Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [120]
One way or another she would choke Murray’s fat neck with the necklace, or cut it with the key chain, or she’d fry him with the stun gun. But she would do him harm—the same way he’d harmed her mother, and by association, her.
Trace set down the soda and a bowl of crackers in front of her. He stared down at her for a moment, but when she began to eat he strode to the window to look out. Priss noticed that he had one hand in his pocket.
Sending a code to Jackson?
She hoped so. They could probably use all the help they could get.
Being a nervous eater, Priss had just finished off the crackers when Alice came in carrying a bag of clothes. Trace met her halfway across the room, but Priss stepped around him.
“Alice?”
She paused, her demeanor reserved, worried.
Priss reached out to take her hand. “Thank you.”
Expression pained, Alice swallowed and nodded. “You’re welcome.” She made a hasty retreat from the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
It bothered Priss, how downtrodden Alice was. “She’s more skittish than usual.”
“She must have more sense than you.”
Priss glared at Trace, but he didn’t give up his belligerent attitude. Fine. Let him stew.
“Where can I change?”
He lifted a hand to indicate the entirety of the large, open room. “Anywhere you want, but I’ll be watching you.”
It was her turn to scowl. Sure, he’d seen her naked. But this was…different. “That’s ridiculous.”
“You heard what Murray said.” His hazel eyes all but glowed with an eerie, angry light.
When she tried facing off with him, hoping he’d back down, he shook his head. “You’re only making it harder on yourself.”
Priss flattened her mouth. “I don’t like you very much right now.”
“You say that like I should give a damn.”
Ohhh. Jerk! Okay, so she knew he had to play his role, but did he have to look so sincere and sound so convincing doing it?
She upended the bag of clothing on the table. A dress, minuscule panties and torturous heels. Great. Just freaking great. Changing was something she hadn’t counted on.
Holding up the black tank dress to examine it, Priss saw that it was a size too small—meaning it’d be really tight. And it had lace insets all along the sides—meaning much of her skin would be visible. And it was short—so she wasn’t going to be able to move without flashing the panties.
“Nice,” Trace told her, deliberately provoking.
Priss ignored him as she looked at the panties next. She wanted to groan. Flesh colored, barely there and bound to be uncomfortable.
“None of this is appropriate for a meeting with my father.”
“Quit stalling.” He touched her arm. “I want you done before Murray shows up.”
Oh, hell. What if she was in midchange when he walked in? If he were listening to them now, would he show up at the worst time on purpose?
Possibly.
Hastily, her back to Trace, Priss skimmed off her shirt and bra and, as stealthily as she could, pulled the dress on. She glanced at Trace, and saw him smiling at her ingenuity.
“Take the jeans off, too.”
“I am.” She wiggled and squirmed without showing too much by tugging the dress down as she pulled off her jeans and underwear.
He reached around her, the panties hanging off his pinkie. “Here you go, Priscilla.”
Snatching them away from him, Priss started to bend down to step in, but she could feel Trace right behind her. So close. If she bent, she would surely bump into him.
Uncertain of his purpose, she said, “You’re crowding me.”
“Thought you’d be used to that by now.”
Was that for Murray’s benefit, or not? She just didn’t know. “You’re a bully.”
“Just doing a job.”
Definitely Murray’s benefit. Sighing, Priss lifted one foot—and felt his hands settle on her hips with the pretense of steadying her. He was so warm, his hands sure, his comfort undeniable regardless of the games they were forced to play.
Staving off the emotion became more difficult. “Trace…”
The door flew open and Murray strode