Trace of Fever (2 page)

Her eyes widened in alarm.

Too late, honey. Trace nodded at her, grim, but sort of anticipating it, too. “Every nook and hollow, honey, inside every piece of clothing.”

She sputtered, and Trace noticed the flush blooming in her cheeks.

With her entire small body pulled tight in rebellion, she gasped, “You’re insane!”

Trace propped his shoulders against the wall. “If you
want to see Coburn, I have to ensure you aren’t hiding a weapon, or a transmitter, of any kind.”

“No.”

“Fine.” Perfect, in fact. “Then leave. Right now.”

She hesitated. “But…”

Again, Trace took his gaze over her. She tried to hide her body under the prim clothes, but he wasn’t fooled. He’d bet his favorite knife that this particular babe was in no way innocent. Whether or not she was Murray’s spawn, he couldn’t say. There did seem to be something of a resemblance in the color of her hair, though hers was a shade or two lighter than Murray’s. And when she connived, which she’d been doing from jump, she had a certain look about her that reminded him of Coburn.

Trace glanced at the chunky black watch on his wrist. “Make up your mind, but make it up fast. What’s it to be? Do you want to leave, or do you want my hands all over you?”

The new gleam of tears looked authentic, but her chin didn’t lower. “I’m not leaving.”

Trace pushed away from the wall. “Up with you, then.” He caught her elbow, drawing her to her feet. The top of her head barely reached his chin. She had a delicate bone structure, but was clearly filled with underlying steel.

He turned her. “Put your hands flat on the table and spread your legs wide.”

For a span of five seconds, she didn’t move. Her shoulders were rigid, her neck stiff. That high, dark red ponytail hung almost to the middle of her back. Freed, her hair would just kiss the top of her ass.

He smoothed his hand down that long tail—and his palms burned.

As if in slow motion she plopped her heavy, loaded purse onto the tabletop. First her left hand, then her right, landed on the table, fingers opened for balance.

Trace gently kicked her feet back a little, then said, “Open up, honey.”

Her narrow back expanded on a breath of courage. She lifted her right foot and dropped it back down a few inches away.

Trace took great pleasure in saying softly, “Wider.”

When she still barely moved, he stepped up behind her. Holding her waist, he nudged her feet far apart, as far as the skirt would allow.

The muscles in her bare calves strained. The skirt pulled taut around that rounded behind. Her shoulders remained as proud and stiff as ever.

They were in a position of lovers, so it was no wonder that he suddenly noticed her delectable scent. Baby soft, and woman sweet.

His nostrils flared—and he forced himself to step away.

“Stay like that.” Moving to the side of her, Trace upended her purse on the tabletop. Photos, pen, notebook, makeup, brush, comb, mirror, tissues, calculator, candy bar, book… “Jesus, everything but the kitchen sink.”

“Bastard,” she whispered.

He tsked. “Now, is that any way for a schoolgirl to talk?”

“I’m a grown woman.”

“Yeah? How old?”

He could almost hear the sawing of her teeth before she ground out, “Twenty-four.”

Trace opened her wallet and checked her driver’s license. “Twenty-four,” he agreed. “But dressed like a parochial pupil.” With no more than a casual glance he memorized her address. Seemed odd that she’d live in the same state as Murray if they’d never met.

Soon as he could, he’d have the address checked out.

But just in case Murray had the same thought… Trace
glanced at her, saw her gaze was averted, and slid the license into his pocket.

He rifled through the rest of her belongings, searched the interior of the purse for any hidden pockets. “Speaking of your clothes…” He glanced at her. “I’m not fooled, so you can save the prim act.”

She whipped her head around to burn him with a look. The tight ponytail emphasized her high cheekbones, the straight bridge of her nose. “You’re suggesting
what,
exactly?”

Trace examined a photo of her as a younger girl with a woman who looked a lot like her. Maybe her mother.

Even when young, she’d still looked pugnacious, as if preparing to take on the world. The photo left him unsettled. “You’re up to something, and I don’t like it.”

“It’s none of your business.”

He continued his examination of her belongings, saying casually, “Who gets killed around here is my business.”

There was a pause, but no real fear. “You think my own father would kill me?”

Trace scrutinized her. She was more subtle, but in her own way, he had no doubt that she could be every bit as lethal as Hell. The edge of danger was there in her clear green eyes, in her too-cool voice. Under the circumstances, she was one amazingly composed cookie.

He’d have to remember that.

As she watched him look her over, Trace stepped around behind her. “Eyes forward.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“As well you shouldn’t.” He put his hands on her throat. Silk. Warm, sleek silk. Slowly, he dragged his fingers down to her shoulders, then down each arm. So slim, and so damn young.

