Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [1]
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,