Trace of Fever

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Trace of Fever Page 22

by Lori Foster


  Without looking away from Belford, Trace asked Murray, “How bad do you want it?”

  “I’ll tell you when to stop.”

  With Belford’s face still twisted in pain, Trace lifted him up by his shirtfront, popping several buttons in the process, and went to work. He used his fists, his elbows, his knees and his feet. With every blow, he thought of what this man had conspired to do against women. What he would do if Trace didn’t stop him.

  Murray’s time would come, but for now, he could dish out partial retribution to one of the players. Not a perfect solution, but it’d do for now.

  As he worked over Belford, Murray talked to him, taunting him every so often, conveying little details of their arrangement.

  Trace made a mental note of every word said while again pretending to be a robot on autopilot to fulfill Murray’s vicious request.

  Five minutes later, with Trace not even breathing hard and a few of Belford’s teeth on the floor mixing with blood and at least one bone broken, Murray lifted a hand to call a halt.

  Trace stepped back and Belford, barely conscious, slumped to his ass on the cold floor, hanging his bruised and bleeding head.

  Murray moved to stand over him. “Understand, please, this was a lesson in honor. We made a deal and, for me, once a deal is set, there is no further negotiation.”

  Belford managed a weak nod of assent.

  “I figured you’d get the point. Now.” Murray chuckled and slapped Trace on the back. “Good work.”

  Flexing his knuckles, bile burning his throat, Trace thought of Priss. He thought of her jibes and her scent and her headstrong manner, and was rewarded with a cleansing breath of fresh air.

  He needed her now more than ever; though he was beginning to think he’d needed her, her specifically, for a very long time.

  “We’re through here?”

  “Nah.” Murray nodded toward Dugo. “Kill him.”

  That wasn’t part of the plan, but Trace wouldn’t balk over taking out a participant in the human-trafficking racket. In the end, he hoped to kill them all.

  He withdrew his gun and took aim.

  Murray touched his wrist. “On second thought, Belford might need him to get home. You’re so thorough that he’s in worse shape than Dugo.”

  Trace dropped the hand holding the gun. His temper prickled. “Another fucking test?”

  Murray laughed. “And as always, you passed with gusto.” He nudged Belford with the toe of his custom-made shoe. “You’ll take the women, all of them, at the agreed-upon price and, in the end, when you make your profit, you’ll realize how valuable this exchange has been.”

  Belford made a sound of agreement.

  Squatting down by him, Murray said, “Unfortunately, I’m one girl short of our agreement. Consider it a toll for making me come here and explain myself. Got it?”

  Again Belford struggled to give reply.

  “Great. Show up with the money, don’t ever try my patience again, and we can put this unpleasantness behind us.” And with that, Murray regained his feet and started out.

  Trace backed out behind him; the men were fallen, but they weren’t entirely incapacitated, and he didn’t take chances.

  Outside, Murray stretched. “That was entertaining. Two fights in one night, against how many men now?”

  “Four.” He opened Murray’s door for him. “I’m not counting Belford.”

  That made Murray laugh, and on the drive back to the office, he engaged in small talk, almost as if the extreme violence of the past hour hadn’t taken place. It was another indication of his sickness.

  Another reason to put him down.

  Rain pounded from the sky, leaving the streets steaming from the earlier heat of the day, as Trace escorted Murray into the office. They went past an army of night guards and most of them not only nodded to Murray, they deferred to Trace as they would a drill sargeant.

  Idiots, all of them. Most knew what they did, who they protected, but some of them went by the creed of “seeing nothing, hearing nothing, repeating nothing.”

  Almost to himself, Murray said, “You’re better than all of them put together.”

  He was, but Murray’s mood was strange, too introspective, and he didn’t want to find all the guards dead in the morning. “They have their uses.”

  “True enough.” Murray strode into his office and went straight to the bar. “Drink?”

  “No, thanks.” He wasn’t about to muddle his senses with alcohol, and besides, he didn’t trust Murray or Hell not to slip something into his drink.

