Trace of Fever. Lori Foster

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      This time the elevator took them all the way to the basement and into a private parking garage.

      “I parked out—”

      Trace jerked her closer, making it almost look as if she’d tripped, when she hadn’t. As he helped her straighten, he breathed near her ear, “Monitored.”

      “Ah.” She knew better than to start looking around, but the idea of surveillance made her skin crawl.

      Was Murray watching her even now? She fought off a shiver of dread.

      When Trace stopped at a spiffy, shiny-clean, black Mercedes with darkened windows, Priss lifted her brows. “Wow.”

      He opened the passenger door, and she more than willingly got in.

      “Buckle up.” He shut her door, circled the hood and folded his big body in behind the wheel. With both doors closed, he took several deep breaths, then braced his hands on the steering wheel, squeezing and working until his knuckles turned white and the muscles in his forearms bulged.

      Impressive. Knowing no one could see her through the dark windows, Priss lifted her brows. “Is it safe in here?”

      By way of answer, he whipped his head around to pin her in place with white-hot rage. “I should save myself a lot of trouble and just kill you now, before Murray has me do it.”

      Oh, shit. Priss reached for the door handle, but the locks clicked into place, and she knew she wouldn’t be going anywhere, not unless Trace wanted her to.

      Possibilities and probable scenarios winged through her mind. Should she fight right now, or wait until they were out on the street? How should she attack? Face first, or the more susceptible crotch?

      She peeked over at Trace, and knew no matter what she tried, he’d be ready. Well, hell.

       CHAPTER THREE

      AWARE OF PRISCILLA seething beside him, Trace put the car in gear and headed for the exit ramp. “What does your car look like and where did you park?”

      “Umm …”

      He sensed her tensing beside him, probably waiting for sunlight to hit the car before she launched herself at him. Such a foolish, but brave, consideration.

      He shook his head. “I never hit a woman.” He glanced at Priss. “First.”

      Confusion softened her hostile edge. “What?”

      “I don’t suggest you try me, Priscilla. I’m seriously pissed enough right now to give you that paddling you so very much deserve.”

      Understanding that he’d just been letting off steam, her shoulders slumped. She even scoffed. “Paddling? Don’t be an ass.” She dropped her purse onto the floor in front of her seat and put her head back. Almost as an afterthought, she said, “I’d never allow that.”

      She honestly thought she could stop him if he was inclined toward a little discipline? What a joke. But she was correct to relax. He had no intention of abusing her in any way.

      Far as he was concerned, she’d been abused enough for one day.

      “I parked two blocks away, just in case, ya know? It’s a dark blue Honda Civic coupe.”

      “I’ll have someone pick it up.”

      “Just like that, huh?” She stretched, yawned. “You don’t need my keys?”

      “No.”

      When she slipped her feet from her shoes, wiggled her toes and let out a sigh, Trace’s temper shot up another notch. “Feel better now?”

      “Well, yeah.” She turned her head to see him, and even smiled a little. “Knowing that you’re not really thinking about murdering me is a huge relief.”

      “Don’t get too comfortable. You’re not out of the woods yet.”

      She shifted toward him. “Yeah, I get that. So what’s going on here? What’s with the wardrobe and all that nonsense?”

      “You require a whole new look to showcase your dubious charms.”

      “My …” Her jaw went slack as everything finally fell into place. “That son-of-a-bitch! I told him I was his daughter.”

      “You think Murray cares about a kid he’s never known? Get real.” Trace couldn’t believe her naivete. “No way in hell will he allow anyone a claim on his empire. Being related makes you a bigger possible threat, not more endearing.”

      “But … people saw me with him. A whole building full of people!”

      “People who work for him.” And that said it all—or should have.

      “And they do what he says, when he says?”

      “That’s about it.” Those who wouldn’t be an accomplice to his ruse of legit business, or an alibi when the facade cracked, would be as susceptible to harm as Priscilla.

      “So, what’s he going to do, sell me to the highest bidder?” When Trace scowled, not about to confirm or deny that, she asked, “Out of the country, or just someplace isolated? I bet he has contacts in California and Arizona, right?”

      Trace did a double take. What did Ms. Priscilla Patterson know about any of that? Murray Coburn hadn’t gotten his fame by making mistakes or leaking information. “Come again?”

      “Oh, give it up, Trace.” Rather than look afraid, or even worried, by the reality of Murray’s malevolence, she seemed speculative. “We both know how Murray made his fortune, right?”

      Dangerous. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

      She turned so that her shoulders were in the corner of the seat and she half faced him. “You need me to go first? Is this a test of some kind? Fine. No problem.” She leaned toward him. “Human trafficking.”

      Trace tried not to show any reaction.

      “I assumed the sick bastard would stick with immigrants. I mean, I know the employment agencies—profitable as they might be—are just a front for the real moneymaker.” She looked out the window at the passing scenery—and didn’t ask where he took her. “But if Murray discovered good income with homegrown females, I guess he could be expanding his business enterprises.”

      No way in hell would Trace corroborate any of her supposition—and it had to be supposition. No way in hell could she have any hard facts, because they were few and far between, and near impossible to uncover.

      Trace didn’t trust her, not in any way, shape or form. But her theory brought about some interesting questions. “What do you know about human trafficking?”

      In a barely audible mutter, she said, “More than I want to.”

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