Trace of Fever

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Trace of Fever Page 17

by Lori Foster


  Tension built inside him. “Priss…”

  With little interest, she said, “Hmm?”

  Damn it. Why he felt so drawn to her, so…entwined with her, Trace couldn’t say. But he didn’t want a barrier between them, not now. “I do have a sister.”

  “I know.” She sounded even more remote. “I heard you say so.”

  Loyalties divided, Trace sought a response that would pacify her. “Alani’s life…her issues…they’re private. Hers to share, not mine.”

  At least he had her attention again. Priss watched him, still guarded but also sympathetic.

  Finally she sighed. “I can understand that.” She turned her head to look out the window at the passing scenery. “That’s exactly how I feel about my life and my issues.”

  Trace was quick to say, “It’s not the same.”

  “With neither of us sharing any real details, we’ll never know if it’s the same or not, will we? But I mean it, Trace, I understand why you don’t want to discuss your sister’s personal and private business.”

  She sounded genuine enough, but Trace wasn’t satisfied. “You’re here with me, Priss. In the thick of things. I require details from you.” That is, beyond the details he’d already gleaned in his cursory background check on her.

  “Yup. In the thick of it.” She laced her fingers together over her stomach and relaxed in the seat. “Now that I’ve eaten, I feel better.”

  “You were feeling bad?”

  She rolled one shoulder. “Melancholy maybe. Anyway, describe Jackson for me so I’ll know the enemy from the babysitter.”

  “I doubt Jackson would like being called a babysitter.” Not that he gave a damn what Jackson liked.

  “No?” Priss lifted her brows. “How about deadly enforcer? Bodyguard? What exactly should I call him?”

  Her continued detachment wore on Trace. “Odds are you won’t need to refer to him at all. But so that you can recognize him if it does become necessary, he has dark blond hair, green eyes. Around my height, but bulkier.”

  “As in more muscular?”

  He scowled. “I suppose.”

  “Huh.” She lifted a brow. “Hard to imagine, really.”

  “What?”

  “Anyone being more muscular than you. I mean, you’re pretty ripped.”

  Trace shifted. He was flattered, but also uneasy. Priss was in a strange mood and it didn’t bode well. “Like I said, he’s bulkier with it.”

  “Mmm.” Tipping her head, Priss studied his shoulders, his chest. She shook her head as if to clear it. “So he’s good-looking?”

  What damned difference did it make? Trace frowned at the line of questioning. “Hell, I don’t know. My sister says he looks like a lake bum.”

  That got her grinning. “Really? That’s intriguing. Most of the lake bums I’ve seen are tan, fit and athletic.”

  Yeah, that sounded like Jackson—if you added in razor-sharp reflexes and uncompromising competence. “You’ll be safe with him.”

  “From what I overheard, I wonder if your sister and Jackson have something going on.”

  “No.” Trace shook his head, sure that they didn’t. Did they? He ground his teeth, and then moved on to more pertinent information.

  For the remainder of the long drive, he instructed Priss on probable escape routes from the old apartment. Being an expert, he remembered every egress and where it led. “Jackson will look it over himself, and I’m guessing that if it becomes necessary, he’ll come in through the window in the bathroom.”

  She did a double take. “You think he’d fit?”

  “It’s the window least likely to be noticed, and yeah, you’d both fit.” Jackson knew how to squeeze in and out of tight places. And Priss, if it came to that, would learn.

  Going over details on security, Trace told her not to open the door to anyone and not to leave the apartment for any reason. It’d be best to keep her windows locked but leave the drapes in the front room parted enough for any of Murray’s henchmen to see her. If they knew she was inside, they might not feel obligated to have her presence verified.

  “When you go to bed, it wouldn’t hurt to bar the door.” Murray was so unpredictable that she couldn’t take too many precautions.

  Priss toyed with a lock of hair hanging over her shoulder. “So…if you finish with Murray in time, do you think you might come in to see me?”

