Trace of Fever. Lori Foster

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      To the Animal Adoption Foundation, a no-kill animal shelter in Hamilton, Ohio.

      The AAF does remarkable work for animals. Liger, one of the cats that my son adopted from the shelter, is featured in the book. If it wasn’t for the AAF, a truly beautiful, lovable, BIG cat might not be a part of our family now.

      The AAF will always be one of my “pet projects” whenever I do fundraising.

      To learn more, visit www.AAFPETS.com.

      Lori

       CHAPTER ONE

      ARMS CROSSED AND HIS shoulder propped against the wall outside the elaborate, corner high-rise office, Trace Rivers considered his options. Having an inside source would shorten his job. As a pseudobodyguard, he hadn’t been given the opportunity to uncover shit yet, and he was getting antsy. But if he could turn someone who was privy to the info he needed, then he’d get somewhere.

      Murray Coburn was dirty. Trace knew it. Hell, a lot of people knew it. But they couldn’t or wouldn’t touch the bastard without rock-solid evidence. The legal system had failed.

      Trace would find the evidence eventually, though, and then he’d mete out his own form of justice.

      Until then he had to contend with the odd assortment of disreputable punks and bullies working for Murray.

      He also had to contend with Helene Schumer, better known as Hell—a name that suited her well. She never missed an opportunity to grope him, to boss him, to make his job more trying than necessary. But as Murray’s current paramour, Hell had privileges denied to others.

      If Murray uncovered her perfidy, he’d kill her without remorse. That thought didn’t bother Trace at all, but Murray would also lose trust in him, and that couldn’t happen.

      The unsavory idea of using Hell didn’t sit well with Trace, but it would be expedient, especially since the lady acted like a nymphomaniac around him.

      As she approached now, her intent obvious in the slanting of her eyes and the curve of her painted mouth, Trace did his utmost to ignore her. Luckily he was saved from her assault when the timid receptionist, Alice, approached with a message.

      Using the name he’d given for this cover, she said, “Mr. Miller?”

      Trace kept his gaze on Hell, but replied, “What is it?”

      “There’s a woman downstairs asking to see Mr. Coburn. Your presence is requested to see what she wants.”

      In theatrical fanfare, Hell paused with her feet braced apart, her hands on her rounded hips, her chin at a haughty angle. “A woman? Who the hell is she?”

      The receptionist ducked her head. “No idea, ma’am.”

      “Tell them to keep the woman there until I arrive.” Though he could have communicated directly with the staff downstairs, Trace dismissed the young woman to do the chore, to remove her from Hell’s wrath. Hell’s viciousness was one of the things Murray seemed to enjoy most about her, so he never required her to curb her more cutthroat tendency of mauling the messenger.

      “I don’t want another woman seeing Murray.”

      Vicious and territorial. Of course, she had to know that Murray screwed anything in a skirt, with and without consent.

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