Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [37]
He picked up her purse and rifled through it. Since seeing her remove the room key from a hidden seam the night before, he checked every crease and pocket. When he found nothing untoward, he handed it back to her.
Trying to be cavalier about all that had just happened, as well as his fully armed appearance, Priss folded her arms under her breasts. “Expecting a war this morning?”
“Every morning, afternoon and night, actually.” He nodded toward Liger. “Gather him up and let’s get on our way.”
So now he’d act as if he hadn’t just felt her up? She scooped up the big cat, who sprawled back in her arms like a baby with a little meow of pleasure. “You’re a real dick, Trace, you know that?”
He opened the door, looked out, then hefted the cat’s bag of supplies. Already in alert mode, he said absently, “Yeah, I know.”
And then there was no more conversation as they took Liger and all his paraphernalia to Trace’s car.
IT WORKED IN HIS FAVOR, and was even a little amusing, that Priss gave him the silent treatment. He hadn’t anticipated her being that female about things. So far, nothing with her had been ordinary or expected. But the fewer questions she asked, the fewer lies he had to tell.
When he went through a fast-food drive-through for breakfast sandwiches, he didn’t ask for her preference, and she didn’t offer up any suggestions. Because he had very specific drinks in mind, he didn’t order any juice or coffee to go with the food. Although her nose twitched at the delicious smell, she didn’t say a word when he set the bag of warm biscuit sandwiches on the floor near her feet.
Which was perfect.
Unfortunately, it couldn’t last. Some things she needed to know, so minutes later as Trace pulled into the nearly hidden, private garage, he said, “Enough already, Priss. I need your attention so stop pouting.”
The muscles in her jaw flexed, but she sounded bland enough when she replied. “Go to hell.”
He ignored that. She had to be curious about where they were, and why. At the bottom of a sloping drive that took them underground, Trace reached out the window and pushed a private code into a gate keypad that protected the garage.
A large fence lifted, allowing them in. “I made sure we weren’t followed, and if you ever need to come here, you should do the same.”
Her green eyes looked mysterious and oh, so alert in the dim lighting of the garage. “Why would I come here?”
Trace pretended surprise. “A question? Seriously? Common sense prevails over stubbornness, huh? Terrific.”
Her right hand balled into a small but credible fist. “I repeat, Trace Miller, go to hell.”
Trace couldn’t help chuckling. For some reason, it almost made him proud that she’d recognized the last name as fictitious, even though no one else had thought a thing of it.
He gave her a telling look. “I’m guessing that you might need the garage because you’re definitely up to something—something shady and absurd—and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know you’re in over your head. Sooner or later you’ll realize it, and I only hope it’s in time for you to make a strategic—and safe—retreat. In case I’m not around to save your luscious ass, I wanted you to know about the garage.”
She tipped her head, then said with a straight face devoid of humor, “You think my ass is luscious?”
He fought off another grin and shrugged. “Even for a man with hands my size, it’s big enough for a handful. But it’s not out of proportion with your equally notable rack.”
That must not have been the sweet talk Priss wanted, given her darkening expression.
Both hands fisted. “Pig.”
“You asked.” Trace pulled up next to a ’72 Chevy 4x4. The rough body of the truck was mostly green but with a driver’s side beige truck-bed panel. “This is a protected, private garage. If you’re ever in danger, on the run, and you know your car has been made, you can pull in here and switch out your ride for another.”
That stunned her. More observant now, she sat up higher and looked around. “Hey. That’s my car.” She pointed to the blue Honda.
“Yeah. I had it moved here.” He watched her.