  She obviously hadn’t understood when Jackson asked him the same thing. “No. I might be keeping watch, but from a safe distance.”

  “Oh.”

  Trace saw her disappointment. He wished he could return to her, but that’d really be pushing their luck.

  The next two hours passed pleasantly enough. They talked, but not about anything controversial. After returning the truck to the garage and retrieving the Mercedes, they stopped to pick up the rest of Priss’s clothes from Twyla. It was right at closing time for the shop. Trace kept checking his watch, but he was still on track to meet Murray.

  Twyla wanted to gush about how improved Priss looked even as she admonished her for not wearing the new, more provocative clothes.

  “I’m saving them for Murray,” Priss told her with the appropriate giddiness of a schoolgirl. “After all, he bought them for me.”

  Twyla approved. “And don’t you forget it.”

  They exited the shop with Twyla dogging their heels, trying to continue the conversation. But the day had been too long already for unnecessary politeness. Trace helped Priss into the car and shut the door. While Priss gave a happy wave to Twyla, Trace ignored her and went around to the driver’s side.

  “You were rude.”

  “She’s under Murray’s umbrella, so trust me, she’s used to worse.” Glad to be out of there, Trace added, “She’s aware of every scheme, so don’t start feeling sorry for her.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “You waved like she was a close friend.”

  “Fulfilling my role as a giddy girl, that’s all.” Priss settled in her seat. “Besides, I’ve known a lot of women like Twyla, prickly and bossy. But that doesn’t mean she’s in cahoots with a maniac.”

  “She is.”

  “You sound so sure.” Priss chewed her lip. “But how do you know that?”

  “Murray broke me in by having me accompany Hell on a few shopping trips.” He gave her a pointed look. “Believe me, I overheard plenty.”

  Until Priss relaxed, he hadn’t realized how keyed up she was. “So you never…”

  “What?”

  Priss rolled in her lips, but didn’t hold back. “You haven’t taken other women there to be outfitted? You haven’t…been a part of their abuse?”

  “No.” His shoulders tightened. Fuck, no. Even before his sister’s ordeal, he’d never stood by and watched anyone mistreat a woman, and he never would. It was the one big conflict in his cover. Put to the right test—a test against his morality and conscience—how would he handle things? He wanted Murray and all who associated with him, but he knew where to draw the line. “Never that, Priss.”

  With the smallest of relieved smiles, she nodded. “Good to know.”

  A few miles from the apartment, they went into a small grocery to buy Priss more supplies. While she loaded a cart with junk food and a few basics, Trace grabbed other necessaries she might need like toiletries and a few magazines that’d help give credence to her being in residence.

  Back in the car, Priss looked over a magazine, and then put it back in the bag. “It’s going to feel emptier now, without Liger there.”

  “I’m sorry.” Trace knew how any living, breathing creature could offer comfort when the shadows started to close in. He suspected that Priss had a lot of shadows in her life. “Maybe you can watch TV or something to help pass the time.”

  “Maybe.”

  Minutes later, he pulled into the lot and, without being obvious, scanned the area. Nothing seemed out of place, but to be sure, he told Priss, “We’re back in our roles, okay?”

  “Yea
h, I get it.” She opened her door and stepped out, hefting several of the packages into her arms.

  The second the slick, black sedan pulled into the lot, they both noticed. Priss straightened, tracking the car as it pulled past and parked toward the back of the lot, away from the street.

  Suspicion narrowed Trace’s gaze as he watched the vehicle; absently, he handed the additional bags to Priss. “Get in your apartment and lock the door.”

  She stiffened with alarm. “What are you going to do?”

  He gave her a small push even as he started toward the car. “Do as I say, Priss.”

  Three big bruisers stepped out of the car. The driver sent a smarmy smile toward Trace.

  Jackson should already be in place. Trace hoped he had the good sense to stay put because he wouldn’t need his help, but later, Priss just might.

  PRISS GOT TO THE TOP of the rickety steps and rushed to the front door of the apartment. Though she scanned the area, every nook and cranny that led to the apartment access, there was no one else on the landing, and no one near the stairs.

