Trace of Fever

Jesus, Priss thought, stunned by the violent intention. Was now the moment when she should run? But no, once again, Trace stepped in front of her. He even managed to catch the projectile when Hell let out a screech and threw it.

Not at all affronted by her outburst, Murray laughed aloud, then jerked Hell around to face him. “You are such a jealous bitch, Helene, and usually it amuses me.” His laughter died and his gaze hardened. “But not now.”

Taking that warning to heart, Hell retreated.

In a milder tone now, Murray said, “This is business.” He tweaked Hell’s chin. “And you should know better than to ever interfere with business.”

For whatever reason, that appeased Hell. She even gave a lazy smile. “I see.”

“Business?” Priss asked. Could it really be that easy to get in his inner circle?

Holding out a hand toward her, Murray snapped his fingers, but not understanding, Priss waffled.

Trace took her purse from her and handed it to the big man. He dumped the contents onto his thick mahogany desk, picked up her wallet and searched through it.

Frowning, he asked, “No ID?”

Trace had been right about the driver’s license. His boldness blew her away. “I, uh, only recently moved here. From North Carolina, I mean. That’s where my mother and I lived.”

“If you didn’t drive, then how’d you get here?”

“Bus?”

“You’re asking me?”

Priss realized how she’d said that, and rephrased her answer. “I didn’t know if you meant here, as in your office, or here, Ohio. Either way, I took the bus.”

Murray’s eyes narrowed. “Where are you staying?”

Her brain scrambled, but with Trace’s warning in mind she came up with a lie. “I’m in a hotel.” She named the location, which was a good five miles from where she’d actually rented an apartment.

Hell picked up a photo. “Your mother?”

“Yes.”

She smirked. “I see why Murray left her.”

Oh, soon, Priss thought. Very soon she would make Hell pay for that insult. “My mother never blamed him. She said she knew it was a brief affair and hadn’t expected anything more.” Transferring her attention back to Murray—in time to see him studying her calves—Priss said, “That’s why she never contacted you about me. She knew you hadn’t been involved enough to want responsibility for a child.”

He laughed. “Is that what she told you?”

“Yes. That you were a powerful, accomplished man, and that she couldn’t burden you, knowing your preferences.”

“She was protective of you.”

“Yes.”

“And she was right.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

Priss saw that they were twice the size of Trace’s arms, to match Murray’s thick neck and colossal back. But put to the test, Priss would place her bet on Trace every time. He had a quiet but lethal edge to him that instilled confidence in his ability. He might not be savage like Murray, but he would be effective.

Probably why Murray had hired him.

Behind his goatee, Murray’s lips curled in a smirk. “I never wanted a child, but you’re here now, aren’t you?”

Priss took that as a rhetorical question and kept her mouth shut.

Taking her arm, Murray pulled her, not gently but without overt hostility, from the chair. Not giving her much choice, he turned her in a circle, inspecting her from every angle. “I’ve made up my mind.”

“About?” she asked hopefully.

“We’ll get acquainted over lunch.”

Still recovering from that sudden spin, Priss said, “Oh! Yes. Lunch would be great.” I could kill you over lunch. There’d probably be plenty of time.

“But not just yet.”

Confused, Priss said, “What?”

Murray surveyed her with a critical eye—and disdain of her person. “You’re not exactly a fashion plate, now, are you? If I’m to be seen with you in public, we need to do some … adjustments.”

“Adjustments?”

“Surely you realize that more flattering clothes are required, along with a makeover of sorts.” Before she could protest, Murray said, “My treat of course.” And then with a smarmy smile, he continued, “It’s the least I can do.”

Sounding bored, Trace asked, “Want me to take care of it?”

Murray nodded. “Yes, that will work. Take her shopping for a new wardrobe, and then make an appointment at the salon. Total do-over, Trace. Hair, makeup, waxing …” He gave a salacious smile. “Whatever she needs.”

Priss tried not to look as appalled as she felt.

Trace continued to look bored. “No problem.”

By way of dismissal, Murray said, “On your way out, stop by Alice’s desk and set the lunch appointment on my calendar.”

“Do you have a specific date in mind?”

