Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [77]
“You’re going to love this,” Murray told her. With grand fanfare, he announced, “Priscilla attacked him.”
“Not an attack,” Trace corrected, aware of Hell’s heightened attention. “More a loss of control.”
His meaty paw high on her thigh, Murray leaned closer to Hell as if to share a confidence. “She threw a book at him.”
Like a snake preparing to strike, Hell coiled, zeroing in her anticipation of cruelty. Even her tongue flickered out, serpentlike, to dampen her lips. Breathless with malicious desire, she whispered, “I could discipline her.”
The offer repulsed Trace.
It had the opposite reaction with Murray. He studied her with fresh interest. “I’ll think on it.”
Like a kid given a special gift on Christmas, Helene rejoiced. “You mean it?” Off the desk, she rushed around to Murray and bent to kiss him. “Just give me the word and I’ll handle it. I know just what to do with her—”
“Hush.” He put a finger to her lips. Looking past her to Trace, Murray laughed. “She gets into her work, doesn’t she?”
Trace worked his jaw, words beyond him.
“Oh-ho.” Murray pushed Helene back and stood with a rush of glee. “What’s this, Trace? You don’t want Helene near your little protégé?”
Helene whipped around to glare at Trace. “What does it matter to you? She’s nothing. Less than nothing!”
“She’s my daughter,” Murray reminded Helene. “And that’s why Trace cares. Isn’t that right, Trace?”
He gave a halfhearted shrug.
Body rigid, Helene conceded the possibility of that, but still hissed to Trace, “Nothing to you personally.”
“I’m charged with protecting her.”
Helene leaned closer to him, her dilated eyes glittering, her breath sweet. “It’s none of your damn business.”
Aware of Murray taking it all in, Trace clasped her arm and moved her out of his line of vision. “You misunderstand, Murray. Whatever you want to do with Priscilla is your business. It’s Helene’s twisted little heart that sort of sours my stomach.” And then to Helene, “It’s kind of pathetic, the way you get your jollies, don’t you think?”
She lashed out. “Bastard!”
Trace caught her wrist before her palm connected with his face. In front of Murray, uncaring, he wrested her into a chair none too gently. His hands squeezed her wrists, keeping her still. She’d be bruised later, and he didn’t give a damn.
“Don’t ever,” he warned through his teeth, “try to slap me. You won’t like the consequences.”
Helene gasped in air, equal parts furious and aroused.
Psychotic bitch.
Trace stepped away from her and turned to Murray, ready to explain if necessary, only to find him smiling his Cheshire cat grin.
To Helene, Murray said, “Trace’s right, of course.” He took his suit coat from an ornate hook on the wall. “I’ll reprimand you later for that little display of rebellion.”
Shit. Trace didn’t want to feel guilty about Helene. He glanced at her, but the threat of punishment had only stirred her more. A flush stained her skin and her eyes were heavy, smoky with lust.
“You ready?” Trace asked Murray. He needed some fresh air in a bad way.
“I am.” On his way to the door, Murray paused to stand over Helene. “And you…”
Tremulous with excitement and fear, she flattened her back in the chair. “Yes?”
Murray cupped her face. “I think you should go see Priscilla. Take some of your drugs, the ones that help expose the truth. Ferret out her feelings—on me, on Trace, and on sexual deviance. Don’t hurt her, but otherwise…have fun. I’ll touch base with you when I finish my business for the night.”
His legs suddenly leaden, his heart missing a beat, Trace stood there, immobilized, sick. Murray didn’t trust him—didn’t trust anyone—and so his unending suspicions would never be satisfied. Trace’s instincts screamed for him to kill them both, right now, before they could touch Priss.
What to do?
Helene squealed like an excited schoolgirl. Leaping from her seat, she threw herself against Murray for a long, intimate, tongue-twining kiss.
Hearing his own heartbeat in his ears, Trace slipped his hand into his pocket. If he could use his phone without Murray noticing,