Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [4]
Her eyes widened in alarm.
Too late, honey. Trace nodded at her, grim, but sort of anticipating it, too. “Every nook and hollow, honey, inside every piece of clothing.”
She sputtered, and Trace noticed the flush blooming in her cheeks.
With her entire small body pulled tight in rebellion, she gasped, “You’re insane!”
Trace propped his shoulders against the wall. “If you want to see Coburn, I have to ensure you aren’t hiding a weapon, or a transmitter, of any kind.”
“No.”
“Fine.” Perfect, in fact. “Then leave. Right now.”
She hesitated. “But…”
Again, Trace took his gaze over her. She tried to hide her body under the prim clothes, but he wasn’t fooled. He’d bet his favorite knife that this particular babe was in no way innocent. Whether or not she was Murray’s spawn, he couldn’t say. There did seem to be something of a resemblance in the color of her hair, though hers was a shade or two lighter than Murray’s. And when she connived, which she’d been doing from jump, she had a certain look about her that reminded him of Coburn.
Trace glanced at the chunky black watch on his wrist. “Make up your mind, but make it up fast. What’s it to be? Do you want to leave, or do you want my hands all over you?”
The new gleam of tears looked authentic, but her chin didn’t lower. “I’m not leaving.”
Trace pushed away from the wall. “Up with you, then.” He caught her elbow, drawing her to her feet. The top of her head barely reached his chin. She had a delicate bone structure, but was clearly filled with underlying steel.
He turned her. “Put your hands flat on the table and spread your legs wide.”
For a span of five seconds, she didn’t move. Her shoulders were rigid, her neck stiff. That high, dark red ponytail hung almost to the middle of her back. Freed, her hair would just kiss the top of her ass.
He smoothed his hand down that long tail—and his palms burned.
As if in slow motion she plopped her heavy, loaded purse onto the tabletop. First her left hand, then her right, landed on the table, fingers opened for balance.
Trace gently kicked her feet back a little, then said, “Open up, honey.”
Her narrow back expanded on a breath of courage. She lifted her right foot and dropped it back down a few inches away.
Trace took great pleasure in saying softly, “Wider.”
When she still barely moved, he stepped up behind her. Holding her waist, he nudged her feet far apart, as far as the skirt would allow.
The muscles in her bare calves strained. The skirt pulled taut around that rounded behind. Her shoulders remained as proud and stiff as ever.
They were in a position of lovers, so it was no wonder that he suddenly noticed her delectable scent. Baby soft, and woman sweet.
His nostrils flared—and he forced himself to step away.
“Stay like that.” Moving to the side of her, Trace upended her purse on the tabletop. Photos, pen, notebook, makeup, brush, comb, mirror, tissues, calculator, candy bar, book… “Jesus, everything but the kitchen sink.”
“Bastard,” she whispered.
He tsked. “Now, is that any way for a schoolgirl to talk?”
“I’m a grown woman.”
“Yeah? How old?”
He could almost hear the sawing of her teeth before she ground out, “Twenty-four.”
Trace opened her wallet and checked her driver’s license. “Twenty-four,” he agreed. “But dressed like a parochial pupil.” With no more than a casual glance he memorized her address. Seemed odd that she’d live in the same state as Murray if they’d never met.
Soon as he could, he’d have the address checked out.
But just in case Murray had the same thought… Trace glanced at her, saw her gaze was averted, and slid the license into his pocket.
He rifled through the rest of her belongings, searched the interior of the purse for any hidden pockets. “Speaking of your clothes…” He glanced at her. “I’m not fooled, so you can save the prim act.”
She whipped her head around to burn him with a look. The tight ponytail emphasized her high cheekbones, the straight bridge of her nose. “You’re suggesting what, exactly?”
Trace examined a photo of her as a younger girl with a woman who looked a lot