Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [76]
Trace shook his head. “No. Priscilla did that earlier.”
Murray lost his relaxed pose. “The hell you say.”
“Just a disagreement.” He wanted to settle the issue of the thugs, not talk about Priss and her tendency—and talent—for violence. “Not a big deal.”
Raising a hand, Murray stalled Trace’s effort to talk about his henchmen. “Did you strike her back?”
Bastard. He couldn’t keep the frown off his face. “No.”
“Why not?”
“She’s your daughter.”
Murray’s eyes narrowed as he studied Trace. “There is that, I suppose.”
“And a hit from me would do her real damage. Maybe even kill her.”
“You’re a man of control.” Murray shook his head. “You can discipline without damaging. And the truth is, an unruly woman can benefit from a slap every now and then. If nothing else, it damages her pride enough to keep her in line.”
Maintaining his relaxed pose was impossible. Trace paced to the front of the desk and redirected Murray’s malice. “Your three buffoons barely touched me, but they’re not going to be much good to you anytime in the near future.”
Irritation put a twitch in Murray’s jaw. “You didn’t kill them?”
“Not without a direct order from you, no.” He waited for Murray to deny sending them, but he didn’t. “Did you want them dead? That’s why you sent them after me?”
Instead of answering that, Murray asked, “How bad are they hurt?”
“Some broken bones, probably a few concussions. I stuck them back in the car and last I saw, they were limping off to the hospital.”
Murray sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. For several seconds, he looked stunned before outrage took over. Slamming his hands down on the desk, he cursed. “You won’t kill them, but you didn’t think to call me before rendering them useless?”
Now that Murray had lost his cool, Trace regained his. Hell, he enjoyed seeing Murray riled. “I’m telling you now. Without knowing for sure if you sent them, or why, I was left to my own discretion. If you want me to bother you with every little detail that comes up, just say so.” He shrugged. “But I was under the impression that you wanted me to handle shit.”
Murray’s face reddened with bluster. “I do, damn it.”
“They were shit,” Trace explained. “They’ve been handled.”
For a full minute Murray fumed in silence while Trace stood there, waiting, almost hoping the bastard would attack so that he could end this damned farce.
Instead, Murray rocked back in his chair and guffawed. “I’ll be damned.”
The mercurial mood swings were not a good thing. They made Murray all the more unpredictable and dangerous because you couldn’t gauge his reaction. “So I should assume this was no more than another of your tests?”
Grinning, again dodging a direct answer, Murray pointed at Trace’s face. “You say Priscilla blackened your eye, huh?”
Trace touched his fingertips to the bruise. He couldn’t tell Murray what had really happened, or how adept Priss had been at almost escaping. “She took offense.”
“Looks like.”
“She threw a damned book at me.” A book, if it hit him the right way, could have done the damage, and it was more believable than the truth.
Grinning hugely, Murray teased, “Came on a little strong, did you?”
“Something like that.”
Murray roared. “God, I love it.” He hit the intercom. “Alice, get Helene in here. I have something to share with her.”
Damn and double damn. The day had been a cluster-fuck from the get go. All he needed now was Hell’s psychotic participation.
A minute later, Helene strode in looking like a woman on a mission. Her eyes were always cold, but now…something was different. She looked glacial with loathing.
Had Helene begun dipping into her own pharmaceutical concoctions? Hazardous. But that would explain a few things.
A tight skirt hugged her long thighs, emphasized by the deadly height of her heels. Beneath her blouse, Trace could easily see her long, stiff nipples.
Excited? About what?
“Come in, sweetheart.” Murray motioned to her. “I have something to share with you.”
Shaking back her long hair and propping a lush hip on the corner of Murray’s desk, Helene eyed Trace.