Still holding Priss’s arm and giving her that very non-paternal appraisal, Murray shrugged. “Whenever I’m free after she’s had the work done.”

“Got it.”

Priss gaped at the autocratic management of her life. No one had even bothered to consult her. “Shopping?” She tried to sound appreciative. “That’s so … generous of you, but really, I don’t need—”

Hell loomed near again. “Do you realize what an important man Murray is? Do you realize his stature in society? He can’t be seen with you when you look so—” she searched for a word, and settled on the not-so-insulting “—common.”

“Oh, but …” But Priss really wanted to deck Helene. Just one good palm shot to the nose, hard enough to leave her a bloody mess, but not hard enough to drive her cartilage into her brain. Priss forced a nervous smile. “It’s just that I didn’t want to impose.”

Hell made a rude sound. She scooped up the contents of Priss’s purse and dumped it all in her arms. “You imposed the minute you showed up here claiming a relationship. Accept Murray’s generosity. You need it.”

“Down, Helene. That’s not necessary.” Chuckling at the exchange, though it wasn’t in the least funny, Murray asked her, “Isn’t that right, Priscilla?”

“Well, of course…. I mean …” She struggled to get everything back in her purse. “If you’re sure that’s what you really want to do—”

He dismissed her ramblings. “Drive her home, Trace. Make sure that she’s secure.” He gave Trace a telling look. “Wherever she’s staying.”

“I’ll see to it.” And again Trace took her arm to lead her from the room.

Behind her, Priss heard Hell muttering something indistinct and she heard Murray laughing some more while playfully shushing her.

After closing the doors behind them, Trace gave her arm a jerk, drawing her from her thoughts. “Come on, then.”

Mulish, Priss made him drag her every step. He only went as far as the poor receptionist’s desk. “Hey, hon. Can you check Murray’s calendar for me? He wants me to set up an extended lunch.”

“Sure, Trace.” After tucking her short brown hair behind her ear, Alice began typing. Her slender fingers flew over the keyboard. While she did that, Priss again studied Trace. He spoke so kindly to Alice, in a tone he hadn’t used on Hell, or on her. He actually sounded … gentle. Kind.

So, did old Trace have something going on with the mousy secretary? Priss considered it—and shook her head. No, not likely.

Alice peered up at Trace with big brown eyes. “He’s free tomorrow for a few hours.”

No, no, no. She wasn’t ready yet.

Trace frowned, and to Priss’s relief, he said, “That’s not enough time for me to prep her.”

Alice glanced at Priss with new sympathy. “Oh. I see.”

Oh, what? What did she see? Priss wondered. Put out that Trace so thoroughly ignored her, she started over to a leather chair to sit, but without looking away from Alice, Trace caught her wrist and kept her ensnared beside him.

“Early next week he has three hours free. That’d give you through the weekend to … finish.”

“That’ll work. Pick a swanky place and set the reservation. Wherever Murray likes best, okay? I’ll get the details from you later.”

Priss tapped her foot in impatience. She couldn’t cross her arms, not with the way Trace kept her trapped in his hold, so foot tapping was the only way to express her annoyance.

But then Trace’s big foot came down over hers, not hard, but with a clear message. He didn’t even look at her while he gave the silent order for her to be still. The jerk.

“Got it,” Alice said.

“Thanks, honey.” He straightened again and, after removing his foot, turned his dangerous stare on Priss. “Let’s go.”

Without a word of complaint, she followed him to the elevator. She was more than ready to breathe in some fresh air untainted by corruption and evil.

This time the elevator took them all the way to the basement and into a private parking garage.

“I parked out—”

Trace jerked her closer, making it almost look as if she’d tripped, when she hadn’t. As he helped her straighten, he breathed near her ear, “Monitored.”

“Ah.” She knew better than to start looking around, but the idea of surveillance made her skin crawl.

Was Murray watching her even now? She fought off a shiver of dread.

When Trace stopped at a spiffy, shiny-clean, black Mercedes with darkened windows, Priss lifted her brows. “Wow.”

He opened the passenger door, and she more than willingly got in.

“Buckle up.” He shut her door, circled the hood and folded his big body in behind the wheel. With both doors closed, he took several deep breaths, then braced his hands on the steering wheel, squeezing and working until his knuckles turned white and the muscles in his forearms bulged.

