let’s go, baby. We didn’t want to shower with him anyway.”

  The second the connecting door closed, Trace dropped back against a wall, squeezed his eyes shut and groaned softly. Shower with her? Hell, yeah, he’d love that. The idea of running soap-slick hands over all of her rich curves and sexy hollows was enough to take out his knees.

  He remembered how she looked in that itty-bitty thong and barely there bra, not just her body, but her defiance, her pride. Few women could have handled that situation with such cool emotional control.

  He knew a cold shower was in order. It would help with his boner, but not with the rest of his turbulence, because with her, it was more than the physical attributes that got to him. So much more.

  Shit.

  For reasons beyond the obvious, he needed to avoid added involvement with Priscilla Patterson. It wasn’t just the job he had to protect, but his heart, as well.

  And just when in hell had he gotten a heart?

  Other than the people he’d die for, his sister and his best friends, everyone was a means to an end, a way for him to carry out an assignment. They made up the puzzle pieces necessary to put together a clear picture. Period.

  He kept bystanders as safe as he could, but he did not care for them. Not that way.

  Not this way.

  Trace pushed off of the wall and stalked into the bathroom. He turned on the cold water full blast and shucked off his jeans.

  It would be a change of pace for him, but he needed to repel Priss, to make her not want him. Fighting himself was difficult enough—fighting her, too, would be impossible.

  Whatever it took, he needed Priss to see him as one of the bad guys. Given his self-appointed role in this undercover sting, and the heinous things Murray required of him, it shouldn’t be too hard to do. He’d just act out his part, and in the end, she’d despise him almost as much as she did Murray.

  And with that decision made, Trace stepped into the icy water and prayed for a clearer head, and a surcease of the sensual torment.

  PRISS STEWED IN HER ANGER, stoking the embers even as she showered, as she brushed out her long hair and dressed. Even as she brushed Liger, talking to him in a crooning voice she hoped hid her real emotions.

  Why had Trace kissed her, only to reject her? A game? A test?

  She had to put aside her desire for him to get his phone and delete that hideous photo from his email before he stored it anywhere else. And she had to ingratiate herself with him somehow to get him to reveal his real purpose with Murray.

  When Trace tapped at her door, she jumped.

  “You ready?”

  Her jaw tightened. Pushing up and away from the bed where she sat with Liger, Priss cleared her throat. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

  He opened the door. His gaze moved over her, from her hair tied in a high ponytail to her sloppy T-shirt and jeans, down to her flip-flops. “You are such a chameleon.”

  “You said comfortable clothes.”

  One hand braced overhead on the door frame, the other braced to his right, Trace nodded. “It’s fine.” Suddenly he looked resigned. He stepped in and his eyes narrowed. He held out a hand.

  There was something in his eyes, something dark and dangerous that she didn’t trust, she just didn’t know. But he kept his hand out, so she accepted it.

  He pulled her forward.

  Would he kiss her again? Her heart thumped in a frantic rhythm. Would he apologize and explain? Would he—

  Trace turned her to face the dresser, her back to his chest. His hands slid from her shoulders down her arms to her wrists.

  He put her hands flat on the dresser. “You know the drill.”

  The drill? Her eyes widened at her reflection in the dresser mirror. He wouldn’t dare.

  With one foot, Trace nudged her into a wider stance. “Just relax. I’ll be quick about it and then we can get out of here.”

  “Like hell, I will!” But when she started to turn, he held her, his arms like steel, his determination inflexible. “Damn you, Trace, you already know—”

  “What?” His mouth was very close to her ear, his breath warm and soft. “That you’re some sweet little girl just looking for her daddy?”

  Priss kept her mouth shut; she had never been a “sweet little” anything.

  Stepping up so close that his hard body touched all along her back, Trace said, “That you don’t have a secret agenda, an agenda that could jeopardize a hell of a lot?”

  “Like your agenda?”

  He didn’t take the bait. His fingertips, rough textured, hot and firm, stroked the insides of her wrists. “Am I to accept that you’re exactly who you claim to be, Priss, a woman without secrets?”

  His sarcasm, though spoken calmly, almost seductively, left her lungs aching with anger. “You bastard.”

  “You have that right.” His hands flattened over hers; his gaze met hers in the mirror. “Now stand here like a good girl and let me do my job.”

