Trace of Fever
Page 93

“She lied to you,” Helene insisted again.
Ignoring her, Trace said, “Then I assume she’s on her way in.”
“Splendid.” He dropped his hands and again sat behind his desk. “I can’t wait to…greet her.” And then to Helene, “Not a word out of you. Do you understand?”
She hesitated, but then nodded.
A few minutes later, Alice beeped the office. “Mr. Coburn, some of your guards have brought Priscilla Patterson to see you.”
Murray rolled his eyes. “Don’t be a dolt, Alice. Send them in.”
“Yes, sir.”
It was the first time Trace had heard Murray speak to Alice with anything other than professional curtness. But he didn’t have time to dwell on that, not when the same men he’d confronted in Priss’s apartment parking lot entered the room, dragging Priss along as she carped and complained.
A man at either side of her gripped her arms, and another trailed behind. Through remaining bruises and some medical tape, they grinned when they saw Trace.
Priss tried to hide her grimace, but they were hurting her, and Trace wouldn’t tolerate it. Staring at the men but speaking to Murray, he said, “Did you tell them to manhandle her?”
Amused, Murray said, “Actually…no.” And then, in warning, “But this is my office Trace, so don’t break anything.”
“Only bones.” Straight and hard, his fist shot out and connected with the nose of the man closest to him with cartilage-crunching impact.
Stunned, the fool quickly released Priss and lurched back with a gurgling, “Arrrr…” “Do not get blood on my carpet,” Murray ordered one and all as he sat back to enjoy the show.
Busy cupping his hands around his spewing nose and trying not to pass out, the man couldn’t fight. He left the room and stumbled to Alice for tissues.
Priss darted out of the fray and away from the remaining two men. Out of the corner of his eye, Trace saw her shift closer to Murray.
She said, somewhat approvingly, “Trace is very efficient at this.”
“Indeed.”
Because he felt uneasy with her so close to Murray, Trace finished off the second man in rapid order. A short kick to an already bandaged knee took one guy completely out of the fight and had the added benefit of being blood-free. All he could do was roll on the carpet, whining.
A punch to the solar plexus, and then the ribs, put the third man down, too. He wheezed for air, close to puking but holding it back in fear of soiling Murray’s carpet.
“Excellent work, Trace.” As he again left his desk, Murray waved Trace back, and then addressed his henchmen. “You continue to disappoint me. Now get out.”
Shifting nervously, Alice held the door wide. After the men had cleared it, she asked Murray in a tiny voice, “Do you need anything else?”
Murray asked Priss, “Coffee? Soda?”
She shook her head. “No. I’m fine. I don’t want to impose further.”
Helene roused herself enough to scoff, but otherwise remained remote and quiet as ordered.
Trace took the doorknob. “That’s all, Alice. Thank you.”
She scanned the room, nodded and left. Trace closed the door.
Braced for anything, Trace aligned himself closer to Priss. If need be, he’d gut Murray and deal with the consequences as they came.
Murray smiled at Priss with the same attention he gave his financial reports. “Don’t hover over her, Trace. She’ll be fine.” He lifted a brow. “Isn’t that right, Priscilla?”
She made a noncommittal noise. “I’m not going to get weepy over a little physical violence, especially since they had it coming.”
“Priscilla,” Trace warned. He wanted to muzzle her. He wanted to whisk her away and forget the rest of the world.
He wanted to…maybe, keep her.
Entertained, Murray smiled at her. “Don’t worry, Trace. She’ll be good. Won’t you?”
More than a little mulish, Priss crossed her arms. “If, by good, you mean I won’t file charges against those goons…I don’t know yet.”
Murray barked a laugh. “Excellent.”
Trace had to wonder when Murray’s good humor would evaporate. “By necessity, Murray has to be very cautious.” He stared at her, hoping to convey the message. “Don’t press him.”
Leering, Murray said, “She can press me a little. I don’t mind.” Then his gaze roamed over her jeans and loose, casual T-shirt. “What in God’s name are you wearing?”
Priss smoothed her shirt and shifted her feet. “You don’t like my clothes?”
“No, I don’t.” Propping a hip on his desk and lacing his hands together, Murray shook his head. “I had clothes specifically purchased for you so that I wouldn’t have to see these…substandard rags.”
Her face fell comically.
The little faker. Trace didn’t buy any of it. What the hell was she up to?
“I’m so, so sorry. Really. I wanted to wear them.” The picture of despondency, Priss bit her bottom lip, then lurched closer to him with theatric fanfare. “Oh, Murray, I hate to tell you this, but someone broke into my apartment last night and destroyed everything.”
Trace stared at her in fascination. God, she was a fabulous liar.
“Destroyed?” Murray looked taken aback.
“Yes. I had gone out—”
Pouncing on that, Murray asked, “Where?”