  Of course that thought led him to Priss and unrelenting guilt.

  Murray sprawled into his chair. “I have a slew of employees on different levels performing many different duties. But for the business I’m in and the security I require, you’re far more valuable to me than the rest.”

  Trace eyed him. He didn’t know if Murray wanted to promote him, confide in him or fuck him. “Was there something else you needed from me tonight?”

  For the longest time Murray studied him, then he laughed and shook his head. “No. You’re free to go.”

  “You’re sure?” If Murray wanted to spill his guts, Trace damn straight wanted to listen.

  “Get some sleep,” Murray suggested. “You’ve surely tired yourself after the brutality of the day.”

  “No.”

  Amused, Murray tilted his head. “No, you won’t sleep, or no, you aren’t tired?”

  Trace shrugged. “Both, I guess.” He looked at his watch. “You think Helene is done with Priscilla yet?”

  “Doubtful.” Rocking back in his big office chair, Murray cradled the glass of whiskey and propped his feet on the desk. “For tonight, don’t worry about Priscilla.”

  “Great.” Thank God Jackson would keep Helene from getting anywhere near Priss. “Then I think I’ll get some dinner, maybe hit up a club.”

  “Missing your social time lately?”

  Trace thought about how to answer, and settled on saying, “Following up a fight with a relaxing lay suits me.”

  “If you can call what you do a fight,” Murray snorted. “You’re so damn fast and effective, there’s no real fight to it.”

  “Did you want it otherwise?”

  Shaking his head, Murray said, “No, that wasn’t a complaint, just an observation. But I understand the adrenaline rush, so go and get some relief, but stay on call in case something comes up.”

  “Always.”

  “Oh, and, Trace?”

  One hand on the door, Trace glanced back.

  “I’ve decided to move up my lunch with Priscilla. I’m anxious to see her now that she’s been made over.”

  One blow after another. Cautiously, Trace turned to face him. “All right.” He wanted to ask why the change, but didn’t dare push things.

  “I have to admit I’m curious about Helene’s effect on her, too.” Murray watched him. “Think she’ll be hysterical, or accepting?”

  Staring him in the eyes, Trace said only, “Hard to say.”

  “Women are all so different,” Murray mused in agreement. “And yet, they’re all weak.”

  Trace kept quiet.

  “We’ll keep the meeting private, but I want you there watching on as security—just in case things get out of hand.”

  Meaning if Priss didn’t go along with Murray’s twisted plans? “I can take care of it.”

  “No, I’ll make the arrangements with Alice myself.” Murray smiled. “I’ll let you know the details.”

  As far as dismissals went, that wasn’t too subtle. Trace nodded and let himself out. Despite what he’d told Murray, he had no interest in clubs or other women.

  The sex…yeah, that sounded right. But only with Priss. God, he needed her.

  Anxious to make a private call to Jackson to check on Priss’s welfare, Trace headed straight for his apartment. There was enough traffic to make it difficult to spot anyone following him, but he did notice one set of headlights that stayed too close
.

  When he pulled into the lot next to the apartment, the car went on past. Trace waited, but didn’t see it return. Besides, with Priss elsewhere, the threat was minimal.

  Just in case, he waited a minute more, and then pulled into the apartment parking lot. If the coast was clear and no one had followed Jackson, he would shower off the blood and then go to her.

  He could hardly wait to get her close, to touch her, taste her…to get her under him.

  If fate dealt him a winning hand, tonight would be the night.

  BLOOD PUMPING HOT AND FAST, Helene waited just inside the entry doors of Trace’s hotel. After finding Priss’s apartment empty, she decided she would not waste the night. They thought they were so clever, but they had underestimated her.

  Even through the rain, she had a clear view of the parking lot. Trace, always so cautious, furtively checked everything and everyone—but he didn’t see her, she made sure of that.

  As she waited, he left the car, turned up his jacket collar and, ignoring the rain, pulled out his cell phone to put in a call.

