Trace of Fever

Sunlight crept in around the haphazardly closed curtains. It would be another gorgeous June day. Time to get up—except that she couldn’t move her legs, not with Liger stretched out in full splendor across her. He had her blankets pinned down so that they only covered her waist.

The air-conditioning—something unavailable at the apartment—kept the room cool. With a yawn, Priss crawled out from under Liger and sat up on the side of the bed. Her long hair hung in her face and the now-rumpled T-shirt she wore covered only to the top of her thighs. But for now at least, for this particular morning, she was safe.

So many changes in such a short time.

Her mother’s death had been both a devastating loss and a blessing. Not a day went by that she didn’t miss her, but at least now she didn’t suffer. That had been the worst for Priss, seeing her mother in misery, fading away in small, painful increments.

Leaving her home should have been an upheaval, but with her motivation driving her, Priss had gone through the packing, the driving, and the new town by rote. Comfort took a distant second to reaching her goals.

She’d settled in, found Murray’s location, and even found Murray. She’d been right on track.

And then she’d met Trace … whatever his last name might be. She wasn’t buying the name he’d given her. Trace had as many, maybe more secrets than she did.

She enjoyed sparring with him verbally, found him physically appealing and was intrigued by his cocky attitude of capability. By far, he was the most tempting man she’d ever met.

Because she really didn’t know enough about him to be so captivated, her reaction to him was kind of … well, sick.

Sure, her instincts were good, and her gut told her that Trace was hero material. Despite a lack of facts, she’d already decided he was one of the good guys, an alpha male who would step into danger to protect others, just as he had—so far—protected her.

And her cat.

He was the complete and total opposite of Murray Coburn. So why was he working for that bastard? Or was he?

Liger stretched leisurely, yawning widely enough to show his abundant razor-sharp teeth. He opened his big yellow eyes to blink at Priss, then gave the cutest little meow that sounded small and girlish in comparison to his opulent body.

Priss grinned. “I know. That was a long night. We’re not used to it, are we? And now you want breakfast.” She scratched his head, his favorite spot under his chin and then along his back. “Me, too, buddy. But first things first.”

On her way to the bathroom, which was now twice the size of the one she’d used the day before, Priss glanced at the connecting door.

In the very next room, Trace slept.

Her heart pounded, and that was the biggest change of all. For all intents and purposes, she saw men purely as customers, easily coerced into buying the latest and most expensive porn. She joked with men, argued with and rejected them. Unlike her mother, Priss felt at ease in male company.

But a pounding heart? Nope. Not once had she ever met a man who affected her that way.

Before leaving the bathroom Priss splashed her face and cleaned her teeth. A glance in the mirror showed her looking a little worse for wear.

Not that she gave a flying flip.

Using both hands, she shoved back her hair from her face and gave herself a critical inspection. Before meeting Trace, she’d always accepted herself as a sexless woman, apathetic in most situations, detached from the customary interests of young females, methodical in her approach to life.

Yes, she’d loved her mother. So damn much. But beyond that one single person, no genuine affection had ever touched her. She’d been a woman set on correcting wrongs, with no other available emotions.

But around Trace she felt so much that her head swam with the conflagration of sensations. She’d gone to sleep thinking about him and, she just realized, she’d awakened with him on her mind.

Utterly pathetic.

She had just given Liger his food when a tap sounded on the connecting door. Priss’s heart leaped into her throat.

With excitement.

Not dread, or annoyance, or even indifference.

Pure, sizzling stimulation. Suddenly she was wide-awake.

Tamping down her automatic smile, Priss leaned on the door. “Yeah?”

“Open up.”

Still fighting that twitching grin, Priss tried to sound disgruntled as she asked, “Why?”

Something hit the door—maybe his head—and Trace said, “I heard you up moving around, Priss. I have coffee ready, but if you don’t want any—”

Being a true caffeine junkie, she jerked open the door. “Oh, bless you, man.” She took the cup straight out of Trace’s hand, drank deeply and sighed as the warmth penetrated the thick fog of novel sentiment. “Ahhhh. Nirvana. Thank you.”

Only after the caffeine ingestion did she notice that Trace wore unsnapped jeans and nothing else. Her eyes flared wide and her jaw felt loose. Holy moly.

