Trace of Fever (9 page)

One hand braced overhead on the door frame, the other braced to his right, Trace nodded. “It’s fine.” Suddenly he looked resigned. He stepped in and his eyes narrowed. He held out a hand.

There was something in his eyes, something dark and dangerous that she didn’t trust, she just didn’t know. But he kept his hand out, so she accepted it.

He pulled her forward.

Would he kiss her again? Her heart thumped in a frantic rhythm. Would he apologize and explain? Would he—

Trace turned her to face the dresser, her back to his chest. His hands slid from her shoulders down her arms to her wrists.

He put her hands flat on the dresser. “You know the drill.”

The drill? Her eyes widened at her reflection in the dresser mirror.
He wouldn’t dare.

With one foot, Trace nudged her into a wider stance. “Just relax. I’ll be quick about it and then we can get out of here.”

“Like hell, I will!” But when she started to turn, he held her, his arms like steel, his determination inflexible. “Damn you, Trace, you already know—”

“What?” His mouth was very close to her ear, his breath warm and soft. “That you’re some sweet little girl just looking for her daddy?”

Priss kept her mouth shut; she had never been a “sweet little” anything.

Stepping up so close that his hard body touched all along her back, Trace said, “That you don’t have a secret agenda, an agenda that could jeopardize a hell of a lot?”

“Like
your
agenda?”

He didn’t take the bait. His fingertips, rough textured, hot and firm, stroked the insides of her wrists. “Am I to accept that you’re exactly who you claim to be, Priss, a woman without secrets?”

His sarcasm, though spoken calmly, almost seductively, left her lungs aching with anger. “You bastard.”

“You have that right.” His hands flattened over hers; his gaze met hers in the mirror. “Now stand here like a good girl and let me do my job.”

No way in hell would she give him permission. And she couldn’t really fight him without giving herself away. Since she wasn’t sure a fight would accomplish anything substantial, she simply stared at him, daring him to get it over with.

His mouth quirked. “You’ve got backbone, honey, I’ll give you that.”

It might have been a compliment, except that his hands then went exploring, up her arms, into her armpits, down her rib cage and hips. His fingers prodded, stroked, caressed.

“I am not your honey.” Her breath labored; she would
not
let him hear her pant, not with anxiety or excitement.

As his palms coasted up the inside of her thighs, higher and higher, right to the sweet spot, Trace roughly whispered into her ear, “I bet you taste like honey, though, don’t you?”

Oh, God. This wasn’t a frisking. It was a damn seduction. She couldn’t bear to look at her reflection, to see how he affected her even when mocking her.

Turning her face away from the mirror, Priss rasped, “Stop it.”

And he did, at least to a point. More methodical now, less inciting, Trace checked her waist, under her breasts, and then pulled the neckline of her T-shirt out to peek into her cleavage.

Priss jerked away and, hands fisted, turned to face him. “Satisfied?”

That strange quirky smile came again. “You have got to be kidding.”

Right there in front of her, as if it weren’t a personal thing to do, he adjusted his jeans.

Her mouth went slack. Good grief, he had an erection! And she’d just then noticed that he was all decked out in his defensive gear again, bolstered by the Kevlar vest under his dark polo, his utility belt once again loaded with a knife, nylon cuffs, stun baton, Glock, extra rounds…

He picked up her purse and rifled through it. Since seeing her remove the room key from a hidden seam the night before, he checked every crease and pocket. When he found nothing untoward, he handed it back to her.

Trying to be cavalier about all that had just happened, as well as his fully armed appearance, Priss folded her arms under her breasts. “Expecting a war this morning?”

“Every morning, afternoon and night, actually.” He nodded toward Liger. “Gather him up and let’s get on our way.”

So now he’d act as if he hadn’t just felt her up? She scooped up the big cat, who sprawled back in her arms like a baby with a little meow of pleasure. “You’re a real dick, Trace, you know that?”

He opened the door, looked out, then hefted the cat’s bag of supplies. Already in alert mode, he said absently, “Yeah, I know.”

And then there was no more conversation as they took Liger and all his paraphernalia to Trace’s car.