  When he started in, she ducked to the side of the foyer, partially behind a tall plastic plant, not really hiding, but not exactly making herself noticeable, either.

  She had hoped that Trace would have Priscilla with him, and to that end, she’d brought plenty of her special formula with her, enough to make them both pay, enough that they would finally understand what she could and would do.

  Unfortunately, Trace entered alone, speaking intently into the phone.

  To Murray? She couldn’t hear what he said, but she didn’t think so. The usual curt deference reserved for Murray wasn’t in evidence. In fact, he almost—but not quite—smiled. No, he spoke to someone else, someone friendlier than Murray.

  From his fair hair to his broad shoulders and down that strong back to his powerful thighs, Helene’s gaze went over him.

  She shivered.

  Having Trace defenseless against her, even dependent upon her, would be better, much better, than playing with Priss.

  Almost as if he felt her heated interest, Trace suddenly stopped—and oh, so slowly turned to face her.

  Their gazes clashed, held.

  Something dangerous, something ultimately deadly shone in his mesmerizing hazel eyes. She breathed harder, her stomach tightening, her sex growing damp.

  She’d wanted him from day one, but he’d always treated her with contempt. Tonight, he would do as she wanted. He’d have no choice.

  “Hello, Trace.”

  He dropped the hand holding the phone, keeping it lax at his side. “Helene. What are you doing here? Where’s Priscilla?”

  Gliding up to him, feeling the taut pull of her nipples and the burning rush of lust, she smiled. “You tell me.”

  “You were supposed to be with her.” His brows, so much darker than his light blond hair, pinched down, but his voice remained neutral. “You damned lunatic. I know you didn’t finish with her so quickly, so what did you do? Kill her?”

  Strange, but he didn’t seem overly alarmed by the possibility. But then, maybe he had known Priss wouldn’t be there when she arrived. “I never even got to see her. Her apartment was empty.”

  “Where is she?”

  Shrugging, Helene trailed a fingernail down his damp chest. “I assumed you swept her away.”

  Catching her wrist in a bruising hold, Trace tossed her off him. “Keep your stories straight. I was with Murray.”

  “So where is she then, hmm?”

  “No idea, but I know where I’m going.” He dropped the cell into his jacket pocket and turned his back on her, striding away.

  Rushing to keep up with him, Hell asked, “To bed? That’s perfect for me.”

  “Go fuck yourself.” He kept walking. “That’s the only way you’ll get laid, because I’m sure as hell not touching you.”

  No one should ever underestimate this man. He was cagey, slicker, and maybe more cruel than even Murray. His reflexes impressed her, and his body combined with his confidence left her desperate to experience him.

  She kept a safe distance.

  Without looking at her, he said, “Go away, Helene.”

  “When I came specifically to see you? Not a chance.”

  Over his shoulder, he pinned her with his sharp gaze. “How’d you know where I was staying?”

  “Murray doesn’t keep secrets from me.”

  That made him laugh. “If you say so.”

  As Trace retrieved his card key from his wallet and unlocked his door, she slowly withdrew two hypodermics from her pocket. She’d meant one for Priss, one for Trace, but having Trace all to herself would be very sweet.

  And two needles would work to her advantage, given his caution.

  She removed the caps on the needles. With care, she tucked one into the back waistband on her skirt, but left the other visible.

  He didn’t appear to be paying any attention to her at all.

  “You won’t be able to ignore me for long.” As quickly as she could while still trying to be furtive, Helene reached out to him with the needle, intending to stick him in the shoulder.

  Trace turned too fast for her to dodge him. One hand on her throat, the other clamped onto her arm, he slammed her up against the wall.

  Her pulse raced.

  Staring into her eyes, so commanding, so much fury, he squeezed her arm until she winced—and dropped the needle.

  “You conniving bitch.” He crushed it beneath his boot heel, leaving a damp spot in the carpet. “You were going to drug me?”

  “Yes.” Staring at his mouth, Hell licked her lips and leaned toward him. “I have a special elixir just for you, Trace.”

