Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [112]
Alice was sitting at her desk when Trace walked in. Odd how she was always there, night and day, workweek and weekends. If Murray showed up at the offices, Alice was there, too.
She kept her head down, typing away on the computer.
Frowning, Trace approached her. “Alice.”
She glanced up and away, but smiled. “Mr. Coburn is waiting for you.”
“Thanks.” Trace paused beside her desk. “You’re okay?”
Alarm flashed in her big brown eyes before she averted her gaze. Again. “Yes, of course.”
She looked tired. “When’s your day off?”
Mistaking his interest, she stared at her monitor and her hands started to shake. “Mr. Miller…”
“Trace.”
She coughed, nodded. “Trace.” Her mouth opened twice before she said, “Mr. Coburn doesn’t allow any…personal relationships among employees.”
That wasn’t precisely true, but he understood her warning. “I wasn’t hitting on you, Alice.”
Her face went up in flames. “Oh, I know that. I meant… Well, I can’t…”
Something cynical and angry unfurled. As gently as possible, Trace asked, “You can’t what?”
Curling her hands into fists, Alice breathed heavily—then smiled up at him, her eyes wounded but determined. “Forgive me. I don’t know what I’m saying. You’re right. I mistook your interest. I’m sorry.”
Trace straightened. He would recognize those signs of fear and intimidation anywhere. How the hell had he missed it with Alice? Murray hired lots of people straight up, people he kept disconnected from the seedier side of his true profession.
Apparently Alice wasn’t one of them.
“I’m the one who’s sorry, Alice.” He nodded at her and headed for Murray’s office. So many reasons to kill Murray. And soon.
Trace rapped twice on the door and entered.
Murray sat behind his desk facing the window and speaking on the phone. He glanced back as Trace entered, waved him in, and then returned to his call. “No, damn it.” He paused before snarling, “Because the product is arriving early.”
Just inside the door, Trace waited with his head down so that Murray wouldn’t realize how intently he listened. Maybe this would all go quicker than even he had hoped.
“Enough.” Murray jerked his chair around to face his desk. “This isn’t up for debate. Get your money together and be there.” He ended with slamming the phone down on the desktop.
Lifting a brow at the show of temper, Trace asked, “Should I come back?”
“No.” Murray scrubbed his hands over his face in frustration. After a second, he picked the phone back up and, with more care, placed it in the cradle. “Come on in. I need a drink. You want one?”
As usual, Trace refused. “I just finished off a pot of coffee.”
“Late morning?”
“Very.”
“Maybe it was a full moon last night or something.” He sloshed a generous portion of whiskey into a tumbler. “Helene was also running late today.”
Was? “So she’s here now?”
Murray downed the drink and poured another before reseating himself behind the desk. “She called ahead to say she had something important to share with me.” He studied Trace. “You know anything about that?”
Trace took a nonthreatening stance to the side of Murray’s desk. “I have doubts that Helene would share the whole truth, but that’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Helene?”
“In part.”
“Huh.” Murray folded his hands over his cumbersome gut. “You’ve got me on pins and needles.”
“Last night, she overstepped in a big way.”
Murray waved that off. “I gave her permission to play with Priscilla.”
Trace locked his back teeth. “I know, I was here.” And he’d make the son-of-a-bitch pay for that. “But I don’t mean with your daughter.” He maintained eye contact with Murray. “She overstepped with me.”
“You?” He huffed. “How so?”
“Helene was at my hotel when I returned last night after our business.”
A frown pulled down Murray’s thick brows. “But what about Priscilla?”
“I have no idea. I tried to find her last night and then again this morning. No luck.”
He sat forward, his forearms on the desk.