“That was my cup,” Trace told her, bemused.

But Priss could only stare at him. Despite the delicious coffee she’d just poured in it, her mouth went dry.

When she continued to stare at him, at his chest and abdomen, her gaze tracking a silky line of brown hair that disappeared into his jeans, Trace crossed his arms.

Her gaze jumped to his face and she found him watching her with equal fascination.

A little lost as to the reason for that look, Priss asked with some belligerence, “What?”

With a cryptic smile, Trace shook his head. “Never mind. Help yourself, and I’ll get another.”

Oh, crap, she’d snatched away his cup! “Sorry.”

He lifted a hand in dismissal and went to the coffee machine sitting atop the dresser. His jeans rode low on his hips. The sun had darkened his skin, creating a sharp contrast to his fair hair.

Another drink was in order, and another sigh of bliss. Hoping to regain her wits, Priss said, “God, nothing in the world tastes better than that first drink of coffee.”

Trace looked over his shoulder, his attention zeroing in on her mouth, then her chest and finally down to her bare legs. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

Sensually stroked by that hot glance and the low timbre of his suggestive words, Priss followed him in. So did Liger. Now fed, the big cat strode past her and leaped up to Trace’s bed, disturbing the covers that Trace had already smoothed back into place. Liger chose to stretch across the pillows near the headboard. He pawed the soft cotton a moment, showed his claws, yawned and relaxed.

Trace gestured toward the small round table and two chairs. “Take a seat, Priss.”

Last night, after relocating to the hotel, she and Trace had eaten dinner at that table. It had been … nice.

A revelation even.

They’d shared quiet conversation, talking about everything under the sun without either of them giving away anything too personal or important. Pure chitchat. A way to pass the time.

For Trace, it had seemed mundane, a casual occurrence that he’d indulged many times.

For Priss, it was a profound thing to sit across from a man and really, truly enjoy him—his appearance, his sense of humor and wit, his intelligence and his attention. Even while eating a loaded cheeseburger, he’d stayed alert to every sound in the hallway and parking lot, and every movement she made, no matter how big or small. Having his undivided interest, protected by his irrefutable competence, had been really nice.

“I don’t mind sitting.” But first … Priss finished off her coffee and looked at the full pot. “Is it all right if I get a refill?”

“Help yourself.”

When Priss moved toward the coffee machine, rather than give her room, Trace leaned back on the edge of the dresser and watched her. She could detect his early-morning scent of warm skin, musky male and palpable sex appeal. Delicious.

Would he smell that sinful up close, if she put her nose in his neck, or near that solid chest? Or … maybe lower?

She eyed his gorgeous body, and raised a brow. “Doing a little flaunting of your own this morning, huh?”

“In deference to your delicate sensibilities, I pulled on jeans. Isn’t that enough?”

Enough for what, her peace of mind? Ha. Being around Trace, especially with him like this, half-naked, sent her heart racing like a marathon runner’s. “Maybe it would be,” Priss admitted, “if you didn’t look so good.”

The compliment sent his right eyebrow arching high.

“Oh, come on, Trace. You know what you look like.”

She visually devoured him again, more blatantly this time, and noticed a rise behind the fly of his jeans. For her?

Well-well-well. Flattering.

“I’m sure you’ve had more than your fair share of adoration.”

He recovered with a level look of mockery. “I’m thirty years old, brat, so you can assume I’ve seen some adoration—and suffered bouts of total rejection.”

“Rejection? Really?” She found that hard to fathom. “Either you’ve known some stupid women, or there’s a side of you I haven’t yet witnessed.”

“It’s safe to say that you’ve seen only the side I chose to show you.”

“Hmm.” It was difficult to absorb Trace’s provoking words, given that his body hair fascinated her. It scattered over his chest and trailed down his abdomen. Even the hair on his forearms, covering muscles and large bone, somehow seemed supersexy. It was shades darker than the pale hair on his head, but then, his lashes and brows were dark, too. And that interesting beard stubble …

Unable to stop herself, Priss reached out and stroked her fingers along his jaw. “I like this early-morning side of you. You look … I don’t know. Raw and very manly.”

