Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [14]
“Don’t get too comfortable. You’re not out of the woods yet.”
She shifted toward him. “Yeah, I get that. So what’s going on here? What’s with the wardrobe and all that nonsense?”
“You require a whole new look to showcase your dubious charms.”
“My…” Her jaw went slack as everything finally fell into place. “That son-of-a-bitch! I told him I was his daughter.”
“You think Murray cares about a kid he’s never known? Get real.” Trace couldn’t believe her naivete. “No way in hell will he allow anyone a claim on his empire. Being related makes you a bigger possible threat, not more endearing.”
“But…people saw me with him. A whole building full of people!”
“People who work for him.” And that said it all—or should have.
“And they do what he says, when he says?”
“That’s about it.” Those who wouldn’t be an accomplice to his ruse of legit business, or an alibi when the facade cracked, would be as susceptible to harm as Priscilla.
“So, what’s he going to do, sell me to the highest bidder?” When Trace scowled, not about to confirm or deny that, she asked, “Out of the country, or just someplace isolated? I bet he has contacts in California and Arizona, right?”
Trace did a double take. What did Ms. Priscilla Patterson know about any of that? Murray Coburn hadn’t gotten his fame by making mistakes or leaking information. “Come again?”
“Oh, give it up, Trace.” Rather than look afraid, or even worried, by the reality of Murray’s malevolence, she seemed speculative. “We both know how Murray made his fortune, right?”
Dangerous. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”
She turned so that her shoulders were in the corner of the seat and she half faced him. “You need me to go first? Is this a test of some kind? Fine. No problem.” She leaned toward him. “Human trafficking.”
Trace tried not to show any reaction.
“I assumed the sick bastard would stick with immigrants. I mean, I know the employment agencies—profitable as they might be—are just a front for the real moneymaker.” She looked out the window at the passing scenery—and didn’t ask where he took her. “But if Murray discovered good income with homegrown females, I guess he could be expanding his business enterprises.”
No way in hell would Trace corroborate any of her supposition—and it had to be supposition. No way in hell could she have any hard facts, because they were few and far between, and near impossible to uncover.
Trace didn’t trust her, not in any way, shape or form. But her theory brought about some interesting questions. “What do you know about human trafficking?”
In a barely audible mutter, she said, “More than I want to.”
A chill of alarm ran down Trace’s spine. “What was that?”
She gave an aggrieved huff. “Look, I’m not stupid, okay? Before coming here, I did as much studying on the subject as I could. I know how so many poor immigrants are abused, promised good jobs only to be recruited into prostitution and worse. And I read that white females are in higher demand, because they’re not as commonly traded as immigrants.”
Trace did a little more white-knuckle squeezing. “If that’s what you think, then what the hell are you doing here?”
She shook her head, making that long reddish ponytail swish. “No more questions.”
His teeth came together. “Oh, no, you don’t, Priscilla. Refusal is an option you don’t have. If you want to live through this, which is still doubtful by the way, you will tell me everything.”
She sighed. “It’s a horrid name, isn’t it?”
Lost, he glanced at her. “What? Priscilla?”
“Yes. Mom shortened it to Priss, so that’s what people call me—at least, the people who know me well. But that’s not much better.” She rubbed at tired eyes. “It makes me sound stuck-up, like a straightlaced Goody Two-shoes. I thought finally, for once in my life, my name would be worthwhile.”
“Because you wanted Murray to believe you’re some Little Ms. Innocent?”
“Yeah.” She eyed him. “You don’t think he bought it?”
Trace snorted. “He’s not a fool. I don’t think he’s completely onto you, but he