Impressive. Knowing no one could see her through the dark windows, Priss lifted her brows. “Is it safe in here?”

By way of answer, he whipped his head around to pin her in place with white-hot rage. “I should save myself a lot of trouble and just kill you now, before Murray has me do it.”

Oh, shit. Priss reached for the door handle, but the locks clicked into place, and she knew she wouldn’t be going anywhere, not unless Trace wanted her to.

Possibilities and probable scenarios winged through her mind. Should she fight right now, or wait until they were out on the street? How should she attack? Face first, or the more susceptible crotch?

She peeked over at Trace, and knew no matter what she tried, he’d be ready. Well, hell.

CHAPTER THREE

AWARE OF PRISCILLA seething beside him, Trace put the car in gear and headed for the exit ramp. “What does your car look like and where did you park?”

“Umm …”

He sensed her tensing beside him, probably waiting for sunlight to hit the car before she launched herself at him. Such a foolish, but brave, consideration.

He shook his head. “I never hit a woman.” He glanced at Priss. “First.”

Confusion softened her hostile edge. “What?”

“I don’t suggest you try me, Priscilla. I’m seriously pissed enough right now to give you that paddling you so very much deserve.”

Understanding that he’d just been letting off steam, her shoulders slumped. She even scoffed. “Paddling? Don’t be an ass.” She dropped her purse onto the floor in front of her seat and put her head back. Almost as an afterthought, she said, “I’d never allow that.”

She honestly thought she could stop him if he was inclined toward a little discipline? What a joke. But she was correct to relax. He had no intention of abusing her in any way.

Far as he was concerned, she’d been abused enough for one day.

“I parked two blocks away, just in case, ya know? It’s a dark blue Honda Civic coupe.”

“I’ll have someone pick it up.”

“Just like that, huh?” She stretched, yawned. “You don’t need my keys?”

“No.”

When she slipped her feet from her shoes, wiggled her toes and let out a sigh, Trace’s temper shot up another notch. “Feel better now?”

“Well, yeah.” She turned her head to see him, and even smiled a little. “Knowing that you’re not really thinking about murdering me is a huge relief.”

“Don’t get too comfortable. You’re not out of the woods yet.”

She shifted toward him. “Yeah, I get that. So what’s going on here? What’s with the wardrobe and all that nonsense?”

“You require a whole new look to showcase your dubious charms.”

“My …” Her jaw went slack as everything finally fell into place. “That son-of-a-bitch! I told him I was his daughter.”

“You think Murray cares about a kid he’s never known? Get real.” Trace couldn’t believe her naivete. “No way in hell will he allow anyone a claim on his empire. Being related makes you a bigger possible threat, not more endearing.”

“But … people saw me with him. A whole building full of people!”

“People who work for him.” And that said it all—or should have.

“And they do what he says, when he says?”

“That’s about it.” Those who wouldn’t be an accomplice to his ruse of legit business, or an alibi when the facade cracked, would be as susceptible to harm as Priscilla.

“So, what’s he going to do, sell me to the highest bidder?” When Trace scowled, not about to confirm or deny that, she asked, “Out of the country, or just someplace isolated? I bet he has contacts in California and Arizona, right?”

Trace did a double take. What did Ms. Priscilla Patterson know about any of that? Murray Coburn hadn’t gotten his fame by making mistakes or leaking information. “Come again?”

“Oh, give it up, Trace.” Rather than look afraid, or even worried, by the reality of Murray’s malevolence, she seemed speculative. “We both know how Murray made his fortune, right?”

Dangerous. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

She turned so that her shoulders were in the corner of the seat and she half faced him. “You need me to go first? Is this a test of some kind? Fine. No problem.” She leaned toward him. “Human trafficking.”

Trace tried not to show any reaction.

“I assumed the sick bastard would stick with immigrants. I mean, I know the employment agencies—profitable as they might be—are just a front for the real moneymaker.” She looked out the window at the passing scenery—and didn’t ask where he took her. “But if Murray discovered good income with homegrown females, I guess he could be expanding his business enterprises.”

No way in hell would Trace corroborate any of her supposition—and it had to be supposition. No way in hell could she have any hard facts, because they were few and far between, and near impossible to uncover.

