Trace of Fever
Page 65

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. In an equally soft whisper, Priss said, “Why?”
Through his teeth, he gritted out, “Company.”
“Oh, God!” Her rescuer was big, solid and thanks to her, weak-kneed with pain. Trying to push around him, Priss reached for the doorknob so she could retrieve clothes, but Jackson had recovered enough to grab her back.
He shoved a towel at her. Still in a barely audible voice, he said, “No time.”
“But…” She was naked.
Taut, pissed off and vibrating urgency, he gave a cursory glance over her body and then at the ceiling. “Out the window. Fast.” The window? In a towel?
A knock sounded on her front door.
Priss froze, but Jackson, after swiping his eyes with her washcloth to remove most of the shampoo, bent to offer his cupped hands as a boost. “Sorry, sweet. No time for modesty. We gotta go now unless you want me to kill someone in front of you, and that might put Trace in a bad way with Murray—”
“Oh… Shut up!” No way would the towel stay in place for her climb out such a small window. And she really didn’t have any other choice.
Rushing, Priss tossed the towel over the bottom of the windowsill. She wrapped her fingers over the ledge and stepped into Jackson’s hands.
Her belly—and more feminine parts—were on a level with his face.
She could feel her skin burning, especially as she propelled forward with her backside in the air a few seconds before she got her hip braced on the window ledge. She pulled her legs through and, after seeing that no one was around outside to witness her disgrace, got ready to drop out.
The front door squeaked as it opened.
Wasting no more time, Priss hopped down as silently as she could to the metal landing. As she moved aside, she wrapped the towel around herself and tucked in the end—not that it did much for her modesty at this point.
Far quicker than she had managed, and with a great deal more grace despite his size, Jackson dropped down next to her. He said right into her ear, “I’m going to lift you down to the ground. You’ll have to drop a few feet.”
Priss nodded—and he immediately caught her under the arms. As if she weighed nothing at all, he lowered her over the railing.
She lost the damn towel.
Like a bird with a broken wing, it took a spinning dive to land in a heap below her, which left her dangling naked.
Outside.
With a big guy looking down at her.
Jackson never changed expressions. “Ready?”
This is too unbearable. “Do it, damn you.”
He let her drop and she landed hard, first on her feet, then her knees, then her naked butt. “Ouch.”
She was still crouched down, trying to assess whether she was hurt or not, when Jackson landed beside her. He whipped off his T-shirt and stuffed her into it, all the while looking up at the bathroom window.
Priss looked up, too, and saw that he’d had the foresight to close it.
She tugged the shirt down as far as it’d go. It smelled of him, nice, hot, manly. But he wasn’t Trace and she didn’t care how manly he might be. She was so mortified she didn’t know if she’d ever recover.
“This way.” Catching her elbow, he forced her to her feet again and headed toward the back of the building, but he balked when he saw the littered debris on the ground. Beer bottles, rusted cans, sticks and other unidentifiable items would lacerate her bare feet.
He looked down at her. Priss shook her head and started to back step, but he said, “Sorry,” then tossed her over his hard shoulder again.
He jogged to his car, jostling her all the way so that her big boobs repeatedly bounced against his shoulder. One big, hot hand held on to the backs of her thighs, the other just above her behind.
When he dumped her into the front seat of a vehicle parked in the shadows, she was so grateful that she felt like crying. She didn’t though. Instead, she scrambled over to the passenger seat and readjusted the damn T-shirt.
He was behind the wheel in a heartbeat and, without turning on his headlights, rolled the car forward slowly, his gaze going back and forth from the rearview mirror—no doubt watching for the intruder—and the narrow alley in front of him.
“Put on your seat belt.”
Priss couldn’t draw a deep breath. She couldn’t think beyond knowing that this man had just seen her naked in ways she’d never even imagined, in a variety of poses, all because someone had broken into the apartment with the intent of hurting her or…or something.
She put on the belt.
After removing a ludicrous cowboy hat, he peeled off the blackout mask and dropped it on the seat between them.
“Who was it?” Priss felt him glance her way, but she couldn’t bear to look at him yet. Arms wrapped around herself, knees pressed tightly together, she kept her gaze straight ahead to stare out the windshield.
“Helene.”
“But…the door was locked. How did she get in?”
“You kidding? That barracuda has a bag of tricks that’d put Houdini to shame. She wants in, she’s getting in, with or without an invite.”
Overwhelmed at the idea of what Helene had likely planned, Priss covered her face.
Sounding more curious than concerned, Jackson asked, “You gonna cry?”
“No.” She shook her head, resolute. “No, I’m not.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
He couldn’t be that obtuse. “You’re kidding, right?”