I
T WORKED IN HIS FAVOR
, and was even a little amusing, that Priss gave him the silent treatment. He hadn’t anticipated her being that female about things. So far, nothing
with her had been ordinary or expected. But the fewer questions she asked, the fewer lies he had to tell.

When he went through a fast-food drive-through for breakfast sandwiches, he didn’t ask for her preference, and she didn’t offer up any suggestions. Because he had very specific drinks in mind, he didn’t order any juice or coffee to go with the food. Although her nose twitched at the delicious smell, she didn’t say a word when he set the bag of warm biscuit sandwiches on the floor near her feet.

Which was perfect.

Unfortunately, it couldn’t last. Some things she needed to know, so minutes later as Trace pulled into the nearly hidden, private garage, he said, “Enough already, Priss. I need your attention so stop pouting.”

The muscles in her jaw flexed, but she sounded bland enough when she replied. “Go to hell.”

He ignored that. She had to be curious about where they were, and why. At the bottom of a sloping drive that took them underground, Trace reached out the window and pushed a private code into a gate keypad that protected the garage.

A large fence lifted, allowing them in. “I made sure we weren’t followed, and if you ever need to come here, you should do the same.”

Her green eyes looked mysterious and oh, so alert in the dim lighting of the garage. “Why would I come here?”

Trace pretended surprise. “A question? Seriously? Common sense prevails over stubbornness, huh? Terrific.”

Her right hand balled into a small but credible fist. “I repeat, Trace
Miller,
go to hell.”

Trace couldn’t help chuckling. For some reason, it almost made him proud that she’d recognized the last
name as fictitious, even though no one else had thought a thing of it.

He gave her a telling look. “I’m guessing that you might need the garage because you’re definitely up to something—something shady and absurd—and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know you’re in over your head. Sooner or later you’ll realize it, and I only hope it’s in time for you to make a strategic—and safe—retreat. In case I’m not around to save your luscious ass, I wanted you to know about the garage.”

She tipped her head, then said with a straight face devoid of humor, “You think my ass is luscious?”

He fought off another grin and shrugged. “Even for a man with hands my size, it’s big enough for a handful. But it’s not out of proportion with your equally notable rack.”

That must not have been the sweet talk Priss wanted, given her darkening expression.

Both hands fisted. “Pig.”

“You asked.” Trace pulled up next to a ’72 Chevy 4x4. The rough body of the truck was mostly green but with a driver’s side beige truck-bed panel. “This is a protected, private garage. If you’re ever in danger, on the run, and you know your car has been made, you can pull in here and switch out your ride for another.”

That stunned her. More observant now, she sat up higher and looked around. “Hey. That’s
my
car.” She pointed to the blue Honda.

“Yeah. I had it moved here.” He watched her. “Had the plates changed out, too.”

That left her eyes rounded. “How many of these cars are yours?”

“Five.” They ranged from disreputable to nondescript to ultimately expensive and classy. Whatever was called for, the vehicle would match.

When no longer in this area, they’d be traded in for different cars, stored in a different garage rented in the appropriate place.

Trace patted her thigh in a dispassionate way that didn’t even come close to representing how he felt. “Get Liger and I’ll get his stuff and our food.”

“So there
is
food for me?” she quipped. “Because, you know, you did promise me breakfast.”

“Did I?” He hauled out the big cat’s belongings, two water bottles and the bag of breakfast.

“Yeah, and I’m famished.” Arms overflowing with the giant kitty, Priss followed him to the passenger door of the truck. She eyed the rusty, mismatched exterior, the loose residue of dirt in the truck bed, the redneck bumper stickers in various stages of wear. “Slumming it?”

“Being cautious.” He opened the door and stored Liger’s stuff behind the bench seat. “Hop in and buckle up.”

“The seat belts work?”

She sounded dubious. “Yeah, smart-ass. Safety first, you know.” He took the cat from her, which sent Liger into a deep, rumbling purr. That the cat liked him was almost a compliment.

After Priss had secured herself, Trace gave Liger a few strokes along his furry back, then handed him into Priss. “He’ll ride in your lap?”