Other than the narrowing of his eyes, Trace held perfectly still.

Catching herself, Priss dropped her hand and went to the table. “I don’t suppose we could order up breakfast?”

For long moments he continued to study her. “I’d rather we get ready and go out. Anything that can be checked, like room service for two, should be avoided.”

“To maintain both our covers?” Not that Priss expected him to admit to a cover. It was enough that he’d put her in a room close to his, near the ground floor, with access to stairs and back exits that disappeared into busy roads.

“To keep you safe.” Trace joined her at the table. “If Murray suspects you of being anything other than what you say you are—”

“I know, I know. I’m fish food.” She made a face. “We need to talk about something else, at least until I’m awake enough to show my true contempt for good old Murray.”

“How about you tell me why you want to kill him?”

She had wondered when he’d come back around to that. “On an empty stomach? Bleh.”

“You’ll tell me later?”

“Sure,” she lied, “if you’ll change the subject to something more palatable for now.”

“All right.” Trace sipped his coffee with more restraint than she’d been able to show. “How’d you sleep?”

“Like the dead, thank you.”

He gave a theatrical wince. “Bad analogy, all things considered.”

Because Murray might well want her dead. She winced, too. “Sorry.” A glance toward the window provided inspiration for conversation, as sunlight seeped in even with the drapes drawn. “It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day.”

“You and I will both keep the windows covered and, whenever we’re out of the rooms, the connecting door has to be locked.”

“Prying eyes?”

“Anything is possible. My guess is that Murray still has me under surveillance, which is why we were followed. It stands to reason that with you now in the mix, the scrutiny will be amplified.”

True, all of it, but given the impact of Trace shirtless, being mellow and kind, even threats to her person didn’t help her to concentrate. “I thought of a more interesting topic than weather and menace.”

He saluted her with his cup. “Go for it.”

In anticipation of his reply, Priss licked her lips. “How many women have you slept with?”

Trace missed a single beat, but only one, before saying, “A very odd question over morning coffee, and none of your business.”

Priss made a habit of being brutally honest with herself, so she had to admit that she wanted it to be her business. And how would it hurt, as long as Murray didn’t find them out? If her plans went as expected, she wouldn’t be around long enough to get entangled in Trace’s life. Why not find a little enjoyment while the prospect existed?

Who knew when she might ever meet another man who made her feel warm and soft, excited and safe? In twenty-four years, Trace was the first. He could be the last.

And if her plans for Murray went awry? Well, she could end up dead.

Somehow, dying a virgin seemed the ultimate insult. But then, maybe that was just her morbid sense of humor trying to help her keep her fear at bay.

Resting a forearm on the table, Priss leaned a little closer to Trace. “Too many to count, huh? So … were any of them virgins?”

With his coffee cup almost to his mouth, Trace paused. His gaze sharpened, and his shoulders suddenly tensed. “Why are you asking?”

A tinge of heat went up Priss’s neck. Her private life was hers and hers alone—at least until Trace agreed to a little side activity. If he did agree … well, then he’d already have the answer he wanted. “That’s cheating to answer a question with a question.”

Trace sat back, his expression frosted. “No.” He shook his head, disbelieving, even a little pissed. “No way in hell are you trying to claim—”

The buzzing of his cell phone cut him off. He was practically incandescent with smoldering frustration.

Oh, yeah, the cell phone. She needed to grab that when the opportunity presented itself. Odds were she could access his email and delete the photo from his messages, and the phone’s memory. Unmoved by his attitude, Priss sipped at her coffee. “Think that’s Murray?”

The phone buzzed twice more before Trace gathered himself. “More than likely, so don’t say a word.”

After she more or less agreed with a shrug, Trace went to the phone and opened it.

Knowing it’d be Murray, Trace said in the cold, aloof way that impressed his current boss, “Miller.”

“Good morning.” Murray’s jovial voice blasted into his ear. “I trust you’re up and on the clock?”

Well, hell. Something had Murray in a good mood, and Trace had already come to realize that boded ill for those around him. Murray was happiest when tormenting the hell out of others. “Absolutely.” Trace sent a warning glare at Priss. She silently mouthed back at him, mocking him, pricking him further.

