Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [43]
The sudden pounding of her heart did more to revive her than anything else could have. She had to concentrate hard to hide her awareness, to keep from jerking upright and lambasting Trace with her fury.
Where were they, and what did he have planned?
She felt Trace draw nearer. She breathed in his scent, and heard him say, “It’s okay, boy. I bet you’re ready for a break, aren’t you? Even though you slept most of the way.”
He spoke to Liger. She felt a furry tail drift past her, and panic settled in.
She would not let Trace or anyone else hurt her cat.
That didn’t really make sense, given that Trace had wanted to protect Liger. But how could she trust him on anything after he’d tricked her into drinking water with drugs in it?
“Good God,” came yet another voice, this one right outside the truck. “Are you sure that’s a domestic cat?”
“A friendly one, yeah.” The truck moved as the driver’s door opened. “Don’t be a sissy, Chris. He’s as gentle as a lamb.”
A man laughed. “Hand him out. I’ll see what Dare’s girls think of him.”
The bench seat shifted beneath her. “Just be careful. I don’t know what he’ll think of the girls and I don’t want him spooked.”
“Damn, you are a big boy, aren’t you?”
Liger gave his sweet little meowing reply, which made the man laugh again. “Don’t worry, Trace. I’ll take good care of him.”
She recognized the name Dare from Trace’s phone call. But Chris? His girls? Just where had Trace taken her, and why? At least she knew they meant no harm to her cat. Even now, she could hear Chris talking to Liger, soothing him, coddling him with soft words. And he’d sounded sincere enough when he told Trace that he’d take good care of Liger.
So her cat was safe—but was she?
As subtly as possible considering that her limbs still felt leaden and her head stuffed with cotton, Priss slid her hand back and opened her seat belt. It made a quiet but distinct “clink” and the belt loosened.
Aware of Trace’s gaze now on her, of him looming closer, she kept her eyes closed, relaxed, her body boneless.
His hand touched her cheek, moved over her jaw, then under her chin. “Priss?” His fingertips felt so warm, and oddly gentle. “Come on, honey. You’ve been out long enough.”
Honey? How dare he?
Remembering all the training she’d put herself through, Priss reacted without warning. Her fist came up hard and fast. She aimed for Trace’s nose, which would have done the most damage. But at the last second he turned and she connected with his left eye instead. Even in the close confines of the truck cab, she got some momentum on the punch.
Trace jerked back with a curse.
Swinging her feet up and pulling her knees to her chest, Priss kicked him in the sternum.
He wheezed as he went sprawling backward through the open driver’s door of the truck.
In a flash she had the passenger door open, but her legs were so weak, she fell out in a rather inelegant sprawl.
She didn’t stay down. No way.
Though her head pounded, she surged to her feet and after one fast glance back at Trace, she bolted forward—and right into something rock-solid.
More staggered now than ever, she reeled back.
Arms of steel went around her, locking tight and inciting pure, red-hot terror. Like a wild woman whose life depended on getting away, Priss fought. She utilized every escape method she’d ever learned, but sadly, she didn’t gain even the slightest edge toward release.
And then Trace was there. “Let her go, Dare.”
Without a word, the immobilizing arms opened and she ended up crushed close to Trace’s chest instead. “It’s all right, honey.” His voice was low, melodic. Apologetic. “Take it easy now. No one’s going to hurt you.”
The frantic pumping of her heart subsided. For reasons that had to allude to insanity, she felt…safe. It was Trace she’d been escaping, Trace who had slipped something into her water. And yet it was there, in his tone, in the way he rocked her side to side.
Remorse.
Caring.
Fighting off nervous tears, Priss shoved back from him. Not out of his arms, because she still needed the support, but back enough