In a real pat-down, he’d be thorough, but fast. Not this time. If he could get her out of here, he was willing
to cross the line. Priscilla Patterson might be an enigma with a double agenda, but he still didn’t want to see her slaughtered. And if she played with Coburn, that’s what would happen.

“Easy now.” He put his hands over her breasts—and realized she’d bound herself. He quirked a brow. “Hiding something?”

Strained, she rasped, “I’m modest.”

“Uh-huh.” He went down her ribs to her concave belly, over the lush swell of her hips, the length of her thighs, and back up under her skirt.

She jerked.

Voice low and rough, Trace said, “Be still.” Keeping one hand on the small of her back, he reached up between her legs. Very skimpy panties—and nothing else.

Well, heat. Lots of heat.

He brought his palm to the soft flesh of each inner thigh, cupped over her crotch where he felt her springy curls beneath the silky material of underwear, and—

“You can tell I’m not hiding anything!”

“You’re hiding something, all right.” Reluctantly, Trace brought his hand out but his fingers and palm continued to tingle. For a moment, he clasped her hips and just held her like that, bringing himself under iron control. When she started to straighten, he said, “Not yet.”

Her forehead hit the tabletop and she groaned. Her legs were still straight, leaving her bottom high, in the perfect position for sex. This way, a man would go so deep—

As if knowing his thoughts, she locked her hands over her head and gave a low growl, bringing a reluctant and crooked smile to his mouth.

She didn’t intimidate easily, and he’d tormented himself enough. “Straighten up so I can unbutton your blouse.”

“Why?”

“I need to go beneath the binding.”

She started to shake. Trace had a feeling it was repressed rage, not nervousness. But she did straighten her arms, levering her chest up and away from the table.

As he started on the small buttons, she asked, “What will my father say when I tell him what you did to me?”

“Why don’t you tell him and find out? But know this—it’s what he expected me to do.”

She twisted to look at him over her shoulder. “You’re serious?”

“He’s a high-level businessman with plenty of enemies. Protecting him is my job. No one here knew he had a daughter, so why should we just believe you?” The buttons were all opened now, so Trace turned her to face him.

Wide elastic circled her upper body. It could have been a girdle or some such, definitely not meant for a woman’s chest.

It was so tight, he didn’t see how she could even hide her breasts under there, much less anything else. But then, he’d stopped looking for a real weapon almost from jump.

This little exercise was all about making her rethink her plan.

“You can breathe with that restriction?”

“I breathe just fine.”

He met her gaze. “Lower it.”

Her arms hung loose at her sides, her stance relaxed, and Trace knew what she planned. He saw it in her eyes.

Smiling again, this time in anticipation, he whispered, “Try it.”

She looked startled. “What?”

“You want to attack, honey. I see it.” He looked at her
mouth. “If your modesty is worth blowing whatever plans you have, then go for it.”

Her teeth locked. She seemed to be considering it.

“But know,” Trace told her, crowding in a little closer, “you can’t best me. Whatever you think you know, whatever capabilities you think you have, it’s not enough. Not even close.”

Time ticked by slowly while they stared at each other. Her breathing deepened, her eyes narrowed.

“Now or never,” Trace taunted, and he knew that for whatever perverse reason, he wanted her to react. Every nuance, every flicker of her thick lashes, fascinated him. Never had he met a woman like her. She had to be as crooked as Murray to be involved in any way, but still she intrigued him.

Slowly, her gaze still locked with his, she lifted her hands, hooked her fingertips in the top of the elastic binding, and began tugging it down.

Trace continued to watch her face; he saw her lips part on a deeper, cleansing breath. She had to be more comfortable now, but why hide her curves in the first place?

Reaching toward his back, he withdrew his knife and clicked it open.

Priscilla’s gaze finally left his, but only to look at the blade in curiosity. She tipped her head, then brought her attention back to him. “Automatic switchblade, ergonomic handle, three-and-a-quarter-inch blade.”

“You know your knives.”

“I know weapons.” She still didn’t look scared as much as defiant. “What do you plan to do with that?”

“Don’t move.” Trace tried not to stare at her breasts, now reddened with deep groves showing from the squeeze of the damned elastic. Her nipples were dark pink, soft and luscious.

Catching the top of the binding, he stretched it out
from her body and slipped the tip of his blade inside. Like carving through butter, the elastic separated as he sliced the knife downward. It fell away from her body.

Looking her over, Trace replaced the knife in a back pocket. His gaze zeroed in on her breasts. “You really tortured those poor beauties.”

She didn’t make a sound.

“Care to tell me why?”

Her chin lifted. “Boobs are distracting.”

“That’s usually the purpose, right?”

Rather than answer, she held up her palms. “Do you mind?”

His abdomen clenched. Trying not to sound affected, Trace gestured with his chin. “Knock yourself out.”
Please, go ahead,
he thought.
Touch yourself.

