Trace of Fever
Page 23

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  p**n . 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.