Trace of Fever
Page 7

“Friend of yours?” Priss asked.
He turned on her so fast, she jumped back a foot.
“You don’t look happy,” Priss noted. What an understatement. “It was just a question. Don’t implode or anything, okay?”
He fumed quietly, and even in his rage, he looked self-possessed. “Under no circumstances will you provoke that woman. Do you understand me?”
Intrigued by the warning, Priss tried to see around him to wherever the woman had gone. He didn’t allow it.
His big, hard hand clasped her face, none too gently. “She will slit your throat and smile while doing it. And no one here will stop her. Do you understand me?”
“Uh…” It wasn’t easy to speak with the way he smooshed her cheeks, but she felt compelled to point out, “You stopped her.”
“This time.” He leaned down, close enough to kiss her, but his eyes said he had far from affectionate gestures on his mind. “I won’t always be around.”
“Duly noted. Now you can stop abusing my face.” He released her and she worked her jaw. “Jerk. I bruise easy.”
His eye did that interesting twitching thing again before he grabbed her elbow and hustled her forward.
The surroundings were decadent. Authentic art on the walls. Twelve-foot ceilings. Polished-marble floors. And tinted windows everywhere.
When she balked, trying to take it all in, Trace all but dragged her. “This way.”
“So dear daddy is rich, huh?”
“You’d be better served to note his power, not his financial status.”
“Got some influence, does he?”
That she’d dropped her Little Ms. Innocent facade didn’t faze him at all. “More than you could realize, or you wouldn’t be here.”
They passed a desk where a cowed woman kept her head down and her shoulders hunched. Pathetic.
To her, Trace spoke gently, as if addressing a child. “He’s expecting us, hon. Tell him we’re here.”
“Yes, sir.” Using an intercom, she announced, “Mr. Coburn, Mr. Miller is here with a young lady.”
“Send her in. Trace, too. I want him in on this.”
Priss started forward, but Trace didn’t, so she got pulled up short. “Well?” She gave his shoulder a shove. “What’s the holdup now?”
He chewed his upper lip, and she could have sworn he looked agonized. After a long hesitation, he yanked her away from the desk and tightened his hold on her arm. “Listen to me, and listen good. Give him no personal information that might make it easier for him to have you tracked. Protect your privacy as much as you can. I’ll stall them as much as I can. When you leave, don’t go anywhere familiar.” His thumb rubbed her arm. “Do you have money on you?”
Agog, Priss stared up at him. “You’re actually trying to protect me?” Had she misunderstood his role in all this?
In a precise, angry tempo, he asked again, “Do. You. Have money? On you?”
“Inside my shoe.”
He straightened, his expression impressed. “Good girl.”
If he didn’t stop referring to her as a child, she just might brain him. And then it dawned on Priss. “That’s why you swiped my driver’s license?” A short laugh—caused by nerves and something else, something sort of like gratitude—escaped her. “You took it so that they couldn’t?”
“Let’s go.” He started her on her way again. “It’s never a good idea to keep Murray waiting.”
At the enormous double doors, Trace turned the knob, took a quick survey inside and gestured her in.
When she entered, Priss saw why he’d checked before letting her past him.
The Amazon waited.
A little more subdued now, she sat on the corner of Murray Coburn’s massive desk. Sunlight poured through the wall of windows behind her, bathing her in a glow, putting blue highlights in her inky-black hair.
Her gaze, narrowed and mean, tracked Priss’s every movement.
Despite herself, Priss stepped a little closer to her self-appointed protector.
“Priscilla Patterson,” Trace said, as if formal introductions were just the thing for the situation. He gestured toward her father. “Murray Coburn. And the lovely lady with him is Helene Schumer.”
Lovely lady? Priss bit back a gag.
Behind his desk, Murray surveyed her. “You made it this far, girl, so don’t start cowering now.”
Had she been cowering? Well, hell. That was the impression she wanted to give, but this time, it hadn’t been feigned.
She felt like she’d entered a viper’s nest.
“Where do you want her?” Trace asked, taking personal responsibility for seating her.
Murray’s gaze crawled all over her, lingering on her br**sts. She wanted to clobber Trace for that.
“The chair there will do,” Murray said, indicating a padded seat in front of his desk, far too close to the Amazon’s pointy-toed shoes.
Priss eyed the woman. What was it Trace had called her? Hell—short for Helene. Yeah, that suited her.
Sinking back into her veneer of shy reserve, Priss gave a tremulous smile. “Thank you so much for agreeing to see me. I know this is a shock, that I’m a shock. And I wouldn’t blame you if you’d refused me.”
Air unchanging, Murray said, “Sit.”
That one blunt word, said as a succinct command, left her nettled. Priss wiped all hostility from her manner and moved forward. Gingerly, she perched at the edge of the chair, ready to bolt if the Amazon took aim at her head.