  For the moment, she felt safe enough.

  She wasn’t a dummy; she wouldn’t take unnecessary chances that would divide Trace’s concentration. Not with one man against three.

  Impressive as Trace might be, those odds sucked.

  After she unlocked the front door and tossed the heavy bags onto the couch, she darted to the railing to observe the confrontation taking place.

  The three hulks facing off with Trace looked like professional assholes. Black T-shirts, black slacks, dark sunglasses.

  Could they be more clichéd?

  Oh, God, oh, God. Trying to read Trace’s body language, Priss gripped the railing and held her breath. The men awaited his approach as if they’d come there specifically for him.

  Murray’s men? Another test—or something else?

  Trace looked…well, he looked relaxed. Maybe even amused.

  Stride casual, he continued to advance on the men without a single obvious concern.

  Other people were in the lot, out in front of the bar next door, driving by on the street—but no one paid any attention to them.

  With less than four feet separating them, Trace stopped. His voice was firm, clear, reaching Priss where she waited safely out of reach of harm.

  “Who are you?”

  The man who’d taken the lead spit near Trace’s shoe. “None of your fucking business.”

  “I’m not asking again.”

  The guy laughed and reached for…a gun!

  Priss gasped at the same time the guy said, “Screw yo—”

  His reply ended when Trace put his boot to the idiot’s jaw. Shattered sunglasses went flying and the man’s head snapped around. He lurched back to slam into the side of the car. The gun slipped from his hand.

  Trace kicked again, and the fellow slid down into a heap on the ground.

  It happened so fast that Priss was left with her mouth hanging open and her eyes flared wide. For a very brief time, the other two men had the same reaction.

  Seconds later they shook off their surprise.

  One of them pulled another gun while the third attacked Trace. Though she wasn’t a girlie-girl by any stretch, and she was never given to drama, Priss barely swallowed back a scream.

  She started to race down the steps, determined to find a way to help, but in seconds she saw that Trace had the upper hand. Again.

  Dumbfounded, she watched the battle unfold, and she watched Trace dominate.

  Oh, he got hit. Several times, in fact.

  But nothing seemed to damage him, or slow him down.

  After taking a blow to the chin that he barely registered, he retaliated with a hard knee to his combatant’s groin, bending the other man double. A punch finished him off and his sunglasses hit the pavement, too.

  Two guns and two pairs of sunglasses now littered the ground around them.

  The third man launched himself onto Trace’s back, attempting to choke him from behind. He found himself flipped onto his back, and his head made solid contact with the parking lot.

  To Priss’s amazement, Trace wasn’t done. He went to one knee, caught the man by the shirt front and, after flipping those sunglasses away, pounded his face with heavy fists. When Trace finished, the hapless fool was bloody, battered and out for the count.

  The brutality of it didn’t faze her. Given their initial hostility—both in tone and manner—she understood what those men had intended, just as she understood why Trace reacted as he did.

  It was the effortless way Trace handled them all that blew her away. The brutes got their asses handed to them, and then some.

  Only fallen, groaning bodies remained of what could have been a serious threat.

  Systematically, Trace went from man to man, disabling and further disarming each of them. When he finished, he stood back to survey his handiwork.

  As if he’d only just then remembered Priss, he glanced back and found her standing at the rail.

  She swallowed down her guilt for disobeying an order and gave him a thumbs-up signal for his success.

  Now he looked furious. He pointed a finger at her. “Inside.”

  Lord have mercy.

  On a gulp, Priss nodded and, backing up, pretended to do as ordered. When Trace returned his attention to the men, she moved back to her vantage point at the railing and watched as he opened the back door of the sedan. Showing no signs of strain, he hefted up the first heavy thug and shoved him into the backseat without worry for any additional injury he might cause. The second brute got piled in on top.

  Trace closed the door on them.

  Going back to the first man that he’d knocked out, Trace kicked him a few times, not hard enough to cause more damage, but enough to bring him around and get his attention.

