Trace of Fever. Lori Foster

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СКАЧАТЬ at the box under Twyla’s arm, Priss asked hopefully, “Are those the boots?” If she had to wear those mile-high heels a minute longer, she’d cry. In her day-to-day life, she didn’t bother dressing up, and she didn’t bother trying to impress the opposite sex. She wore her old-faithful jeans with casual tops and, more often than not, sneakers.

      Out of the corner of her eye, she looked at Trace. Given his response to seeing her, she wouldn’t have to work hard to get attention from him. She now knew that, in the future, if she wanted anything, all she had to do was strip down. Like most men, he became putty at the sight of a naked woman.

      Not an ideal situation, but to gain her end goals, yeah, she could deal with that.

      Twyla produced the boots, and they were unlike any Priss had ever seen. Studs decorated the vamp of the black leather boots with a peekaboo toe. At least they did have a thicker heel.

      “Oh, how cute,” Priss gushed, even though she thought they were absurd. “I’ll just go try these on.” She tipped her head and looked at Trace. “Did you want to see these outfits, too?”

      He scrubbed a hand over his face and, without a word, indicated for her to get a move on.

      It was all Priss could do not to gloat. Especially since Twyla hung around, forcing Trace to endorse his ruse. The big faker. Even as she tugged on the skin-tight jeans, Priss wondered if Trace was as deadly as she’d assumed.

      Not that she doubted he could kill, but had he? Anytime recently?

      It took mere seconds to pull on the boots and don a halter. The first one, made like a silk corset, fit her like a glove. Trace approved it with a terse nod.

      The second, made of stretchy lace and resembling a camisole, was the most comfortable. He barely looked at her in that one, but Twyla gave it her stamp of approval.

      The last, red with white polka dots, was Priss’s favorite for the simple reason that it was the most concealing.

      Trace appeared to agree. “She’ll wear that now. Get her more of the same jeans, in different washes, and a few cocktail dresses. I’ll come by tomorrow to pick up everything.”

      Twyla began collecting the items. “This goes on Murray’s tab?”

      “Yeah, thanks.”

      Trace kept his gaze off Priss, annoying her. She wouldn’t let him get away with that for long.

      In fact, as soon as they were alone again, she intended to call him on a few things. And then she’d make him pay for putting her through that little rendition of exhibitionism.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      THE SECOND THEY PULLED away from the curb, Trace beat her to the punch. “Not a word, Priss. I mean it.”

      She opened her mouth, but after giving his frown due attention, she retreated. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

      He gave her a disbelieving look.

      She let out a breath. “Yeah. That question sounded preposterous even to me. For God’s sake, I’ve just been forced into the most revealing outfits for your entertainment, and for Murray’s eventual enjoyment, so all kinds of things are wrong.”

      “It’s fucked three ways to Sunday, I agree.”

      She scowled, and again started to speak, only to have Trace interrupt her.

      Glancing in the rearview mirror, he said, “We’re being followed.”

      She didn’t look. She obviously knew better, which sharpened his curiosity about her.

      Slowly, barely, she leaned toward the window to use the side-view mirror. “Who do you think it is?”

      “No idea, so try not to annoy me for a few minutes.” He dug out his cell phone and dialed Murray. Most people would have to go through Alice, but Trace had a direct line.

      That meant he had the ability to interrupt Murray while working, and while doing … other things. This happened to be one of those times.

      “This better be good,” Murray complained, grunting a little, sounding winded.

      Trace went icy cold with disgust, knowing just what Murray was doing. “Sorry to interrupt.”

      “Helene will take that up with you later, I’m sure.” He chuckled and, in the background, Trace heard Hell’s deep moans.

      Christ. “I’ll get right to the point.” Right now, Murray was likely trying to keep Helene calm enough so she wouldn’t butcher anyone. She had a mean jealous streak, and Priss had pushed all her buttons. A good fuck would help her expend some energy and tension. “I’m being followed.”

      Murray said dumbly, “What’s that?”

      “If you put the tail on me, no problem. I get that you’re cautious and I can accept that. I’ll let him follow along like a good employee. But if you didn’t, I’m going to lose the fuck, or shoot him. Your choice.”

      There was a moment of silence, and then Murray’s loud guffaws nearly split Trace’s ear drums.

      Aware of Priss watching him, Trace turned another corner, going nowhere in particular. “What’s it to be, Murray?”

      “Lose him, and if you can’t, feel free to kill him with my blessing. He deserves no less for being a shitty tail.”

      “Got it.” More than aware that Murray hadn’t confirmed or denied putting the tail on him in the first place, Trace disconnected the call. “Hold tight, Priss. If I don’t lose the bastard, I’ll have to kill him.”

      “Squeamish about a little bloodshed, are you?”

      “Not at all.” And obviously, neither was she.

      “So what’s the problem?”

      “Don’t really have one.” Right now, there were half a dozen people involved in Murray’s operation that he’d take great pleasure in annihilating. “But we have more important things to do right now.”

      With that said, he took a sharp turn and accelerated. When he hit a hundred, Priss said quietly, “Okay, maybe this isn’t—”

      “Hold on.”

      He took another turn, hit the expressway, and got off on an exit two miles down the way. He pulled into an old, dilapidated movie theater another mile off the exit. Steering the Mercedes behind the ramshackle screen, he put it in Park, took out his gun and waited.

      Beside him, Priss sat stock-still, her breath held.

      Only the rush of muted traffic on the main road could be heard. Gun held balanced on his knee, Trace turned to her. “Breathe.”

      She inhaled sharply, almost choking. “You lost him?”

      “I think so, but we’ll wait here a minute to be sure.”

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