Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [67]
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TRACE CONCENTRATED on the traffic, on the surrounding area and on not responding to Priss’s astute guess.
After a minute of silence from him, she retreated back to her own seat. The second she stopped touching him, he felt her withdrawal, both physical and emotional, and he hated it.
Tension built inside him. “Priss…”
With little interest, she said, “Hmm?”
Damn it. Why he felt so drawn to her, so…entwined with her, Trace couldn’t say. But he didn’t want a barrier between them, not now. “I do have a sister.”
“I know.” She sounded even more remote. “I heard you say so.”
Loyalties divided, Trace sought a response that would pacify her. “Alani’s life…her issues…they’re private. Hers to share, not mine.”
At least he had her attention again. Priss watched him, still guarded but also sympathetic.
Finally she sighed. “I can understand that.” She turned her head to look out the window at the passing scenery. “That’s exactly how I feel about my life and my issues.”
Trace was quick to say, “It’s not the same.”
“With neither of us sharing any real details, we’ll never know if it’s the same or not, will we? But I mean it, Trace, I understand why you don’t want to discuss your sister’s personal and private business.”
She sounded genuine enough, but Trace wasn’t satisfied. “You’re here with me, Priss. In the thick of things. I require details from you.” That is, beyond the details he’d already gleaned in his cursory background check on her.
“Yup. In the thick of it.” She laced her fingers together over her stomach and relaxed in the seat. “Now that I’ve eaten, I feel better.”
“You were feeling bad?”
She rolled one shoulder. “Melancholy maybe. Anyway, describe Jackson for me so I’ll know the enemy from the babysitter.”
“I doubt Jackson would like being called a babysitter.” Not that he gave a damn what Jackson liked.
“No?” Priss lifted her brows. “How about deadly enforcer? Bodyguard? What exactly should I call him?”
Her continued detachment wore on Trace. “Odds are you won’t need to refer to him at all. But so that you can recognize him if it does become necessary, he has dark blond hair, green eyes. Around my height, but bulkier.”
“As in more muscular?”
He scowled. “I suppose.”
“Huh.” She lifted a brow. “Hard to imagine, really.”
“What?”
“Anyone being more muscular than you. I mean, you’re pretty ripped.”
Trace shifted. He was flattered, but also uneasy. Priss was in a strange mood and it didn’t bode well. “Like I said, he’s bulkier with it.”
“Mmm.” Tipping her head, Priss studied his shoulders, his chest. She shook her head as if to clear it. “So he’s good-looking?”
What damned difference did it make? Trace frowned at the line of questioning. “Hell, I don’t know. My sister says he looks like a lake bum.”
That got her grinning. “Really? That’s intriguing. Most of the lake bums I’ve seen are tan, fit and athletic.”
Yeah, that sounded like Jackson—if you added in razor-sharp reflexes and uncompromising competence. “You’ll be safe with him.”
“From what I overheard, I wonder if your sister and Jackson have something going on.”
“No.” Trace shook his head, sure that they didn’t. Did they? He ground his teeth, and then moved on to more pertinent information.
For the remainder of the long drive, he instructed Priss on probable escape routes from the old apartment. Being an expert, he remembered every egress and where it led. “Jackson will look it over himself, and I’m guessing that if it becomes necessary, he’ll come in through the window in the bathroom.”
She did a double take. “You think he’d fit?”
“It’s the window least likely to be noticed, and yeah, you’d both fit.” Jackson knew how to squeeze in and out of tight places. And Priss, if it came to that, would learn.
Going over details on security, Trace told her not to open the door to anyone and not to leave the apartment for any reason. It’d be best to keep her windows locked but leave the drapes in the front room parted enough for any of Murray’s henchmen to see her. If they knew she was inside, they might not feel obligated to have her