Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [22]
“Lose him, and if you can’t, feel free to kill him with my blessing. He deserves no less for being a shitty tail.”
“Got it.” More than aware that Murray hadn’t confirmed or denied putting the tail on him in the first place, Trace disconnected the call. “Hold tight, Priss. If I don’t lose the bastard, I’ll have to kill him.”
“Squeamish about a little bloodshed, are you?”
“Not at all.” And obviously, neither was she.
“So what’s the problem?”
“Don’t really have one.” Right now, there were half a dozen people involved in Murray’s operation that he’d take great pleasure in annihilating. “But we have more important things to do right now.”
With that said, he took a sharp turn and accelerated. When he hit a hundred, Priss said quietly, “Okay, maybe this isn’t—”
“Hold on.”
He took another turn, hit the expressway, and got off on an exit two miles down the way. He pulled into an old, dilapidated movie theater another mile off the exit. Steering the Mercedes behind the ramshackle screen, he put it in Park, took out his gun and waited.
Beside him, Priss sat stock-still, her breath held.
Only the rush of muted traffic on the main road could be heard. Gun held balanced on his knee, Trace turned to her. “Breathe.”
She inhaled sharply, almost choking. “You lost him?”
“I think so, but we’ll wait here a minute to be sure.”
Still wide-eyed, she looked around. “Are you familiar with this area?”
“Nope.” Trace visually outlined her face; the pert nose, the lush mouth, the long dark eye lashes and keen green gaze. “At least, not as familiar as you are with fetish wear.”
Her gaze jerked over to him. Those delicately arched brows pinched down. “What are you talking about?”
“You.” Using the gun, he gestured at her body. “In that boner-inspiring fluff called underwear. You’re more than comfortable with it. Hell, a real innocent wouldn’t even have figured out how to wear it, much less used it to taunt me.”
Her lips curled. “Oh, poor Trace. Did you feel taunted?”
“Yeah.” He stared at her mouth. “I did.” It occurred to him that he hadn’t seen a single freckle on her. Not on her face, not on her body.
Curious, given the color of her hair.
He tapped the gun against his leg, drawing Priss’s attention to it. It’d help if she showed just a modicum of uncertainty. Not that he didn’t appreciate her cool cooperation in this now jumbled case, but still… “So tell me, Priscilla Patterson. What did you do before you decided to bedevil me?”
PRISS PONDERED the idea of lying. Again.
“Don’t bother.”
Damn, he was astute. So what the heck? She put her chin up. “I’m the owner of an adult store.”
That annoying gun-tapping stopped. His eyes narrowed, and then he gave a dramatic, negligent shrug. “Somehow, with you, that makes sense.”
“I’m not sure I like it that you think so.” Was he trying to pigeonhole her? Jerk. “And you know, it’s really conceited of you to think I’m here on account of you.”
Trace wedged his shoulder against the door, getting comfortable. “Is that right?”
“Yeah.” Priss reached over and patted his cheek. “You’re just an unexpected perk.” She rested her hands on her thighs, aware of Trace looking at her chest in the stupid halter. “I’m here for Murray.”
“Because he’s your father?”
“Yeah.” She slanted him a look. “And because I’m going to kill him.”
For long seconds, Trace said nothing. He reholstered the gun, shifted back in his seat and put the car in gear. “You’re not killing anyone, Priss, but I’d like to hear more about this dirty little store of yours.”
“I am so killing him, as soon as I can.” And in the same even, nonchalant tone, she said, “The shop is great, not at all dirty. It’s well run—by me—and it stays busy. It supported me and my mother before she passed away.”
Thinking of her mother hurt, so she shook that off.
“How big is it?”
“Not even as big as Murray’s office. Most of our business is DVDs and books, along with the occasional battery-operated item.” She bobbed her eyebrows at him. “The underwear…well, we have a few crazy things, like crotchless panties and pasties and bondage bras, but mostly just