Trace of Fever
Page 64

Out of balance.
Instincts could be a bitch, but he never dismissed them.
“’Scuse me,” he told the little honey as he picked up his bag and pushed away from the wall to stagger over a few feet, taking in the apartment from a different angle.
Everything looked as it should, not that appearances mattered. Not ever.
He found a railing to droop against, finished off the beer and pitched it toward a trash can.
He missed. On purpose.
Narrowing his eyes, he stared at the lighted window of the dive where they’d tucked Priscilla Patterson. Jackson had thoroughly studied her dossier. Cute girl. Big tits. Lousy background.
It didn’t take a genius to know that Trace had a thing for her.
Thinking of Trace ramped up Jackson’s acuity, mostly because thoughts of the brother dredged up thoughts of the sister. And the sister…Alani burned his ass more often than not. Yeah, she’d been through hell and then some. Luckily Alani was a fighter, not nearly the wilting flower her brother assumed her to be.
If she didn’t dislike him so much, Jackson had a feeling they could really set the sheets on fire. He could make her forget anything and anyone from her past.
Strolling again, he moved to the side to see the other window in the apartment. No one paid him any mind, but that didn’t keep him from playing up the drunken bit. Deliberately, he tripped over his own feet and almost pitched face-first into the gravel lot.
Two women giggled at him; one was a cutie, the other an older gal desperately hanging on to her youth. He grinned at them both.
Alani wouldn’t be caught dead in that type of cheap bar. Everything about the girl screamed privilege and refinement. Her long, fair hair and big golden-brown eyes were a combination guaranteed to make most men notice. Add to that a kickin’ body and a smile that could perk up the most flaccid dicks…well, she certainly had his attention. More often than not, he had only to think of her and he’d get half wood.
She’d recently turned twenty-three. So damn young. And fresh.
And ripe.
Thanks to Trace’s endless wealth and influence, youth hadn’t factored in when Alani decided she wanted her own business. To give the girl the props due her, Jackson admitted that she’d managed the business well.
The fine hairs on the back of his neck suddenly prickled, sending alarm down his spine. Without turning to look behind him, he opened his senses.
Yeah, something was going down.
He heard the screech of tires at the same time that his phone buzzed in his pocket. He withdrew it, saw the code from Trace, and threw off the facade of a drunk with ease.
On his way to the side of the building housing Priscilla, he kept watch to ensure no one noticed him. Then, from deep shadows and out of view of curious gazes, Jackson removed the cowboy hat to slip on a blackout mask. If anyone did see him, they wouldn’t be able to identify him later.
He adjusted his hat over the mask and glanced back at the parking lot.
None other than Helene Schumer parked a classy BMW. All long legs, long hair and kick-ass attitude, she stepped out and started toward the apartment only to draw up short. She looked back at her car, realized that with the top down, she couldn’t deter would-be car thieves, and moved back to it to close it up.
That was all the opportunity Jackson needed.
He took off in a ground-eating stride, pushed by urgency and honed by skill. He’d get to Priscilla first, and God-willing, the girl wouldn’t prove any trouble.
PRISS TIPPED HER FACE back, letting the water run over her naked body but being careful to keep her hair, now piled on top of her head, dry. She didn’t want to ruin her new hairdo. The warm shower helped to soothe her, but not enough. Thanks to Trace, she was still primed and restless.
Giving up, she turned off the shower—and heard something, a faint, intrusive noise that didn’t belong in the quiet apartment.
Her heart jammed up into her throat, almost choking her. Oh, my God. Someone was in the bathroom with her, and her senses told her that it wasn’t Trace.
She couldn’t see through the opaque shower curtain, so she strained her ears. When she heard nothing else, her anxiety amplified. Whoever had just intruded, he was good. Very good.
Slowly, so as not to give herself away, she reached for the full squeeze bottle of shampoo and got a good grip. Too afraid to breathe, she prepared herself.
She whipped back the shower curtain in a rush, and before her stood a tall, muscular masked person. Startling green eyes shone through the mask—and dipped to look over her body with what appeared to be appreciation.
Swallowing back the terror, Priss squeezed the bottle hard and sprayed shampoo into those prying eyes. As he reacted with a disturbingly quiet flinch, she used the bottle like a club, whacking him in the temple, back up across his chin and lifting it for another blow, intent on breaking his nose.
He didn’t make a sound, but he did bend and toss her over his hard shoulder.
His hands landed on her wet, naked butt.
When she started to scream, he whipped her around fast enough to steal all the oxygen from her lungs. He slammed her up against the wall, further knocking the breath from her. His eyes irritated by the shampoo, red now took dominance in the color of them. Even so, his gaze fried her as a hard hand clamped over her mouth.
Nose to nose with her, he started to say something, but on an adrenaline rush, Priss brought her knee up hard into his groin.
His gaze went blank before he whispered faintly, “I’m Jackson…” and then he slumped against her with a muffled groan.