  No way in hell would she give him permission. And she couldn’t really fight him without giving herself away. Since she wasn’t sure a fight would accomplish anything substantial, she simply stared at him, daring him to get it over with.

  His mouth quirked. “You’ve got backbone, honey, I’ll give you that.”

  It might have been a compliment, except that his hands then went exploring, up her arms, into her armpits, down her rib cage and hips. His fingers prodded, stroked, caressed.

  “I am not your honey.” Her breath labored; she would not let him hear her pant, not with anxiety or excitement.

  As his palms coasted up the inside of her thighs, higher and higher, right to the sweet spot, Trace roughly whispered into her ear, “I bet you taste like honey, though, don’t you?”

  Oh, God. This wasn’t a frisking. It was a damn seduction. She couldn’t bear to look at her reflection, to see how he affected her even when mocking her.

  Turning her face away from the mirror, Priss rasped, “Stop it.”

  And he did, at least to a point. More methodical now, less inciting, Trace checked her waist, under her breasts, and then pulled the neckline of her T-shirt out to peek into her cleavage.

  Priss jerked away and, hands fisted, turned to face him. “Satisfied?”

  That strange quirky smile came again. “You have got to be kidding.”

  Right there in front of her, as if it weren’t a personal thing to do, he adjusted his jeans.

  Her mouth went slack. Good grief, he had an erection! And she’d just then noticed that he was all decked out in his defensive gear again, bolstered by the Kevlar vest under his dark polo, his utility belt once again loaded with a knife, nylon cuffs, stun baton, Glock, extra rounds…

  He picked up her purse and rifled through it. Since seeing her remove the room key from a hidden seam the night before, he checked every crease and pocket. When he found nothing untoward, he handed it back to her.

  Trying to be cavalier about all that had just happened, as well as his fully armed appearance, Priss folded her arms under her breasts. “Expecting a war this morning?”

  “Every morning, afternoon and night, actually.” He nodded toward Liger. “Gather him up and let’s get on our way.”

  So now he’d act as if he hadn’t just felt her up? She scooped up the big cat, who sprawled back in her arms like a baby with a little meow of pleasure. “You’re a real dick, Trace, you know that?”

  He opened the door, looked out, then hefted the cat’s bag of supplies. Already in alert mode, he said absently, “Yeah, I know.”

  And then there was no more conversation as they took Liger and all his paraphernalia to Trace’s car.

  IT WORKED IN H
IS FAVOR, and was even a little amusing, that Priss gave him the silent treatment. He hadn’t anticipated her being that female about things. So far, nothing with her had been ordinary or expected. But the fewer questions she asked, the fewer lies he had to tell.

  When he went through a fast-food drive-through for breakfast sandwiches, he didn’t ask for her preference, and she didn’t offer up any suggestions. Because he had very specific drinks in mind, he didn’t order any juice or coffee to go with the food. Although her nose twitched at the delicious smell, she didn’t say a word when he set the bag of warm biscuit sandwiches on the floor near her feet.

  Which was perfect.

  Unfortunately, it couldn’t last. Some things she needed to know, so minutes later as Trace pulled into the nearly hidden, private garage, he said, “Enough already, Priss. I need your attention so stop pouting.”

  The muscles in her jaw flexed, but she sounded bland enough when she replied. “Go to hell.”

  He ignored that. She had to be curious about where they were, and why. At the bottom of a sloping drive that took them underground, Trace reached out the window and pushed a private code into a gate keypad that protected the garage.

  A large fence lifted, allowing them in. “I made sure we weren’t followed, and if you ever need to come here, you should do the same.”

  Her green eyes looked mysterious and oh, so alert in the dim lighting of the garage. “Why would I come here?”

  Trace pretended surprise. “A question? Seriously? Common sense prevails over stubbornness, huh? Terrific.”

  Her right hand balled into a small but credible fist. “I repeat, Trace Miller, go to hell.”

  Trace couldn’t help chuckling. For some reason, it almost made him proud that she’d recognized the last name as fictitious, even though no one else had thought a thing of it.

  He gave her a telling look. “I’m guessing that you might need the garage because you’re definitely up to something—something shady and absurd—and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know you’re in over your head. Sooner or later you’ll realize it, and I only hope it’s in time for you to make a strategic—and safe—retreat. In case I’m not around to save your luscious ass, I wanted you to know about the garage.”