Trace of Fever (17 page)

Her skin started to crawl. “You think he sees me as a threat?”

“To get where he’s at now, Murray had to be shrewd in the beginning. But these days, his lust for power warps everything else, and now he’s just a deranged, sick paranoid who sees everyone as a threat.”

Yeah, she’d gotten that impression.

“No way in hell is he going to let anyone get close, most definitely not a daughter. A dissipated son, maybe. Murray could relate to that. But a fresh-faced, moral daughter? Not in this lifetime.”

So her con had been wrong from the very beginning. And if she’d really done her homework, she’d have known that. But no, she’d gotten high on her need for revenge, and she’d gone off half-cocked on righteousness. “Damn.”

“Yeah.” Trace rolled one shoulder. “Look at it this way, what you’re presenting and the way you’re presenting it is the antithesis to what Murray wants in his life.”

Now that her perspective was different, Priss knew he was probably right. “I see your point.” It sickened Priss to even consider it, but she said it anyway. “Maybe I should have tried to…you know, come on to him?” She fought off a gag.

“Hell, no!” Trace sent her a furious glare. “He’d have used you, then shared you, then sold you.”

Her temper unraveled without warning. “Then what should I have done?” Hurt squeezed in on Priss, prodded by memories of her mother’s fear and the irreversible damage done to her. Her mother had lived in hell, never able to escape the past or the constant terror of being caught again. She saw things that weren’t there, ran from men who only wanted conversation, and for all intents and purposes, she’d kept Priss hidden.

She’d kept her a prisoner.

For her own good. Or so her mother had always said.

Her life had consisted of undue caution, warnings, crying jags and wretched, clinging panic.

Priss said again, more quietly this time, “What should I have done?” If she didn’t make Murray pay, then it was all for nothing—her mother’s suffering, her abysmal upbringing, all of it.

Her life had little enough meaning already. Without this one driving purpose, she’d have…nothing at all.

W
HEN
P
RISS GOT QUIET
, it bothered Trace. He knew right where her thoughts had gone. He didn’t want to push her, but the sooner they got it all out in the open, the sooner they could deal with it.

She sat slumped beside him, her head resting against the back of the seat, one hand beside her, the other braced against the door where it met the window.

The casual pose didn’t fool him; he could feel her throbbing tension, and the pain she tried to hide.

Trace reached for her hand and gave her fingers a squeeze. Quietly, he asked, “Do you want to talk about your mother?”

Without looking at him, without even an ounce of real interest, Priss said, “No, why? You want to talk about what it is you and Dare do?”

Exasperated, Trace released her. “What does one have to do with the other?”

“I was raised not to trust any man.” Leisurely, she rolled her head to face him. “That includes you.
Especially
you.”

They needed a break, and she needed to eat. Thinking food might improve her disposition, he pulled into a gas station with a small store attached.

“Come on. Pick out some food and then I’ll tell you what I can.”

She immediately perked up. “Really? You mean it?”

“That hungry?” He smiled at her newly animated expression.

Priss shook her head. “That curious.”

The second he parked the truck, she opened her door and got out. Trace had to hustle to keep up with her. He grabbed her arm before she could step into the store.

“You need to show a little more caution, at all times.”

At a more sedate pace, they entered, and Priss grabbed a burrito, chips, a soda and prepackaged doughnuts. Trace bought his own drink, but he was careful not to touch Priss’s food. He was afraid if he did, she’d find a reason to refuse it.

When they returned to the truck, he scanned the area and found it clear. While Priss prepared her food, he put in a call to Jackson.

Priss pretended preoccupation, but he knew she listened to, and memorized, every word.

Jackson answered on the first ring but said nothing.

“I need you on duty tonight.”

Recognizing Trace’s voice, he said, “Yeah? Doing what?”

There was something about Jackson that often rubbed Trace the wrong way. Maybe it was how Jackson and his sister, Alani, always squabbled. Or maybe it was that women ogled him nonstop.

Feeling a little tetchy about the idea of Jackson keeping an eye on Priss, Trace growled, “Does it matter?”

“Nope.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Like a parent schooling a kid, Jackson said, “I kind of need some instruction here, Trace. I’m not psychic. Or did you want me to guess?”

Shit. Trace rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I thought Dare had told you.”

“Nope. Nothing specific anyway.”

He let out a breath that didn’t really do much to hedge his possessiveness. “Murray wants me to accompany him tonight.”

Jackson’s whistle of surprise was nearly drowned out as Priss choked on her drink. Trace reached over
and rubbed between her shoulder blades while she bent forward, coughing.

