Trace of Fever (18 page)

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.

The fact that he didn’t use his hands only amplified his touch.

When his mouth finally met hers, she was so primed, so hungry for him, that she groaned aloud. That seemed to break him. The next thing Priss knew, he’d lifted her, helped her to wrap her legs around his waist, and he had one hand down the back of her jeans, the other under her T-shirt over her right breast.

“I
WANT TO TALK TO
her myself.”

Murray tangled his hand in Helene’s hair—and pulled. “Who are we talking about, sweet?”

She winced, but didn’t fight him. Her lip curled. “Priscilla.”

“Ah.” Murray loved how Helene always simmered near the boiling point, no matter the circumstances, no matter his mood or how rough or gentle he might me. “Jealous, much?”

Heat flared in her light blue eyes. “Jealous, not at all!”

“You’re a liar. I can see it.” He cuddled her big, firm breast. “You’re vibrating with hatred.”

Her lips parted as he found her nipple. “Hatred, yes. She’s trying to use you. I know it. I don’t trust her.”

Very softly, he asked, “You don’t trust me?” He applied more pressure to her nipple, tugged.

“Ah—God, I
do,
Murray. Of course I do.” She panted. “Always.”

“Then trust me to know what to do with little Priscilla Patterson.” Releasing her, Murray pushed her back and fumbled with his slacks. Submission always fired his blood. He loved it. He wallowed in his power. “It doesn’t concern you.”

Looking dismayed for only a moment, Helene stared at his crotch, then began working up the hem of her tight skirt.

She would willingly forgo her own pleasure in favor of blowing him. That attitude earned her a reward of sorts.

Murray stopped her before she dropped to her knees. “Raise your skirt more. Expose yourself.”

Confusion sharpened her features before she licked her lips and did as told.

A scrap of black lace covered her sex. With one hand Murray rubbed himself, and with the other he spread her blouse, exposing those magnificent tits.

Yeah, that look suited her. It needed only one more alteration…. “Drop your panties.”

Helene shook back her long, glossy black hair. “All right.” Slipping her thumbs beneath the waistband, she eased the material over her notable hips and down her thighs.

She would have stepped free of them, but Murray shook his head. “Leave them there, around your ankles.”

Getting into the game, she asked, “You like that?”

Yeah, he liked it. He stroked himself faster, harder. “Bend over my desk.”

Her extraordinary rack expanded as she sucked in a deep breath. Exhilaration scalded her cheeks.

“Well? Don’t just stand there. Get on with it.” He kept his gaze on her sex, already damp with wanting him. “I have shit to do before Trace gets here.” And no way in hell would he do any of it with a boner.

Not when Helene was kept around for this very purpose.

She let out a moaning, shuddering breath and hurried to obey. Making a show of it, she flattened her hands on the desk and slowly slid forward until her chin nearly rested on the surface. Arching her back, she spread her legs as wide as she could with the restrictive material hobbling her ankles.

Breathless, she asked, “Like this?”

“That’ll do.” Now that she’d positioned herself, Murray stood back to look at her. He could see her getting wetter, and it incited his lust. “So you want to talk to Priscilla?”

She went still, then began panting. “Yes.” Her flesh shimmered with excitement. “I could make her tell me things.”

“With your drugs?” Helene loved to test the effects of various narcotic blends on unruly women who dared to fight their fate. And he had to admit, it was usually more effective than beating or starving them.

“Yes,”
she moaned. Her hands curled against the desktop; her thighs tightened. Now writhing, she whispered, “I have the perfect formula for her. She would be pliable, pathetically agreeable…”

Murray chuckled. Helene enjoyed anything and everything he did to her, and if she could be cruel to someone else in the bargain, that was enough to send her into an orgasm.

“I sometimes wonder, Helene.”

Eyes closed, she concentrated on breathing. “About what?”

“What type of warped, abusive upbringing you must have had.”

“What?” Surprised, she twisted to see him, her lust temporarily abated. “Me?”

“Don’t move.”

She went still again, her body radiating heat. “No, it wasn’t like that, Murray. My parents adored me.
Everyone
adored me.”

And then her parents had died, leaving her alone, spoiled rotten, left to her own devices to find a way to remain pampered. Maybe that explained some of it. Not
that he really gave a shit. Her sickness was her own, and it complemented his.

