Authors: Lori Foster
So many emotions ran rampant, taking off in a surge, that Trace barely recognized himself. Thunder roared in his ears, his heart raced.
Grabbing her shoulders, he shook her. “Goddamn it, you will
not
do anything with Murray! Do you understand me? You will avoid him when you can, and when you can’t, you will allow me to handle things!”
Priss shoved him back. “Fine. It’s plain how you feel about this.” Looking mulish, she took a stand. “So forget the…protection.”
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.
P
RISS 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.
“H
OW’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.”
Murray’s eyes narrowed as he studied Trace. “There is that, I suppose.”
“And a hit from me would do her real damage. Maybe even kill her.”
“You’re a man of control.” Murray shook his head. “You can discipline without damaging. And the truth is, an unruly woman can benefit from a slap every now and
then. If nothing else, it damages her pride enough to keep her in line.”
Maintaining his relaxed pose was impossible. Trace paced to the front of the desk and redirected Murray’s malice. “Your three buffoons barely touched me, but they’re not going to be much good to you anytime in the near future.”
Irritation put a twitch in Murray’s jaw. “You didn’t kill them?”
“Not without a direct order from you, no.” He waited for Murray to deny sending them, but he didn’t. “Did you want them dead? That’s why you sent them after me?”
Instead of answering that, Murray asked, “How bad are they hurt?”
“Some broken bones, probably a few concussions. I stuck them back in the car and last I saw, they were limping off to the hospital.”
Murray sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. For several seconds, he looked stunned before outrage took over. Slamming his hands down on the desk, he cursed. “You won’t kill them, but you didn’t think to call me before rendering them useless?”
Now that Murray had lost his cool, Trace regained his. Hell, he enjoyed seeing Murray riled. “I’m telling you now. Without knowing for sure if you sent them, or why, I was left to my own discretion. If you want me to bother you with every little detail that comes up, just say so.” He shrugged. “But I was under the impression that you wanted me to handle shit.”
Murray’s face reddened with bluster. “I do, damn it.”
“They were shit,” Trace explained. “They’ve been handled.”
For a full minute Murray fumed in silence while Trace stood there, waiting, almost hoping the bastard would attack so that he could end this damned farce.
Instead, Murray rocked back in his chair and guffawed. “I’ll be damned.”
The mercurial mood swings were not a good thing. They made Murray all the more unpredictable and dangerous because you couldn’t gauge his reaction. “So I should assume this was no more than another of your tests?”
Grinning, again dodging a direct answer, Murray pointed at Trace’s face. “You say Priscilla blackened your eye, huh?”
Trace touched his fingertips to the bruise. He couldn’t tell Murray what had really happened, or how adept Priss had been at
almost
escaping. “She took offense.”
“Looks like.”
“She threw a damned book at me.” A book, if it hit him the right way, could have done the damage, and it was more believable than the truth.
Grinning hugely, Murray teased, “Came on a little strong, did you?”
“Something like that.”
Murray roared. “God, I love it.” He hit the intercom. “Alice, get Helene in here. I have something to share with her.”
Damn and double damn. The day had been a cluster-fuck from the get go. All he needed now was Hell’s psychotic participation.
A minute later, Helene strode in looking like a woman on a mission. Her eyes were always cold, but now…something was different. She looked glacial with loathing.
Had Helene begun dipping into her own pharmaceutical concoctions? Hazardous. But that would explain a few things.
A tight skirt hugged her long thighs, emphasized by the deadly height of her heels. Beneath her blouse, Trace could easily see her long, stiff nipples.
Excited? About what?
“Come in, sweetheart.” Murray motioned to her. “I have something to share with you.”
Shaking back her long hair and propping a lush hip on the corner of Murray’s desk, Helene eyed Trace. “What happened to you?”
“You’re going to love this,” Murray told her. With grand fanfare, he announced, “Priscilla attacked him.”
“Not an attack,” Trace corrected, aware of Hell’s heightened attention. “More a loss of control.”