“I stewed all night on my darling daughter.” At that Murray snickered. “I don’t trust her.”

“Me, either.” Trace knew damn good and well that Priss was up to her pretty neck in revenge. Somehow, he had to keep the game going, and still keep her from doing anything too stupid.

Like attempting to kill Murray.

If she did try it, she’d end up not only dead, but sorely used and abused first. Just thinking about it made Trace icy cold inside.

No way in hell could she be a virgin.

“You get her clothed?” Murray wanted to know.

“For the most part, yeah. Twyla did a great job. You’ll like her choices.”

“So she’s a looker?”

“Decked out right, yeah, she is.” Trace checked the clock on the nightstand. “I have to stop by there again to pick up a few more things that Twyla was putting together for her. She’ll have enough for a week, including a night out.”

“Good. Take Priscilla with you when you go. From here on out, I want you to stick close to her, see what she’s up to, keep an eye on her.”

“I can do that.” In fact, that worked fine for Trace. If he kept Priss close, he could ensure her safety. Anytime she was out of his sight, he’d have Jackson tail her. If need be, they’d all blow their covers to keep an innocent alive—but it’d piss him off royally if Priss ruined his large-scheme plans by putting herself in such a dangerous position.

He wanted Murray, but he wanted Murray’s contacts, too. He wanted the whole damn rodeo, every fucking one of the corrupt bastards, from the lowest minion to the top dog himself. Anyone who had sold, traded, advertised, transported or handled captive women was on Trace’s radar.

He’d have them, too—one way or another.

A silky tone to his voice, Murray said, “I’m glad you find her attractive, Trace, because it occurs to me that the best way to gauge the truth of her fresh-faced innocence is to take her for a ride.”

Trace froze. He had the simultaneous reaction of rage and … carnal interest. He zeroed in on Priss. She glanced up, caught his expression, and judging by the way her eyes widened, picked up on his conflict.

“A ride?” Trace repeated …”

“That’s the easiest way to see how experienced, or inexperienced, she really is. And since Helene isn’t keen on me doing the riding …”

Drily, his stomach churning at the level of Murray’s sickness, Trace said, “Because she’s your daughter.” He prayed that was the reason, but he had his doubts.

His doubts were confirmed.

“No, no.” Murray gave a deep chuckle. “Helene doesn’t buy the relationship, and even if she did, I doubt that familial connections would factor into her prejudice. One of Helene’s more appealing qualities is her complete lack of respect for societal taboos.”

Yeah, he’d noticed. Trace concentrated on not squeezing the cell phone hard enough to shatter it. “I see.”

“Do you? Then let’s just say it’ll be simpler if you do the honors.” Murray paused before saying with a hint of menace, “You don’t object to that plan, do you?”

Shooting for world-weariness, Trace asked, “Are we talking seduction, coercion or rape?” Priss perked up even more at that. Her green eyes steeled with indignation—directed at him.

But Trace also saw a hint of fear that washed some of the color from her face. Not much had shaken her so far, so what had done it this time?

The idea of being forced?

With his guts burning, he wondered if Priss had firsthand knowledge of such a thing.

He wanted to hold her, to reassure her … but hell if he would. A little fear was just what Priss needed to drive home the jeopardy and wake her up to the foolishness of her plan.

Murray laughed at Trace’s question. “Since I’m making it your job, do you have a preference?”

Closing his eyes against Priss’s expression, Trace shrugged. “I’m not a natural-born rapist, but it’s your show, your call.”

His deference delighted Murray. “I like your attitude, Trace, I really do. You have great conviction to the duty of your post. I’m glad I hired you.” His laughter faded. “Let’s go with seduction first. After all, Helene assures me that for you, seduction should be a piece of cake.”

Trace snorted. “Is she trying to get me killed, then?” What the fuck was Hell doing discussing him like that with Murray?

Murray laughed again. “Now Trace, you know I’m not the jealous sort. I have no reason to be, right?”

“No reason at all.”

“I like to indulge Helene whenever possible.”

Which meant … what? That Helene could have him?

With the game wearing on him, Trace rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You’re generous with her.”

“I don’t mind her admiring eye. It’s often valuable to me. Just remember that my generosity has a limit.”

“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?

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