“You’re a fucking princess, is that it?” He stroked himself against her ass, teasing them both.

“Yes,” she whispered on a breath of sound. “A princess.”

All but begging for it, she wiggled her ass, and Murray gave in. He clasped her hips and with one hard stab, surged into her.

They both groaned harshly, and after only a half dozen strokes, he felt himself boiling toward release.

Helene didn’t realize it, but much of his lust stemmed from knowing things she didn’t know.

Things about Trace, about Priscilla.

He had a certain way of doing things, a way guaranteed to give him the perspectives he needed to judge loyalty. Helene would discover his true methods soon enough, but for now, she served her purpose.

He didn’t care about her pleasure, never had and never would. But when she cried out, her inner muscles clamping around him, it pushed him right off the precipice of control. He pounded into her one last time. Objects toppled, and Helene gasped at the pain in her hip bones as they connected with the edge of the desk. They both went quiet in that suspended moment of orgasm.

He collapsed over her, sweaty, limp, sated.

Done with her.

Already his mind moved on to other things. With his pants drooping and his cock now limp, he stumbled back and fell into his chair. Kicking it around so he could look out the window, he let out a long lazy breath.

Helene understood the dismissal.

As silently as she could, she straightened her clothes and, wobbly on her high heels, slipped from the room.

He didn’t notice her satisfied, gloating smile—and he
wouldn’t have cared anyway. To his mind, Helene posed no real threat. Not to him.

And no one else mattered.

A
DRENALINE CONTINUED TO RUSH
through his blood, obliterating common sense and sound reasoning.

Playing havoc with his conscience.

Filling his hand with her soft breast, Trace found her nipple with his thumb and knew he had to taste her.

Right now.

Pushing her shirt up and pulling her bra down, he bent and covered her taut nipple with his mouth.

On a soft moan, Priss sank her hands into his hair, trying to get him closer.

It wasn’t enough.

But what would be?

The second he’d seen the men in the slick car, he’d known who they were and what they wanted. The dressing didn’t matter—he always identified trouble. Years of trailing the most vicious society elements had honed his instincts to the point that he recognized a threat even before it got in range.

Still, he’d given the men a chance, offering the opportunity for them to state their names and their business without bloodshed.

Pulling a gun meant they passed on the pleasantries, and that gave him plenty of reason to pound out some frustration.

He assumed Murray sent them, either as another test for Trace, or because he’d short-circuited his plans for Priss.

But even pounding on the henchmen hadn’t expended enough energy to ease his ever-growing tension. Priss was the source of that tension, and only she could release him.

He wanted her.
Insanely.
More than he could remember ever wanting a woman.

It defied logic.

“Trace…” she whispered.

Needy. Ready. Willing, and oh, so ripe.

“I don’t know enough about you.” He growled the statement as much to himself as to her when he switched to her other breast. He plumped her up with his hand, circled her nipple with his tongue, and drew her deep.

“You…” She gasped and her body arched. “You know more than I know about you.”

True. All of it. Out of necessity, he had to deceive her. He had to use her.

So what the hell was he doing getting intimately involved with her?

Cursing, Trace shoved himself away and let her feet drop back to the floor. He turned to pace and, running both hands through his hair, put needed distance between them before facing her again.

That was a mistake.

The sight of her, limp against the door, shirt up and legs braced apart, nearly felled him. Her bra cups were beneath her breasts, lifting them almost like an offering. Her nipples were tight and wet from his mouth, her eyes glazed, and her lips parted.

He shook, when normally he was rock steady.

Getting involved with her would be a mistake, but given the level of his lust, how she affected him, he couldn’t see any way around it.

Making the decision helped to steady him. “As soon as possible, Priss.”

She drew in a shuddering breath. “What?”

“I need to be inside you.” He flexed his fingers, loosening his fists, reaching for control. “As soon as possible.”

“Oh, okay.” She licked her lips—and nodded. “When?”

Incredible. It would be funny, except that he felt like he suffered a thousand torments. “I don’t know. I have to see how things go tonight with Murray.”

Some of the daze cleared from her eyes. She swallowed twice. “Murray.” She said his name with derision. “What will happen tonight? You’ll be okay?”