His meaty paw high on her thigh, Murray leaned closer to Hell as if to share a confidence. “She threw a book at him.”
Like a snake preparing to strike, Hell coiled, zeroing in her anticipation of cruelty. Even her tongue flickered out, serpentlike, to dampen her lips. Breathless with malicious desire, she whispered, “I could discipline her.”
The offer repulsed Trace.
It had the opposite reaction with Murray. He studied her with fresh interest. “I’ll think on it.”
Like a kid given a special gift on Christmas, Helene rejoiced. “You mean it?” Off the desk, she rushed around to Murray and bent to kiss him. “Just give me the word and I’ll handle it. I know just what to do with her—”
“Hush.” He put a finger to her lips. Looking past her to Trace, Murray laughed. “She gets into her work, doesn’t she?”
Trace worked his jaw, words beyond him.
“Oh-ho.” Murray pushed Helene back and stood with a rush of glee. “What’s this, Trace? You don’t want Helene near your little protégé?”
Helene whipped around to glare at Trace. “What does it matter to you? She’s nothing. Less than nothing!”
“She’s my daughter,” Murray reminded Helene. “And that’s why Trace cares. Isn’t that right, Trace?”
He gave a halfhearted shrug.
Body rigid, Helene conceded the possibility of that, but still hissed to Trace, “Nothing to
you
personally.”
“I’m charged with protecting her.”
Helene leaned closer to him, her dilated eyes glittering, her breath sweet. “It’s none of your damn business.”
Aware of Murray taking it all in, Trace clasped her arm and moved her out of his line of vision. “You misunderstand, Murray. Whatever you want to do with Priscilla is your business. It’s Helene’s twisted little heart that sort of sours my stomach.” And then to Helene, “It’s kind of pathetic, the way you get your jollies, don’t you think?”
She lashed out. “Bastard!”
Trace caught her wrist before her palm connected with his face. In front of Murray, uncaring, he wrested her into a chair none too gently. His hands squeezed her wrists, keeping her still. She’d be bruised later, and he didn’t give a damn.
“Don’t ever,” he warned through his teeth, “try to slap me. You won’t like the consequences.”
Helene gasped in air, equal parts furious and aroused.
Psychotic bitch.
Trace stepped away from her and turned to Murray, ready to explain if necessary, only to find him smiling his Cheshire cat grin.
To Helene, Murray said, “Trace’s right, of course.” He took his suit coat from an ornate hook on the wall. “I’ll reprimand you later for that little display of rebellion.”
Shit. Trace didn’t want to feel guilty about Helene. He glanced at her, but the threat of punishment had only stirred her more. A flush stained her skin and her eyes were heavy, smoky with lust.
“You ready?” Trace asked Murray. He needed some fresh air in a bad way.
“I am.” On his way to the door, Murray paused to stand over Helene. “And you…”
Tremulous with excitement and fear, she flattened her back in the chair. “Yes?”
Murray cupped her face. “I think you
should
go see Priscilla. Take some of your drugs, the ones that help expose the truth. Ferret out her feelings—on me, on Trace, and on sexual deviance. Don’t hurt her, but otherwise…have fun. I’ll touch base with you when I finish my business for the night.”
His legs suddenly leaden, his heart missing a beat, Trace stood there, immobilized, sick. Murray didn’t trust him—didn’t trust anyone—and so his unending suspicions would never be satisfied. Trace’s instincts screamed for him to kill them both, right now, before they could touch Priss.
What to do?
Helene squealed like an excited schoolgirl. Leaping from her seat, she threw herself against Murray for a long, intimate, tongue-twining kiss.
Hearing his own heartbeat in his ears, Trace slipped his hand into his pocket. If he could use his phone without Murray noticing, he could alert Jackson to the problem.
But Murray released Hell and, anxious to be on his way, slapped Trace on the back. “Let’s go. You can drive. I don’t feel like taking an entourage tonight.”
Think, Trace. Get it together. Forcing concentrated thought, he said, “You don’t want backup?”