“I’m not about to stuff him into a carrier, if that’s what you’re asking. He’d complain the entire way.”

The carrier would have been more convenient for his plans, but he could improvise.

Trace went around to his own side of the truck. “Let’s get the food together before we get on the road.”

He made sure to give her the biscuit first. He really did want to ensure that she ate, since it was going to be
a long day for her and she wouldn’t get another chance until they got to their destination.

“So do I need a code to get into the garage?”

He shared a password with her. “Punch it in, then press Enter and the gate will lift. On your way out, it opens automatically at your approach.”

What Priss didn’t know was that the gate had a two-step function. A secondary, numerical password cleared the login. If anyone accessed the garage without the numbers, an alert was sent out, notifying him of the breech.

Whether she wanted him to or not, Trace would be aware of Priss’s use of the hidden garage.

And he would know if she shared the password with anyone else.

“You won’t forget?”

“No.” Priss appeared unconcerned with the simple configuration of letters. “Should be easy enough to remember. So, care to tell me why all these precautions are necessary?”

“That you don’t already know the answer to that just shows how naive you are.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.” Only after Priss had taken two big bites of her biscuit sandwich did Trace pick up her water bottle, open it and hand it to her. “Here you go.”

Distaste curled her lip as she accepted the water. “This is all we’ve got?”

“Yup. Drink up. You need to stay hydrated.” And he needed to get her to Dare’s secure home without risking his friend’s identity or location.

As if water were somehow objectionable, she wrinkled her nose as she dutifully drank.

Though Trace watched her with regret and attentiveness, she didn’t appear to notice. In no time she’d finished off half the bottle—more than enough.

Small as she was, it shouldn’t take long now.

Priss glanced his way. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“In a minute.” Settling his shoulders back against the door, Trace kept his gaze on her, unwilling to break that last small connection. “You go ahead.”

She gave him a funny look, but then, even to his own ears he sounded especially gentle, and remorseful.

“Suit yourself.” Priss finished off her sandwich, and then she finished off the water. After gathering up her wrapper and the empty bottle, she let the cat down onto the floor of the truck, onto a blanket she’d placed there. As she straightened again, she yawned and stretched.

“Comfortable?” Waiting for what would happen left Trace’s every nerve ending sizzling in anticipation.

“I’m fine.” Priss frowned at him. “You know, since we’re just sitting here shooting the bull…”

When she trailed off to yawn again, Trace encouraged her, asking, “What is it?”

For a moment, she fiddled with her seat belt, but then she met his gaze. “I don’t know what to think.”

Hell, she’d put him in such a tailspin, he didn’t know what to think, either. “About what, exactly?”

Priss licked her upper lip, a habit he’d already recognized as a sign of uncertainty. She wanted to ask him about the kiss, about why he’d stopped. He’d bet his life on it.

But instead she asked, “Where are we going?”

“You’ll find out when we get there.”

She let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “So I’m just supposed to go along blindly and see where I end up?”

After drinking that water, she didn’t really have any choice. His stomach knotted with the awful reality. “Trust has to start somewhere, honey, and it’s going to have to start with you trusting me.”

That didn’t sit well with her at all. “Because you don’t trust me, I gather?”

Trace saw her eyes going vague and said softly, “Not even a little.”

She fought the sleepiness sinking in. “Then why did you kiss me?”

Could one small admission hurt at this point? He didn’t know, and he didn’t really care. He looked into her slumberous eyes and said, “I had to taste you.”

Her arms loosened; her hands relaxed on the seat at either side of her hips. She let her head slump back against the seat. “I don’t understand.”

Which part, Trace wondered, the kiss, or this? Watching her fade, he almost hated himself.

It was done, Trace told himself. Necessary but unfortunate. There was no point in second-guessing things, indulging in self-recrimination.

He picked up her wrist, puzzling her. “It’s okay, honey.”

“What is?” She half laughed, then frowned and lifted one limp hand to her head. “What are you talking about?”

While looking at her, wanting her, Trace said, “Don’t fight it.” If she fought it, it’d kill him.