Читать книгу Trace of Fever - Lori Foster - Страница 7

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.

“He’s out anyway.” The bastard had left two hours ago, and though he’d been favoring Trace as his personal protection, this time he’d taken another man with him.

“Find out who she is and report back to me.”

“I don’t think so.” Everyone in the organization feared Hell, almost as much as they feared Murray. Except for Trace; he felt only contempt—for them both.

And maybe that accounted for Hell’s constant pursuit, and Murray’s apparent regard.

As he started toward the elevator, Hell stepped in his way. In her spiked heels, she stood eye-level to his six-foot height. Her long dark hair hung sleek down her back, her lips and nails painted shiny red. A sheer camisole, stretched tight over her enhanced boobs, was cut low enough to display not only her cleavage but damn near her navel and tucked into a pencil-thin skirt. She looked killer-gorgeous, as always.

Gorgeous, and evil. She stared at his crotch. “How convenient for you, that you’re being called away.”

God, Trace despised her. “Yeah? How’s that?”

As daring as always, she reached out a hand and cupped his balls through his slacks. “I anticipated a private moment with you.”

Far from enjoying her touch, Trace didn’t trust her not to mutilate him. He grabbed her slender wrist and squeezed the delicate bones. Though he knew he caused her pain, her lips parted and her eyelids went heavy.

She licked her lips and searched his gaze. “If you were naked, I would have my nails in you right now.”

Which was a damn good reason not to get naked with her. Trace smiled in triumph. “But not this time, Hell.” He removed her arm by squeezing until she gasped and her fingers opened. He tossed her aside. “I have work to do.”

“Trace?”

On a sigh, he turned back to her. “What?”

“I want you to take me shopping.”

“Not in my job description, doll.”

“It is—if Murray orders it.” She rubbed her reddened wrist over her breasts. “And Murray will order anything I want.”

Having nothing to say to that, Trace turned away from her and stepped into the elevator. When the doors closed, he let out a breath of relief.

Since he’d infiltrated the organization three weeks ago, posing as a bodyguard, Hell had been the toughest part of maintaining his cover. Eventually he’d have to deal with her. As a medicinal chemist, she supplied any and all drug persuasions that Murray might need for his human trafficking venture. Lackeys captured the women and Murray, the bastard, sold them to the highest bidder—after Hell ensured their compliance through risky drugs.

Trace looked forward to the moment when he’d deal with her.

When it came to annihilating the scourge, he didn’t discriminate against women. Helene Schumer had to go; the world would be a better place without her.

PRISCILLA PATTERSON SIMPERED and feigned distress as two hulking brutes tried to bully her toward a secluded conference room of the office building. What they intended to do to her there, she couldn’t say.

They were not gentle, making her show of defenselessness difficult to maintain. Her arm got twisted; someone pulled at her ponytail, making her gasp.

And then suddenly, a quiet but stern voice spoke up. “Let her go.”

Just that easily, she was free. She twisted to find a face to go with that deep voice, and froze.

Wow.

Unlike the Neanderthals who’d taken pleasure in manhandling her so roughly, this man looked smooth and debonair and … sexy.

He strode toward them with a frown that brooked no arguments. Standing easily six feet tall, he was muscular but not overly bulky, clean-cut but not in a too-polished GQ way. Very fair hair, straight and a little too long, contrasted sharply with the most piercing golden-brown eyes she’d ever seen. He wore khakis and an obviously expensive black T-shirt. She detected the bulk of a Kevlar vest beneath the shirt.

A black-leather shoulder holster held his gun. The belt around his waist carried two extra magazines, a stun gun, baton and mace. His black lace-up steel-toed boots could be deadly.

The man was ready for anything.

But maybe not ready for her.

That bright caramel gaze drifted over both of the hulks with contempt. “I’ll handle her from here.”

Grumbling, the men moved away.

He took her arm. “Come with me.”

Priss tried to resist, but he was far more physically persuasive—without really hurting her—than the other men had been. “Where are we going?”

“Farther away for privacy.”

“Oh. Okay.” In her flat shoes, she hustled along beside him, feeling very short and suddenly unsure of herself. “You work here?”

He didn’t reply but drew her around the corner, shielding her from prying eyes. He, on the other hand, stayed in view, and Priscilla assumed it was so he could keep an eye on the others.

Cautious and suspicious—qualities she appreciated.

He gave her a very slow perusal, from her dark reddish-brown hair in its high ponytail, to her crisp blue blouse and her over-the-knee, old-fashioned skirt, to her flat-heeled Mary Janes … and then back up again. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh.” She pretended to be flustered by his direct stare. And truthfully … she was. But only a little. This was too important for her to fudge it.

She hugged her big satchel purse to her chest and said with just the right quaver, “I came to meet Murray Coburn.”

“Why?”

She widened her eyes. “Well, that’s actually private.”

He stood there, waiting, his gaze unflinching, direct.

Ha. He didn’t know her fortitude if he thought a little stare-down would discomfort her. Pasting on what she hoped was a winsome smile, Priscilla blinked her eyes at him. “Oh, I should introduce myself.” She held out a hand. “I’m Priscilla Patterson.”