With a slight moan, her head tipped back and she put her hands to her breasts in a slow, deep massage. Her eyes closed and she heaved another deep breath.

Definitely affected, Trace noted that her hands were small, and her breasts…were not. It was sinfully enticing, watching her soothe the irritated flesh while making those soft, cooing sounds of pure pleasure.

Such a contrast it made, her feminine, unadorned hands with the short, clean nails—rubbing over those pale, voluptuous breasts, working them as if to alleviate an ache.

Trace clamped his hands over hers, and her eyes shot open.

Through his teeth, he said, “That’s enough.”

The tip of her tongue came out to moisten her lips. “Getting to you?”

“Trust me on this, you don’t want to find out.” His hands were twice the size of hers, so his thumbs and each fingertip sank into pliable, soft flesh. Acutely aware of that, of her, he said, “Will you leave now?”

Her small nostrils flared on a quick inhalation. “Not on your life.”

Furious, Trace pushed back from her but kept his tone calm and detached. “Button up your blouse and tuck it back in.”

She did so in haste, proving she hadn’t been as comfortable with her partial nudity and provocative display as she’d wanted him to believe. “It’s not going to fit right now.”

Stepping to the side, Trace jammed all her belongings back into her purse, glad that he’d kept the license. When shit went south, as it was bound to do, he wanted a way to identify her. Given all his computer expertise and resources in the government and military, tracking her would be a piece of cake.

“Done?”

She smoothed her hair and nodded. “
Now
may I see my father?”

It pissed him off enough that Trace didn’t reply. He just handed her purse to her, took her arm and started her out the door.

Gut instincts told him that things had just gotten horribly complicated. And he could put the blame squarely on Ms. Priscilla Patterson’s too-proud shoulders.

P
RISS STRODE INTO THE
private elevator as if she had every right, as if her heart weren’t bumping hard against her ribs, as if her nerves weren’t sorely jumbled.

Keeping her cool had taken real effort, but good God, of all the scenarios she’d planned for, expected and discounted, being intimately groped by a man like him, a man so unlike the other men in the organization, had never factored in.

In the elevator, he held silent, but she saw him twice look at her blouse. She could
feel
his gaze, damn it, deep inside herself. And she knew what he was looking at.

Without the binding, her boobs were far too noticeable. The damned buttons gaped and the material strained.

“Enjoying yourself?” she asked with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

If anything, her jibe only made him intensify his study. He stood there, negligence personified, his hands clasped behind his back, his stance casual and relaxed. “I can see the outline of your nipples.”

She nearly strangled on her fury. “Go to hell!”

“What are you? C cup? Maybe even a D?”

Oh, God, she did not want to stand here alone with him, closed up in such a small space with his heat and scent invading her lungs. “None of your damn business.”

He lifted his hand in front of him, not to touch her, but to imagine it covering her right breast. His face screwed up while he pretended to heft her. “I’d say a full C.”

A fine trembling started in her neck and went down her spine. She needed to stay composed to face off with Murray Coburn, but for whatever reason, this man wanted to demolish her control. “I say go kill yourself.”

He cracked a smile.

And what that smile did for him…. She couldn’t deny that he was devastatingly handsome. Probably a cutthroat villain, but still gorgeous. That disheveled fair hair and those intense, oddly colored eyes…she shivered.

He lifted a brow. “Cold?”

“No.” She had to distract him. “So I didn’t catch your name.”

“No one gave you my name.”

“It’s a secret, then?” She tried to hunch her shoulders to make her chest less noticeable. “How strange.”

“That doesn’t help,” he said of her posture, “and if you’re really interested?” He held out a hand. “Trace Miller.”

She disdained touching him again. “Is that your real name or an alias?”

With a grin, he retracted his proffered hand. “What do you think?”

“I think you took my driver’s license.”

He went still for a heartbeat, giving her a small measure of satisfaction. Lifting her hands in a “woo-woo” way, she intoned, “I know all, see all.” Then she curled her lip. “And besides, you suck at stealth.”

The elevator stopped and the doors opened with a silent
whoosh.
Trace took her elbow to keep her from stepping out. Bending to her ear, he said on a mere breath of sound, “Actually, I excel at stealth, which tells me that you have to be trained to think otherwise. So now I’m wondering, what is a trained and deceptive woman doing here, claiming to be the daughter of one of the most powerful and fearsome businessmen in the area?”

Shoot. She shouldn’t have baited him. He was good, and of course he’d know it, the egomaniac. When she tried to pull free, he easily restrained her.

And then another voice intruded.

“Well, well. What the
fuck
is this?”

Priss looked up at the female, and then had to look up even more. Good God, an Amazon. A really spiteful-looking Amazon all decked out in killer duds as if on the make.