“So he’s finally biting.” Jackson sounded duly impressed with the progress. “’Bout damn time.”

A little early, actually, which was why Trace had to assume this might be a trap. “While I’m gone, I want eyes on Priss. Every minute.”

“Got it.”

“I need you ready to intervene if it comes to that.” And once again, Trace despised that he might have to rely on someone else. That it had happened with his sister still burned him. He didn’t want to entrust Priss’s care to anyone else. He trusted Jackson’s ability to handle things or he wouldn’t be working with him, but…that wasn’t the point.

“She’s going to be at your hotel?”

“No.” Trace gave him the address of the original place Priss had booked. “Murray already questioned her, so I’m guessing he’ll have someone check up on her.”

“So she needs to be there. Are you expecting the visit to be friendly or hostile?”

“I have to assume friendly, but in case I’m wrong, that’s why you’re watching. You can notify me if shit goes south once you have her safe. And if I should hear of anything to make me think it might not be friendly, I’ll send you the text code.”

Within the organization, Trace, Dare and Jackson shared codes that identified every probability, and that could be simply and quickly sent without anyone else knowing what they meant.

Now, after what she’d been through, Alani also knew the codes. It made Trace feel marginally better about her being out and about again, picking back up on her life.

“When I finish with Murray, I’ll take over watching Priss.”

“You going to stay with her?”

He shook his head, even knowing that Jackson couldn’t see him. “If I thought I could slip her out of there unnoticed, I would, but if anyone’s watching…”

“Yeah, probably too chancy.” Trace didn’t need to finish that thought; Jackson understood. “I’ll go by there now to get the lay of the land, find the best retreat if necessary. Tell her she won’t see me, but I’ll be nearby all the same.”

Nearby watching Priss’s every move. Trace’s jaw tightened. “Thanks.”

“So…” Jackson cleared his throat. “Your sister is on her own right now?”

Hackles rising even more, Trace asked softly, “Why are you asking?”

“You’re usually right up her… That is, you’re usually looming over her. When you can’t do it, you have Dare watching over her.”

“What makes you think that’s not the case now?” Alani swore she was fine, that she could carry on without all the supervision. True, she was extra cautious now, and Trace doubted she would ever again take chances with her safety. But it wasn’t just for her that Trace continued to keep a close eye. It gave him a measure of peace, too.

“We met up to discuss remodeling my place. If either of you had been watching, I’d have known.”

“She met with you at your request, I suppose?” Absently, Trace watched Priss all but inhale her food. She must have been famished, and he was the one responsible for that. He reached over and lifted from her jeans a tiny piece of onion that had fallen from the burrito wrapper.

She mouthed a silent, “Thanks.”

Again Jackson cleared his throat. “Yeah, my suggestion.” Then in disgust, he said, “But I doubt it’ll happen. You know your sister and me—oil and water. How the
hell she gets any business with her surly disposition, I’ll never understand.”

“Yet you broached the idea to her?”

Jackson sounded defensive. “I wouldn’t mind a professional touch at my new place. Being that she’s your sis and part of the biz and all, I felt obligated to go to her first.”

“Uh-huh.” Trace watched as, with another big bite, Priss finished off the food. “Leave my sister alone, Jackson, you understand me?”

Slowly, Priss turned her head to stare at him. “So you
do
have a sister?”

Shit. He’d said more than he should. “I have to go.”

“Yeah, you should go.” Jackson sounded every bit as acerbic as Trace felt. “And don’t worry about Priss or Alani. I’ve got it covered.”

Trace opened his mouth, but Jackson disconnected the call. He snapped his teeth together. “Son-of-a—”

“A sister, huh? The mysterious Alani, I take it?” Priss gathered up her garbage and put it all back in the bag. “You know, Trace, you might as well tell me everything, otherwise I’ll just go by supposition.”

Hell, she already knew far too much. He put the truck in Drive. “Such as?”

Leaning closer, one hand on his thigh in a gesture of sympathy, Priss said softly, “Your sister was the victim of human traffickers.”

Trace gripped the steering wheel and said nothing.

“That would account for why you’re involved with Murray now, and why everyone went all hush-hush when Chris accidentally said her name. Don’t worry, I understand.” She rubbed his thigh. “Your secret is safe with me.”

T
RACE CONCENTRATED
on the traffic, on the surrounding area and on not responding to Priss’s astute guess.

After a minute of silence from him, she retreated back to her own seat. The second she stopped touching him, he felt her withdrawal, both physical and emotional, and he hated it.

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?”

“Yeah, 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.

P
RISS 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.