He looked at her hand, and his left eye twitched.

He didn’t touch her.

“Yes, well …” She tucked her hand back in close to her body. “Will you please tell Mr. Coburn I’m here?”

“No.” And then, striking an exasperated stance, he asked again, “Why do you want to see him?”

When she started to look away, he caught her chin and lifted her face. “I don’t have time for this, so stop the coy act.”

This time her eyes widened for real. He knew she was acting? But how?

Shaking his head, he released her. “Fine. I’ll have the men show you out.”

“No, wait.” She caught his arm—and was stunned at the unyielding strength there. It was like grabbing thick rock. “Okay, I’ll tell you. But please don’t make me leave.”

He crossed his arms, which effectively shook off her touch. “I’m listening.”

“Murray is my father.”

So still that he looked like a stone statue, the man stared at her. Only an infinitesimal narrowing of his eyes showed any reaction at all. “You’re fucking with me.”

Okay, so coarse language didn’t really shock her, not anymore, not at twenty-four when much of her life had been spent on the sordid side of survival. She still gasped. “Sir, really.” Fanning her face as if to alleviate a blush, Priscilla frowned at him. “I assure you that I’m serious.”

A noise at the front of the lobby drew his attention, and after a quick look, he cursed low. Catching her arm, he dragged her farther out of view and bent close. “Listen up, lady. Whatever harebrained plan you have to cozy up with Coburn, forget it.”

With complete honesty, she said, “Oh, but I can’t.”

He snarled, and then he shook her. “Trust me on this—you don’t belong here. You don’t belong in this building, much less anywhere near Coburn. Be smart and take your pert little ass out the door and away from danger.”

Pert little ass? Frowning, she looked behind herself. From what she could see, her ass—pert or otherwise—looked nonexistent thanks to the shape of the skirt.

A deliberate choice.

But because he looked genuinely concerned, which was surely at odds with the duty that would be assigned to him, Priscilla shrugged. “Sorry. I didn’t come this far just to walk away.”

Footsteps sounded behind them. His jaw tightened. “There’s a back exit. Go down the hall, hang a left, go through the—”

So stubborn! “Excuse me.” Priss stepped around him just as a behemoth rounded the corner, followed by the two men who’d bullied her earlier and another, equally disreputable-looking fellow.

She’d seen plenty of pictures, so she knew right away who stood before her.

Murray Coburn.

Dark, slick, massive in build with an enormous neck and back, he looked exactly as she’d expected, right down to the trim goatee and calculating gaze.

“What’s going on here?” Murray sized her up, and though she knew she wouldn’t be to his liking, his gaze turned smarmy. “Who are you?”

Again Priss held out a hand. “Priscilla Patterson. I’m your daughter.”

TRACE SWALLOWED DOWN a curse. He wanted to toss the girl, in her ridiculous clothes with her ridiculous ponytail, over his shoulder to carry her out the front door—away from harm.

He wanted, quite simply, to kill Murray in front of her, then kill the rest of them, too. Little Ms. Patterson might be traumatized for life, but damn it, she’d be alive.

Unfortunately he couldn’t do a damn thing except stand there looking bored and mildly put out.

Murray’s gaze swung to him, blue eyes as cold as the arctic zeroing in. “What the fuck is this, Trace?”

“A nuisance, that’s all. I was just getting rid of her.” Trace clamped a hard hand onto her arm.

With a flick of his hand, Murray stopped him from taking a single step. He dismissed the other men and after they’d walked away, he looked at her again. His brows were down in that fierce way that made most people quake in fear.

It was an affectation wasted on Trace.

Beneath his well-trimmed goatee, Murray’s mouth was flat and hard. “Bring her up to my office.”

And with that, he walked away to the private elevators.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Glaring at the girl, Trace asked, “Happy now?”

She looked almost smug when she said, “Getting there.” She gave a pointed look at his hand on her arm.

Ignoring that silent command, Trace high-stepped her toward an empty conference room on the lobby floor.

“Hey!” She tried to free herself, but couldn’t.

Funny thing, though, Trace noticed that she moved in an expedient, stylized way that, against someone without his level of skill, might have gotten her free. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

She worked up a few tears, letting them glisten on her long dark lashes. “You’re hurting me.”

“Not yet,” Trace told her, unmoved by the false show of emotion. “But the idea of putting you over my knee gets more tempting by the second.”

That left her tight-lipped and silent—with no remnant of tears to be seen.

Trace propelled her into a room and toward a conference table with chairs. “Sit.” When she started to defy him, he filled his lungs and made a move toward her.

She dropped into a seat. “Why are you doing this?” Hands gripping the chair arms, she summoned up lost bravado and lifted her chin. “You heard what Mr. Coburn said. He wants you to take me to his office.”

“Yeah. But I heard what he didn’t say, too.”

She shook her head. “What are you talking about?”

“I have to search you.”

Aghast, she said, “I beg your pardon?”

“Beg all you want.” He was so pissed right now, he might enjoy hearing it. “I’m still going to check you over. Everywhere.”

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.