Putting on her sweet and innocent face, Priss said, “Hello. I’m here to see Murray Coburn.”

And suddenly Trace was in front of her. She realized why when the Amazon tried to crowd closer, no doubt to intimidate her physically. Wow. Priss braced herself behind him, trying to see what happened. His big shoulders shifted, flexed under her hands, and then he went still again—all without making a sound.

The Amazon had been forced back several feet, heaving and furious.

Oh, he was good, all right. Really good. She hated to be impressed, but she just couldn’t help it.

Sounding less than charming, Trace said, “Now, now, Hell, retract your claws. Murray wants to see her.”

A venomous snakelike hiss precluded the snarky response. “Did he specify in one piece?”

Priss stiffened. The woman wanted to attack her without provocation?

“No, he didn’t, but until he tells me otherwise, that’s how she’s going to stay.”

Outraged, she fairly screeched, “Damn you, Trace.”

He didn’t budge, and Priss had to admit he made one hell of a blockade.

Was his protectiveness truly motivated just by his hired position? She didn’t think so.

Going on tiptoe to see over his shoulder again, Priss
realized he was rock solid, not an ounce of give to his muscles. Huh. She squeezed just a little, fascinated despite herself.

When was the last time any man had caught her interest? Not counting Murray, since her interest in him was all toxic.

The Amazon drew her attention with a slow, contemptible smile.

“One of these days, Trace, definitely sooner than you think, I
will
settle up with you. Count on it.” And with that she spun on her very high stiletto heels and sashayed away.

“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 breasts. 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.

Trace stood behind her. To Murray, he probably looked positioned to restrain her if necessary. Priss hadn’t known him long, but she was a good judge of character, and despite whatever role Trace Miller played in her father’s evil enterprise, she knew he wouldn’t hurt her.

To get the ball rolling, Priss opened her mouth—and Murray forestalled her.

“I’ve never fucked a red-haired woman.”

“Oh.” His bluntness unsettled her. So he’d make no pretense of being a smooth businessman, of being anything other than a crude bully? He had enough money and power that he didn’t have to bother hiding his true nature in the sanctity of his office?

Or did he already know she’d never have the chance to share what she learned?

If only she could blush on cue, Priss thought, but that little trick eluded her. Instead, she touched her long ponytail. “My hair color is that of my grandmother. My mother had darker hair.” She nodded toward the woman perched on his desk. “Beautiful, much like hers.”

Hell leaned toward her, her body vibrating with menace.

With a casual lift of a hand, Murray warned the Amazon to stay back. She retreated, but she wasn’t happy about it. Slowly, her father came out of his seat.

Priss eyed him warily. Would he try to kill her outright, as Trace suspected?

When Murray propped a hip against the front of his desk, Priss nearly melted with relief. Until his big feet bumped against hers.

No way in hell was he unaware of the contact. Priss fought the need to shrivel away from his foul touch. Her gut told her that the understated move was in no way fatherly.

A test? Or a warning?

Whatever Murray’s real intent, she didn’t know. She just knew it made her stomach pitch. Given that she trusted her instincts, she also knew to be on guard.

Murray nodded toward her chest, his gaze heated, his mouth a little too slack. “Braless?”

Now her face flamed. “I—”

Trace shifted. “She had herself bound with some sort of tight sports bra. But since that could have concealed a weapon, I cut it off her.”

He hadn’t been kidding about telling Murray! Priss waited to see how he’d react. It wasn’t what she’d expected.

“I see.” Murray’s gaze lifted to hers. “Your mother was busty?”

Good God, the cretin hadn’t yet asked her mother’s name, but he wanted to know her bra size? He was more disgusting than she’d ever imagined.

Inside, Priss churned with fury, but outside, she stammered like a virgin. “She was, yes.” Belatedly, parts of her rehearsed spiel shot to the forefront of her mind. “After you left her, she never wanted another man. So she did her best to…conceal her figure.”

“As you did with whatever undergarment Trace removed from your person?”

“Yes.” She tugged at the material of her blouse, trying to get the gaping front to close. “I’m not at all comfortable like this.”

“What you have is an asset. You should be proud.”

Oh, this was
soooo
not a father/daughter conversation. “Sir, I want you to know—”

“Give me your mother’s name.”

Well, ’bout damn time! A deep breath didn’t ease the tension in her chest. “Patricia Patterson.” Priss waited, but there was no recognition, and predictably, no real interest. She forged on. “I’m twenty-four, so it would have been close to twenty-five years ago that you knew her.”

“I’d have been thirty-two.” He rubbed at his goatee in fond remembrance of the past, then caught himself. “She’s dead?”

Priss ducked her head, as much from grief as to hide the incandescent rage she felt when she thought of the way her mother had suffered before finding the grace of death. “Yes. Three months ago.”