Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [108]
Tension suddenly gripped Trace. His arm around her back tightened. The seconds ticked by as the implications of what she’d said sank in. “You don’t know if he’s your father or not, do you?”
Priss shook her head. Years ago, she’d been ashamed for what her mother had suffered, and how it had left her with no knowledge of her father. Later, she’d been wounded that anyone could care so little, be so cruel. And finally, when her mother began fading away from her stroke, she’d gotten angry.
The anger had saved her from despair, leaving her with a single purpose to focus her life.
Until she’d met Trace. She still wanted to kill Murray, but she also wanted to somehow protect the tentative relationship with Trace.
She doubted it was possible to do both.
“My mom never knew.” She tucked her face into his throat. “She didn’t want to know. For most of my life, she was scared to death of any man who tried to get close. When she knew she was dying, it took all her effort to tell me that not all men were monsters. She said she wanted me to be careful, to always be on guard, but she didn’t want me to live with her hang-ups.”
Quietly, Trace asked, “When did she tell you about Murray?”
“When I was fourteen. I was selfish and bitching about wanting to go to a public school, to date and have friends.”
“That doesn’t sound selfish to me at all. It sounds really normal.”
“For a normal kid, maybe it would have been. But that’s not me. Because of what Murray did to my mom, we could never be normal like that.”
Trace turned on his side toward her, and Priss ended up on her back. He smoothed her hair from her face, traced one of her eyebrows with his thumb. “You aren’t normal, Priscilla Patterson. You’re unique.” He kissed her, very soft and sweet. “Extraordinary.” Another kiss, this one lingering. “And exceptionally hot.”
Priss smiled. “The only other person to tell me that is Gary Deaton, and he just wanted in my pants.”
“I’ve already gotten in your pants, so you can believe me when I say it.”
“Maybe.”
A little sad, Trace braced himself over her. “So let me understand this. When you were an impressionable fourteen-year-old child, your mother told you that she’d been held captive by a madman and passed around sexually with his friends?”
It sounded horrible, even to her. “She had to tell me then, to make me understand why I couldn’t sneak off to parties or football games. And she had to know if any man looked at me too long, if anyone ever took my picture. She needed me to understand the risk, to know what could happen if anyone had ever found out about me, that I could be Murray’s daughter I mean.”
Though he didn’t look convinced, Trace kissed the top of her head. “I’ll kill him for you.”
He sounded so sincere, and so accepting of her dysfunctional childhood, that a smile bloomed in Priss’s heart. “Thank you.” She drew him down to her for a longer kiss, one he gladly accepted. “That’s sweet of you, but no.”
His eyes narrowed. “Sweet? I offer to kill a man and you think it’s sweet?”
“You wanted to kill him anyway. And so do I.” The hair on his chest fascinated her, so she concentrated on that. “You’ve never come right out and said so, but I’ve known for a while that you’re a good guy, Trace.”
He gave her a cautious survey. “I’m not sure that accurately describes me.”
“Of course it does. From the very beginning, you were making moves to protect me. When you kept my license, it was so that Murray couldn’t run a check on me, and that was before you had any idea who I was or what I wanted. Everything you’ve done since then has been a balancing act of fulfilling what Murray expects of you, while at the same time trying to keep me from getting too involved.”
“As of this minute, you’re not involved, not in any way.”
If only that were true. For some, it’d be so easy to step back and let Trace do his thing. Especially since he did it so well. He would kill Murray, she knew that. But she couldn’t delegate the responsibility. She’d never be able to live with herself. “Sorry, Trace,