Trace of Fever
Page 60

He reached for a calm that didn’t exist. Not around her. Not with her. “Priscilla—”
“You make my name sound like a growl.” She inhaled. “I still want the sex.”
That blurted statement almost knocked his heart through his chest.
“Oh, come on, Trace.” Grudgingly, she admitted, “You know if I haven’t danced, I definitely haven’t done…that. But I want to. With you.”
The unspoken words before it’s too late hung in the air between them.
For one of the few times in his life, Trace suffered a complete and total loss. Priss made him frenzied, when that went against every fiber of his basic being. She robbed him of his natural demeanor, one of calm control and precise direction.
She turned him inside out—and God help him, he was starting to like it.
Making sure not to touch her again, Trace stepped around her and headed for the door. “Lock up behind me. I’ll check in when I can.”
“Running away?”
“Retreating strategically.” He paused at the door. Facts remained, danger persisted. He couldn’t go like this, not without letting her know that his protection extended beyond his own physical presence or influence. He opened the door and stepped outside. After scanning the area and finding nothing amiss, he looked back in at her. “No matter what happens with me, you won’t be alone, Priss. Remember that.”
Trace closed the door on her expression of devastation. Because he’d admitted he might not live through this? Maybe.
But could she really care that much, that quickly?
Why not? He knew he did.
He could go back in and reassure her that he had no intention of allowing any outcome other than the demise of Murray and his operation and operatives. But that’d lead to her talking to him, and maybe touching him, and his resistance waned already.
In order to see that outcome, he had to stick to plans.
Trace waited on the rickety walkway, listening for the click of the lock. When he finally heard it, he forced himself to leave. The metal stairs rattled with his rushing footfalls. Though he knew Jackson lurked about, hidden from view but accessible, he continued his surveillance of the area.
Murray wouldn’t be happy that he’d disabled three of his men, but he would respect the ability that made it possible. Now if he could just control Helene while corralling Murray and his many cohorts into a corner…well, he just might be able to get this tangle with Priss all worked out.
And then he could have her.
That was incentive enough to keep him on his toes.
PRISS WENT TO THE WINDOW to look out. She watched as Trace drove away, and with every second that passed, she felt angrier, sicker and lonelier.
She dropped the curtain and moved away from the window.
What if Trace didn’t come back to her? She pressed her palms against her eye sockets, but still she saw her mother’s haunted face, the unrelenting fear that ate away at her peace of mind and her sanity.
Sure, Trace had mad skills. No one could deny that. But he couldn’t dodge a sniper’s bullets, or fend off a sneak attack, and Murray was capable of anything. Every supervillain she’d ever seen in a movie crowded back into her brain. Though she tried to block the thoughts and the images, they flickered with the vividness of a colorized movie reel—ways of torturing, of disposing of bodies, of murder and mayhem and sickness.
The fear wasn’t for herself, but for Trace.
Instead of Jackson babysitting her, he should be used as backup. If she knew where Jackson hid himself, she’d go to him and demand he do just that.
But she didn’t know the guy, and being blond described about a third of the drunks tripping in and out of the bar next door.
With nothing else to do, Priss went to the couch and flopped down on her back. She covered her eyes with a forearm and concentrated on how Trace had kissed her, where he’d touched her.
It had all been so incredibly…intense. And intimate. More intimate than anything she’d ever known.
She wanted him. Bad. She hadn’t known such want existed, but now she’d met Trace and he’d done something to her, tainted her brain or stirred up her dormant sexuality or…something.
She wanted more. A lot more. With Trace.
He had to come back. He just had to.
But if he didn’t, she’d still get to Murray—one way or another.
“HOW’D YOU GET THE SHINER?”
Trace shut the office door behind him and stalked over to stand by the enormous window. Heavy storm clouds had rolled in, bringing the dark of night earlier than usual. The weather matched his mood.
He stared down at Murray in his seat. Hatred wormed through his heart, but he kept his expression temperate. “Three guys showed up at Priscilla’s apartment.”
One of Murray’s brows climbed high. He covered his surprise quickly. “Three men you say? And all you got was a single punch in the eye?”
Trace shook his head. “No. Priscilla did that earlier.”
Murray lost his relaxed pose. “The hell you say.”
“Just a disagreement.” He wanted to settle the issue of the thugs, not talk about Priss and her tendency—and talent—for violence. “Not a big deal.”
Raising a hand, Murray stalled Trace’s effort to talk about his henchmen. “Did you strike her back?”
Bastard. He couldn’t keep the frown off his face. “No.”
“Why not?”
“She’s your daughter.”