  Jolted, the guy tried to jerk upright but crumpled on what must’ve been a bad leg.

  Trace smiled as he hauled him to his feet. Leaning close, he said something low, something that Priss couldn’t hear, but it sent the man into panicked struggles.

  That’s when Priss caught the glint of Trace’s knife.

  Oh, wow. She squeezed the railing tighter, refusing to blink.

  As the man tried to fend off Trace, a brief struggle occurred, ending with a loud howl of pain. Trace withdrew his knife, sheathed it, and shoved the cursing man behind the wheel of the car.

  He slammed the door and waited. Finally, after some fumbles, the man started the car and, a little haphazardly, drove out of the lot. He hit the main road with a screech of his tires.

  After the car was completely out of sight, Trace gathered up the thugs’ discarded weapons, went to his car and locked them in the trunk.

  His attitude floored Priss. He behaved as if nothing out of the norm had happened.

  She rushed back down the stairs and toward him. “Wow.” When he glanced at her with a frown, she said again, “Just…wow. That was amazing.”

  His left eye flinched. “I told you to go inside.”

  Priss drew up short at his deadly calm and eerily quiet tone. “Yeah, you did.” She tried to sound reasonable. “But if you hadn’t handled things so handily, I needed to be where I could call out to others, or make a run for it, or—”

  Trace took her arm. “You and I need to talk.”

  She did not like this overly controlled mood of his. “So…you have time to talk? I mean, don’t you need to get going?”

  “Stop dragging your feet.”

  She wasn’t…was she? Straightening her spine, Priss took the lead. Or she tried to. But Trace kept her right at his side, without a word, without even paying much attention to her. Only half under her breath, she said, “You’re being a bully.”

  At the top of the stairs, he stopped to stare at her open door. “Un-fucking-believable.”

  “There’s no one around.” Now she sounded defensive. Yeah, she knew better than to run off and leave the door standing wide open. “You have to admit it, Trace, I had
reason to be distracted.”

  He started marching her forward again. “Left to your own devices, you’ll end up dead.”

  “That’s not true.” Hadn’t she already survived twenty-four years with an unpredictable madman as a father? “I’m good at survival.”

  He pulled her into the apartment, closed the door and locked it.

  Priss gulped. Yeah, okay, so now nervousness took over. Not really fear, because she felt certain that Trace wouldn’t hurt her. But he was just so…dangerous. In every sense of the word. His mood, his ability, his speed and strength, had all combined to annihilate three overgrown, trained thugs.

  Thugs who were sent to attack him—or maybe her. Instead they’d limped away, their tails tucked between their legs, their weapons confiscated. If Trace weren’t being so unpredictable, she could almost laugh about it.

  Instead, with him standing there staring at her in a fulminating rage, she squirmed uneasily.

  “You showed them, huh?”

  His eyes narrowed.

  She clamped her lips together. God, she’d sounded like a sap. Trying for a cavalier attitude, Priss leaned back against the door. “Now what?”

  “This.” Slowly, he stepped up to her. His right hand flattened on the door beside her head.

  Eyeing his planted hand, she saw bruised knuckles and unshakable resolve. She inhaled a shaky breath. “This?”

  He traced the fingertips of his left hand along her jaw, up to her temple and then flattened that hand on the door at the other side of her head.

  His pelvis pressed into hers, and she couldn’t miss the tension surging through him. Oh. This. Sharpened awareness left her eyes heavy, her heartbeat rapid. She tried to focus on his bruised jaw or his black eye. But all her attention zeroed in on his mouth. “You’re going to kiss me?” ’Bout damn time.

  “And other things.”

  Oh, boy, other things. “Like?”

  His mouth brushed the side of her throat, opened and sucked her skin in against his teeth.

  Her toes curled and her stomach bottomed out. “Trace…”

  Without haste, he worked his way up to her lips with hot, open-mouth, wet kisses. Every inch of his progress tantalized. All the while he kept her body pinned in place with his.

 

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