Trace didn’t trust her, not in any way, shape or form. But her theory brought about some interesting questions. “What do you know about human trafficking?”

In a barely audible mutter, she said, “More than I want to.”

A chill of alarm ran down Trace’s spine. “What was that?”

She gave an aggrieved huff. “Look, I’m not stupid, okay? Before coming here, I did as much studying on the subject as I could. I know how so many poor immigrants are abused, promised good jobs only to be recruited into prostitution and worse. And I read that white females are in higher demand, because they’re not as commonly traded as immigrants.”

Trace did a little more white-knuckle squeezing. “If that’s what you think, then what the hell are you doing here?”

She shook her head, making that long reddish ponytail swish. “No more questions.”

His teeth came together. “Oh, no, you don’t, Priscilla. Refusal is an option you don’t have. If you want to live through this, which is still doubtful by the way, you will tell me everything.”

She sighed. “It’s a horrid name, isn’t it?”

Lost, he glanced at her. “What? Priscilla?”

“Yes. Mom shortened it to Priss, so that’s what people call me—at least, the people who know me well. But that’s not much better.” She rubbed at tired eyes. “It makes me sound stuck-up, like a straightlaced Goody Two-shoes. I thought finally, for once in my life, my name would be worthwhile.”

“Because you wanted Murray to believe you’re some Little Ms. Innocent?”

“Yeah.” She eyed him. “You don’t think he bought it?”

Trace snorted. “He’s not a fool. I don’t think he’s completely onto you, but he’s definitely suspicious.”

“But you are onto me?”

“I know you’re a fraud, Priscilla. I know you have something planned, something that might get us both killed. And I know you’re out of your league.”

She looked sleepy. “All that, huh?”

While she was being marginally agreeable, Trace pushed his luck. “Is he really your father?”

“What do you think?”

“I think skewed personal vendettas are the most dangerous kind.” And somehow, this was personal for her. Because of her mother? Likely. Especially if she had no other family.

“Personal vendettas are always a good reason to get involved.” She studied him. “So why are you here?”

Trace kept his gaze on the road ahead. “It’s a job.”

“Bull.” She laughed, and the sound was pleasant despite the strain. “Okay, so you’re good at deciphering situations. Me, too. Wanna know what I think?”

Trace tipped his head toward a squat brick structure with a purple awning out front. “There’s the boutique where you’ll shop.”

She didn’t pick up on the subject change. “I think you’re more than capable of killing, but not innocents. You kill people who deserve it. You’re good, so that means you’re a professional of some kind. Government operative maybe?”

When he sat there, stony-faced, she shrugged.

“Okay, maybe not. I suppose you could be an independent contractor. Actually, that’s a better fit because you seem like the independent sort, more so than a man who takes orders.”

Good God. He didn’t look at her.

She smiled. “The way I see it, everyone knows Murray is scum, but he has friends in high places. He does big-time contributions to political campaigns and that buys him enough immunity. For added insurance, he has a few senators neatly tucked into his pocket.”

If that was all he had, the authorities could have eventually brought him down—and Trace wouldn’t be on the case right now.

He pulled into a parking spot on the street across from the boutique. “We’re here.”

Priscilla reached for his arm. “Extorting women from other countries is dangerous enough. But when you start tampering with legal citizens, someone is bound to get fired up. Whoever that someone is, he hired you to shut down Murray’s operation.”

Interesting take. Except that no one had hired him. No one needed to. “That’s one hell of an imagination you have there, Priss.” Trace pulled free of her unnerving touch. She was good, he’d give her that. But she’d missed the motivation entirely.

Human trafficking had hit him on a very personal level, so he’d made it his mission to demolish anyone and everyone involved, starting with the biggest, most obvious organizations. Thanks to his best friend, Dare Macintosh, they’d made great headway already.

And now he wanted Murray Coburn.

Trace left the car, put change in the meter, and went around to Priss’s door. She’d just stepped out when his phone rang. Again, not trusting her to be more than a foot away from him, Trace held her arm while he answered. “Miller.”

“It just occurred to me,” Murray said. “I should know if she really is my daughter, right?”

