Trace of Fever. Lori Foster

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      “Good God. That’s a domestic cat? Really? I’ve never seen one so big.”

      “He’s a Maine coon. They’re naturally large.”

      “You’re telling me that’s a normal size?”

      “For the males, yeah. I found him at a shelter a few years ago. Isn’t he beautiful?”

      “Actually …” Trace holstered the gun and hunkered down beside her. “Yeah. He is.”

      For whatever reason, that surprised Priss. “You like animals?”

      “Sure.” He held out a hand to Liger. “Is he friendly?”

      Priss rubbed her nose against the cat’s neck. “Very. He’s also really smart. He’s a big lover boy, aren’t you, Liger?”

      The cat watched Trace, then put a giant paw on his thigh. He let out another snarl, making Trace go still.

      “That’s just his way of checking you out. He won’t bite,” Priss assured him. “I mean, he will, but not unless you were doing something you shouldn’t.”

      “He has his claws?”

      Priss glared. “Of course he does. Declawing is cruel!”

      Trace paid no attention to her affront. He stroked the cat and Liger closed his eyes in bliss. “He has a tail like a raccoon.”

      “I know.”

      “What did you call him?”

      “Liger.” She hugged the cat again. “Because of his lionlike ruff, and his stripes.”

      “He’s the wrong color.”

      True. Being mostly black with gray and white stripes, Liger didn’t resemble a lion or a tiger. “I was going by size and that great roar of his.”

      The cat abandoned her to crawl up on Trace’s lap, then stretched up to sniff his face. Trace grinned, petting Liger and rubbing under his chin. “He really is a nice guy, isn’t he?”

      “He’s wonderful. Maine coons are like big affectionate dogs. They enjoy attention and have, for the most part, very gentle natures.”

      “For the most part?”

      “He detests bugs and can get pretty vicious with them.”

      Trace laughed at that mental image, but then sobered. “I hate to tell you this, but he’s going to be a big problem.”

      Priss froze. “What are you talking about?”

      “Sorry, honey, but he has to go.”

       CHAPTER FIVE

      SNATCHING THE GIANT cat away from him, Priss held him protectively.

      With his chin tucked into the longer hair on his chest, Liger continued to purr.

      Priss looked equal parts alarmed, furious and defensive. “Listen to me,” Trace said …”

      “No, you listen.” It was the darkest, coldest tone he’d heard from her. “If you touch one finger to my cat, I’ll …”

      She didn’t finish the threat, unable to think of anything dire enough.

      Rolling his eyes, Trace rose back to his feet and surveyed her apartment. It was clean but ragtag, spare beyond measure, and in no way secure. “I’m trying to make sure the cat stays safe. Anything or anyone that can be used against you is in danger. That’s why I asked you if you were involved with anyone else in any way.”

      “Oh.”

      He cut his gaze to her. “What did you think? That I was hitting on you?”

      Her right shoulder lifted. “You had just seen me all but naked.”

      God, he didn’t need her to remind him; the image would be forever burned into his brain. “You flaunted your near nakedness, but here’s a news flash for you, Priss. You’re not the first naked woman I’ve seen.”

      “And probably not the best-looking, I know.” Hefting the big cat in her arms, Priss stood and went to a well-worn couch. She collapsed onto it in a sprawl. She looked at Trace through slumberous eyes and an edge of curiosity. “But you looked like you enjoyed the show.”

      What the hell did she want? A confession that she’d deeply affected him? Well, she wouldn’t get it.

      “I have a pulse, so of course I enjoyed it.” The apartment was really no more than two spaces, the living, eating and sleeping area all rolled into one, and a tiny bathroom with stained sink and toilet bowl, and cracked tiles in the shower. There were no barricades, no alternate escape routes other than a window in the bathroom and one behind the couch. It wouldn’t do. Almost absently, he added, “You’re stacked, Priscilla Patterson. And that’s a problem, too.”

      “Too?”

      “The cat?” Fists on his hips, Trace turned to face her, and saw desolation in her big green eyes. As susceptible to real tears as any other guy, he gentled his tone. “Priss. You need to move Liger someplace safe.”

      She shook her head, and hugged the cat tighter. “There isn’t any place. I’m all he has.”

      And he was all she had? Looked like it. Trace frowned as he considered things, then he withdrew the prepaid phone again and dialed Dare.

      His friend answered on the second ring. “What’s up?”

      “I need a favor.”

      With a shrug in his tone, Dare said, “Name it.”

      “The conundrum I told you about? Well, she has a cat.”

      “Is that a euphemism, or are you talking about a pet?”

      Trace grinned. “Pet. A big pet.” He lowered the phone to ask Priss, “How much does that monster weigh?”

      “He’s not a monster, but he’s twenty-three pounds.” She stared at him with grave distrust. “And what exactly are you doing now?”

      Back to the phone, Trace said, “He’s a twenty-three-pound cat, if you can believe that. Thing is, he’s a sweetheart, so fair game. And I just know he’d make a powerful weapon against her.”

      “Yeah.” Dare went thoughtful, but only for a moment. “You want me to keep him out of harm’s way? Hell, my girls would love it. They enjoy all things furry. Since I’m not on assignment right now, I’ll be around to make sure they get along.”

      Relieved that Dare had offered, Trace let out a breath. “If you’re sure, I could drive Priss and her cat down there tomorrow. She needs a damned makeover anyway. Coburn ordered it.”

      “Damn. That’s not sounding good.”

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