Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [30]
She eyed his gorgeous body, and raised a brow. “Doing a little flaunting of your own this morning, huh?”
“In deference to your delicate sensibilities, I pulled on jeans. Isn’t that enough?”
Enough for what, her peace of mind? Ha. Being around Trace, especially with him like this, half-naked, sent her heart racing like a marathon runner’s. “Maybe it would be,” Priss admitted, “if you didn’t look so good.”
The compliment sent his right eyebrow arching high.
“Oh, come on, Trace. You know what you look like.” She visually devoured him again, more blatantly this time, and noticed a rise behind the fly of his jeans. For her?
Well-well-well. Flattering.
“I’m sure you’ve had more than your fair share of adoration.”
He recovered with a level look of mockery. “I’m thirty years old, brat, so you can assume I’ve seen some adoration—and suffered bouts of total rejection.”
“Rejection? Really?” She found that hard to fathom. “Either you’ve known some stupid women, or there’s a side of you I haven’t yet witnessed.”
“It’s safe to say that you’ve seen only the side I chose to show you.”
“Hmm.” It was difficult to absorb Trace’s provoking words, given that his body hair fascinated her. It scattered over his chest and trailed down his abdomen. Even the hair on his forearms, covering muscles and large bone, somehow seemed supersexy. It was shades darker than the pale hair on his head, but then, his lashes and brows were dark, too. And that interesting beard stubble…
Unable to stop herself, Priss reached out and stroked her fingers along his jaw. “I like this early-morning side of you. You look…I don’t know. Raw and very manly.”
Other than the narrowing of his eyes, Trace held perfectly still.
Catching herself, Priss dropped her hand and went to the table. “I don’t suppose we could order up breakfast?”
For long moments he continued to study her. “I’d rather we get ready and go out. Anything that can be checked, like room service for two, should be avoided.”
“To maintain both our covers?” Not that Priss expected him to admit to a cover. It was enough that he’d put her in a room close to his, near the ground floor, with access to stairs and back exits that disappeared into busy roads.
“To keep you safe.” Trace joined her at the table. “If Murray suspects you of being anything other than what you say you are—”
“I know, I know. I’m fish food.” She made a face. “We need to talk about something else, at least until I’m awake enough to show my true contempt for good old Murray.”
“How about you tell me why you want to kill him?”
She had wondered when he’d come back around to that. “On an empty stomach? Bleh.”
“You’ll tell me later?”
“Sure,” she lied, “if you’ll change the subject to something more palatable for now.”
“All right.” Trace sipped his coffee with more restraint than she’d been able to show. “How’d you sleep?”
“Like the dead, thank you.”
He gave a theatrical wince. “Bad analogy, all things considered.”
Because Murray might well want her dead. She winced, too. “Sorry.” A glance toward the window provided inspiration for conversation, as sunlight seeped in even with the drapes drawn. “It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day.”
“You and I will both keep the windows covered and, whenever we’re out of the rooms, the connecting door has to be locked.”
“Prying eyes?”
“Anything is possible. My guess is that Murray still has me under surveillance, which is why we were followed. It stands to reason that with you now in the mix, the scrutiny will be amplified.”
True, all of it, but given the impact of Trace shirtless, being mellow and kind, even threats to her person didn’t help her to concentrate. “I thought of a more interesting topic than weather and menace.”
He saluted her with his cup. “Go for it.”
In anticipation of his reply, Priss licked her lips. “How many women have you slept with?”
Trace missed a single beat, but only one, before saying, “A very odd question over morning coffee, and none of your business.