  Revulsion hardened his expression even more and he put space between them. “What special elixir?”

  After flexing her hand to bring circulation back to her arm, Hell braced both hands behind her. The pose was innocent, unthreatening. “Murray wanted a concoction, an aphrodisiac, that’d make the women more pliable, more…agreeable to the sexual side of things.”

  “Because a comatose woman can’t argue?”

  “She can’t. But Murray wanted the women awake and anxious to meet their fates. Titillating, don’t you think?”

  “I think you’re overselling.” His narrowed gaze sharpened. “Something like that doesn’t exist.”

  “It most definitely does—now.” It wasn’t often that she got to brag on her skills. “My serum makes the blood sing and sets the body on fire. And almost by accident, I’ve found that it works particularly well on men.” She moved up against him. “One dose and you’ll be so hard, so throbbing, you’ll be begging me for relief. So how about we go inside and get started?”

  “Not happening.” He pushed away from her as if she were a vile thing. “Go home. Go to Murray.”

  “I can’t.” Truthfully, she preferred his resistance. If he conceded to her wishes, if he gave in, he wouldn’t be nearly as desirable. She’d been chased, and she’d been dominated. Sometimes, though, she preferred the chasing—or dominating. “I want you, Trace.”

  “I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not. Stay the fuck away from me.” Clearly repulsed, he turned to his door.

  Quick as she could, Hell freed the needle and in one motion swung her arm up and around, stabbing it hard into his muscled backside.

  As much from reflex, as outrage, Trace backhanded her. The blow sent her sprawling to the floor, her legs in inelegant display and her face stinging. She tasted blood on her lip, and that, too, inflamed her.

  Trace didn’t realize it yet, but it was too late for him.

  Appalled, outraged, he stared at her in incomprehension. “What did you do?”

  She licked her bloody lip. “I sealed your fate.”

  He jerked the needle free, staring at it until it slipped out of his hand. Voice already slurring, he asked, “What the hell did you do?”

  Helene forced herself back up to her feet. She straightened her skirt, smoothed her blouse.

/>   She’d been struck before, of course, but never quite like that; Murray had never wanted to bruise her face.

  Trace was the most powerful man she’d ever encountered. She worked her jaw and winced. It wasn’t broken, but she’d have one hell of a bruise come morning, and probably a fat lip, too. It’d be tough explaining to Murray, but she’d figure out something.

  And as soon as possible, she’d make Trace pay for the inconvenience.

  She smiled. “Come on, big boy. Inside, before you drop here in the hallway and someone calls the police. None of us wants that to happen.”

  Because his thoughts were already muddling, he didn’t fight her as she led him into the room, but he ground out, “I’ll kill you for this.”

  Cooing to him, Helene said, “I know you’ll try.” She closed and locked the door. “But not before I’ve had my way with every inch of your delicious body.”

  He slumped back to the wall and slowly slid down to the carpeted floor.

  “Don’t worry, baby.” Watching him, Helene peeled off her jacket and dropped it over a chair. “You’re going to be wide-awake and very aware of everything I do to you, every kiss and touch, every lick and suck, everything. It’s only for a half hour or so that you’re going to be helpless and I need that time to get you all secured and situated.” She stepped over him.

  Trace made one last feeble attempt to retrieve his cell phone from his pocket.

  She laughed. “Now who do you think to call?”

  More succinctly than she’d expected, he said, “No one.”

  And he closed the phone.

  Smiling, feeling indulgent with his continued refusal to accept his fate—the fate she’d give him—Helene took the phone and put it out of his reach. “Oh, Trace.” She touched his jaw. “This is going to be so much fun. For me.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE HORROR OF WHAT they’d just overheard left Jackson and Priss staring at each other. It was Priss who reacted first.

  “Why are you standing there?” She shoved Jackson hard. “You heard everything. That bitch is going to molest him!”

  Looking a little sick, Jackson whispered, “Yeah.” He looked away. “Or worse.”

 

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