Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [42]
Murray continued with smooth intent. “And if I need him shot to impress the other buyers?”
Trace shrugged. “I’ll shoot him.” Then he added, “But I can impress the others without wasting a bullet, if you’d prefer that.”
“Good man.” As always, with the confirmation of imminent violence, Murray returned to his good humor. “I’ll see you at seven, then.” And with that, he disconnected the call.
In the silence that followed, Trace heard Priss’s deep breathing. He didn’t want to look at her, to acknowledge what he’d done to her, but he couldn’t stop himself.
While he’d spoken to Murray, she’d shifted a little and now she slumped toward him with her head in an awkward position.
Ignoring Liger’s eerie stare of accusation, Trace reached past Priss and released her seat belt.
As she tumbled toward him, he eased her head down to rest against his thigh. Her long ponytail bunched in his lap, and Trace smoothed it out. In the darkness of the garage, he couldn’t see the red highlights in her amazing hair, only the deep browns.
Visually examining every inch of her, Trace noted that her smooth, soft skin looked very pale, her long lashes left shadows on her cheeks, and her lips were slightly parted.
So were her knees.
For the longest time, Trace just looked at her. For once, instead of being on guard, her expression appeared serene and at peace.
When sleeping.
When drugged.
He couldn’t keep his hands off her, off the warm flesh of her arms, the silk of her hair. To him, the ponytail looked torturous, pulling at her scalp.
Feeling like a bastard, Trace withdrew his knife, lifted her hair and, using just the tip of the blade, cut through the rubber band.
Priss didn’t stir.
After massaging her scalp to ease any conceived discomfort, he spread out the long locks, trailing them across his lap, feeling the coolness, the weight of her hair.
Jesus, she was dead to the world, so why was he was tormenting himself like this? He wasn’t going to take advantage of her right now, so he’d be smart to buckle her back in and get this cursed trip over with.
The cat jumped up into the seat to watch him more closely. Cautiously, given that soul-deep stare, Trace reached out to rub Liger’s ear, and got a small meow in return.
“I won’t hurt her.” But he knew he already had.
Maybe in acceptance of his statement, maybe out of feline laziness, Liger curled up against Priss’s side and started purring. He overflowed the seat, but didn’t seem to mind.
He only wanted to be next to Priss.
At least the cat trusted him, Trace decided. It was a start.
Taking the time to rearrange both woman and animal, Trace buckled Priss back into her seat and let Liger get comfortable next to her. He started the truck, put it in gear, and drove from the garage.
With Priss so soft, warm and sexy beside him, it was going to be a very long drive.
AT THE FUZZY EDGES OF HER mind, Priss realized that the radio music had suddenly stopped—and she was no longer in motion.
The stillness closed in around her.
Confusion gnawed on her contentment, and she peeked open one eye to see Trace behind the wheel of what looked like the dashboard to an old truck.
Window open, he spoke outside the vehicle, into what looked like an intercom. Priss stayed very still and listened.
“No one followed us. But I might need a minute or two to bring her around.”
Another voice, deep and mellow, came through an intercom, but Priss couldn’t catch what was said.
“Yeah,” Trace replied. “She’s been out pretty damn hard.”
Out? She tried to think, but that hurt her head. The truck moved forward, slowly now, and stopped beneath some shade.
Little by little, as the fog cleared, memories tumbled back in.
Being at the garage. Eating breakfast. Talking to Trace, being kissed by him…
Drinking the water.
Oh, God.
Everything slammed back into her sluggish brain. Trace had drugged her!
How long had she been out? What had he done to her? She attempted to take inventory of her body, but other than remaining lethargy,