Trace of Fever (8 page)

“Always.”

“So…I may assume that this new assignment won’t cause you any trouble, whether little Priscilla is truly an innocent or not.”

“No trouble at all.”

“Excellent.” Murray’s words reeked of arrogance. “Keep me informed.”

“Of course.” Even as Trace closed the phone, he heard Murray’s humorless laughter, and it left him on edge.

The sick bastard was up to something—but what? And how much damage would it do to Priss?

I
T DIDN’T SURPRISE
Trace when Priss jumped up to confront him. “What was that about?” Dread left her pale and angry. “Why were you talking about rape? What are you planning? What is
he
planning?”

Trace studied her face. Without makeup, her long hair rumpled and hanging in tangles, she was still so damn sexy that he had to fight to keep his body from reacting.

Again.

He wanted to protect her, to soothe her, and he wanted to be inside her. Right now.

Through the oversize T-shirt she’d worn as a nightgown, he could see the generous swell of her breasts, and even the outline of her soft nipples. From the jut of that stupendous rack, the shirt dropped over a flat belly down to rounded, shapely thighs. She was so small boned, Trace thought, her wrists and ankles fragile, feminine.

“Trace,” she warned, as if she had any leverage against him. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“All right.” He closed the small space between them. “Seems you and Daddy Dearest have a few things in common.”

She breathed too hard, too fast. “What are you talking about? I have nothing in common with that pig.”

Trace lifted a hand and smoothed the backs of his fingers over her velvety cheek. And even that, such a simple
touch, roused him, sent his temperature up and his voice down. “Murray thinks I should fuck you.”

Falling back a step, Priss blinked at him.
“What?”

Never had a woman looked so shocked—or so sexy. “That’s where our morning conversation was headed, right? You were eating me up with your eyes, talking about sex and virgins, deliberately prodding my curiosity.” He opened his hand to cup her jaw. “Well, you know what, Priss? I’m beginning to think you’re both onto something. Maybe that’s the natural course we’re due to take.”

Her tongue slipped over her upper lip. “Sex?”

Damn, did she have to sound both fearful and hopeful? “What do you think?”

Her expression changed, her breathing deepened even more. She shook her head, but Trace ignored the insubstantial denial.

“Come here, Priss.” And with that, he pulled her softness against his harder body. She was pliant, but unsure. So warm and rounded in all the right places.

He tipped up her stubborn chin, bent down and put his mouth to hers.

In an instant, he was lost.

M
URRAY SAT BACK IN HIS CHAIR
with his feet on the window ledge so he could stare out at the vista. This time of day, the morning sun looked brilliant. Only a few spun clouds crawled across the azure sky.

His thoughts rioted, heated. Would Trace do as told? How long would it be before he had her naked, under him?

What would Priscilla think of that? Would she try to run? Was she terrorized?

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.

P
RISS 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 gathered 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 bath
room. 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.

P
RISS 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.”