Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [39]
“I’m fine.” Priss frowned at him. “You know, since we’re just sitting here shooting the bull…”
When she trailed off to yawn again, Trace encouraged her, asking, “What is it?”
For a moment, she fiddled with her seat belt, but then she met his gaze. “I don’t know what to think.”
Hell, she’d put him in such a tailspin, he didn’t know what to think, either. “About what, exactly?”
Priss licked her upper lip, a habit he’d already recognized as a sign of uncertainty. She wanted to ask him about the kiss, about why he’d stopped. He’d bet his life on it.
But instead she asked, “Where are we going?”
“You’ll find out when we get there.”
She let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “So I’m just supposed to go along blindly and see where I end up?”
After drinking that water, she didn’t really have any choice. His stomach knotted with the awful reality. “Trust has to start somewhere, honey, and it’s going to have to start with you trusting me.”
That didn’t sit well with her at all. “Because you don’t trust me, I gather?”
Trace saw her eyes going vague and said softly, “Not even a little.”
She fought the sleepiness sinking in. “Then why did you kiss me?”
Could one small admission hurt at this point? He didn’t know, and he didn’t really care. He looked into her slumberous eyes and said, “I had to taste you.”
Her arms loosened; her hands relaxed on the seat at either side of her hips. She let her head slump back against the seat. “I don’t understand.”
Which part, Trace wondered, the kiss, or this? Watching her fade, he almost hated himself.
It was done, Trace told himself. Necessary but unfortunate. There was no point in second-guessing things, indulging in self-recrimination.
He picked up her wrist, puzzling her. “It’s okay, honey.”
“What is?” She half laughed, then frowned and lifted one limp hand to her head. “What are you talking about?”
While looking at her, wanting her, Trace said, “Don’t fight it.” If she fought it, it’d kill him.
Alarm swept some of the vagueness from her beautiful green eyes—but she couldn’t muster up enough concern to react as she’d probably like to. “It?” Then she looked at the water bottle. “Oh, no.”
“The drug won’t hurt you so don’t get worried about it. You’re just going to sleep, that’s all.”
“I don’t want to sleep!” She struggled to stay awake, her expression filled with deep hurt and awful fear. Damn, damn, damn. He couldn’t take it. “Come here, Priss.” He pulled her closer as he leaned toward her, and he put his mouth to hers. Gently. Softly. A careful eating kiss, thorough and yet reserved.
When he let up, her eyes were closed, but still she whispered, “Why…why did you kiss me again?” In the next instant, she slumped against him, boneless and limp, held back only by the seat belt.
Even though Trace knew she wouldn’t hear him, he put his face in her neck and said in a raw whisper, “Because with you, Priss, once just wasn’t enough.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
HE’D DONE A LOT OF atrocious things in his lifetime. He’d maimed many men, killed more than that, all without this awful, gnawing remorse. The things he did were part of the job, his self-assigned duty to society. He removed the scum, or took them out of commission, without blinking an eye.
Along the way, he’d occasionally had to manipulate an innocent, always without real harm.
But this time, with Priss…an unbearable churning of guilt, regret and anger left him keyed up and furious.
What was it about Priscilla Patterson that turned him inside out like this? More than most, he understood the need for a clear head, for uncompromised dedication to seeing the job through.
Murray and his ilk, his associates and admirers, were a waste of humanity at best, a threat to unprotected people at worst. After what had happened to his sister, no way in hell could Trace let any of them slide. He’d see them all in hell before he quit.
But with Priss in his arms, her damned oversize cat staring at him with unblinking eyes, Trace wanted to rage against the fates. Why had she come into his life