Trace saw how the sunlight shone on Priss’s hair—and yeah, the name Priss suited her, whether she realized it or not. The bright day amplified the red in her long ponytail, showing a dozen different shades of brown and auburn.

She looked nothing like Murray. A good thing, that. “Up to you.”

“I need to test her DNA. Discreetly. Helene said it’d be best to get some of her hair, but it has to have a root attached, so get a couple of good ones, pulled out, not cut. Got it?”

Now that he had the opportunity to slant things however he wanted, Trace pondered the situation. Which would be more advantageous to his plan, if Priss was not Murray’s daughter, or if she was?

He shrugged. At this point, it was all still up in the air, so he’d just have to play it by ear. “Not a problem.”

Murray gave a few more instructions on the type of clothes he wanted to see her in. “Talk her up, see what you can find out, okay? But be discreet. I don’t want her to bolt. Not yet.”

While Trace listened, Priss put up a hand to shield her eyes and looked around. Her nose scrunched up a little and her mouth pursed.

And damn it, she stirred him.

Without meaning to, he used his thumb to caress the soft skin of her arm right above her elbow.

She gave him a quizzical look, then a more pointed look at his hand, her brows lifted.

Trace released her. “I’ll check in later,” he told Murray, and then closed the phone and stowed it back in his pocket.

When Priss started toward the designer store, he caught her arm and she went full circle until she faced the opposite way. Trace led her to the equally small phone store a block up.

“What are we doing?”

“Getting phones.” He had a hell of a lot of stuff to accomplish tonight. It cramped his brain, trying to ensure that he wouldn’t forget anything.

“For me?”

“For myself.”

“But you have a phone,” she pointed out.

“Be quiet.” He went in, towing her along, and bought two prepaid phones with a limited number of minutes on them. Since he changed them out often, it was always a good idea to grab them when he could. Of course he paid in cash. On the way out of the store, he asked, “Where are you really staying?”

“You didn’t buy the hotel?”

“No.” But luckily, it appeared that Murray had. “I’ll figure out how to keep the cover for you, but I’m glad you listened to me when I told you to keep as much private as you could.”

“But not from you?”

“Not from me,” he agreed. He stopped in front of the clothing store. “Murray more or less owns this place. Say nothing inside, got it?”

“Nothing at all, as in being mute? Or nothing as in nothing important?”

She couldn’t seriously find any humor in this situation. “It could be bugged, and Twyla is part of his inner circle. Just because she acts old and flighty, don’t let her fool you. She’s sharp as a tack and as cutthroat as they come.” Catching her chin, Trace tipped up her face. “Where are you staying?”

Priss gave in without hesitation. “I got a place a few blocks away from that hotel. It’s a dive, but they didn’t ask too many questions when I wanted to rent by the week and pay in cash.”

Smart. And devious. Trace put his hand on the doorknob. “Don’t bitch about the clothes that you try on. Blush all you want—”

“What makes you think I’ll blush?”

“If you don’t, we won’t take them.” Her eyes widened a little over that, and Trace almost smiled. “We’re not leaving without a variety of outfits. Tomorrow, after Twyla has gotten a fix on your size, I can come back to pick up more.”

“Just how much stuff am I expected to take?”

He shrugged. “Four, maybe five outfits. But no matter what, don’t forget your role.”

“Of a timid little mouse?” She fluttered her eyelashes dramatically.

“It’s a stretch, I know. But you started it, so try to keep up.” Trace pulled the door open, determined not to smile at her antics. In truth, he enjoyed bantering with her far too much. It was risky, in more ways than one.

As soon as they stepped inside, Twyla was there. She had to be sixty-five, but insisted on dressing like a stage performer with an abundance of garish makeup. She drew on her black eyebrows with such a severe arch, she had a look of shock about her at all times.

“Trace, how lovely to see you!” She floated toward him, her long caftan drifting out behind her while her perfume wafted ahead.

“Twyla.” He allowed her to kiss his cheek—and to squish her aging bosom against his chest. While removing Twyla’s dark lipstick from his jaw, Trace nudged Priss forward. “We need a wardrobe makeover. I’m hoping you can get us set up with two outfits today, and then after you know her size, maybe pull a few more together so we can come by tomorrow to look at them.”