“Not sure.” That’s why he had to wait. What if he took Priss now—against a damned door, with his knuckles bruised and adrenaline pumping—and then Murray caught onto him and killed him? Hell, maybe Murray was already onto him and that’s why he’d sent the goons. With Murray, nothing was ever certain or clear-cut—except Trace’s hatred of the man.

Organizing his thoughts, he took a cautious step closer to Priss. It’d help a lot if she’d cover her chest and maybe stop looking so sexually ravenous, so innocently open to him.

It’d help if she wasn’t the most appealing woman he’d ever met. “In case shit goes sideways tonight—”

“No! Don’t say that.” Taking him off guard, Priss launched away from the door and threw herself against him. Her arms locked around his neck, her body squeezing into his.

At least her shirt dropped down to cover her breasts.

Against his shoulder, she said, “I…I don’t want to scare you, Trace.”

He tried to pry her away, but she held on. “Scare me?”

“I mean, I don’t want to scare you off.” She huddled closer. “I figure nothing much actually scares you. Not with how you fight, but—”

“Priss.” Holding her shoulders—safer ground there—he levered her back. “What is it?”

Uncertainty held her silent for a heartbeat of time before she blurted, “I like you. A lot.”

He was a coldhearted bastard, a killer when necessary. And still he softened.

“Don’t you dare smile!” Knotting her hands in the front of his shirt, she tried to rattle him. “I like you more than I ever thought I’d like anyone. I’m not asking for anything. Well, not for much. Sex. And I guess protection. And if you wanted to help me kill Murray that’d be—”

Ice shot through his veins, obliterating his smile. “You’re not doing anything with Murray, damn it!”

She hesitated, and Trace saw the moment she decided to placate him. “Sex and protection, then?”

A thousand curses rushed through his beleaguered brain. No one could be that transparent. She had to have an endgame, but damn it, he didn’t know what it might be. “No way in hell are you serious.”

“You bet I am.” Showing her own annoyance, Priss went on tiptoes. “Until today, I’d never danced with anyone.”

What did dancing have to do with anything? He shook his head. “I don’t understand you.” And that was an aberration, too, because he
always
figured out motives and personalities. More often than not, he understood others better than they understood themselves.

“It’s easy enough. You see, things like dances are out when you don’t attend public school, when for all intents and purposes you don’t even exist.”

He felt a little sick. “Priss…”

She poked a finger into his chest. “Interaction with other kids, especially boys, was a huge no-no.” Taking a step back, she looked beyond him. Her voice lowered, turned pensive. “Can’t draw attention from anyone, can’t be noticed in anyway. Hide. All the time hiding.”

The way she folded her arms around herself made her look very small and alone.

“Everything was about caution and fear, about avoiding other people because no one could be trusted, and everything was a risk. Even when my mom felt forced to take a chance, strictly for survival reasons, she didn’t let me.”

“She kept you locked away?”

Priss closed her eyes for a moment. “The silliest things were so noticeable.”

“Like what?” Trace wanted to hear it all. Every awful detail. Gently he encouraged her. “Tell me.”

“Like…fresh breezes.” Bleak, so sad, she looked at him. “Wherever we lived, the doors and windows stayed locked. I played inside. By myself.”

That was no way to raise a child, and Trace hurt for her. “You got out sometimes?”

She shrugged. “We shopped, but always in silence. We even drove in silence because Mom was always on the lookout, always waiting for the boogeyman to appear. Normal jobs, like…I don’t know, a cashier or a waitress, left her too exposed. It’s what Murray would have expected, she said. And so she had the porn shop, a place Murray would never look for her, and—and—”

His throat closed as she choked up. He reached for her, but she slapped his hands away.

“No, don’t you offer me comfort like it’s going to matter. It
won’t.
Nothing will matter as long as Murray is free to do as he pleases, free to ruin more lives.” Her fist thumped against her chest. “He ruined
my
life, damn you.”

“No.” Trace had to deny that, because believing it hurt too much. “A woman ruined wouldn’t be so foolishly brave, so funny, or so smart.”

“Brave?” That made Priss laugh, but the sound held no humor. She turned somber, too serious. “You can help me to stop him.”