Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [8]
Sounding less than charming, Trace said, “Now, now, Hell, retract your claws. Murray wants to see her.”
A venomous snakelike hiss precluded the snarky response. “Did he specify in one piece?”
Priss stiffened. The woman wanted to attack her without provocation?
“No, he didn’t, but until he tells me otherwise, that’s how she’s going to stay.”
Outraged, she fairly screeched, “Damn you, Trace.”
He didn’t budge, and Priss had to admit he made one hell of a blockade.
Was his protectiveness truly motivated just by his hired position? She didn’t think so.
Going on tiptoe to see over his shoulder again, Priss realized he was rock solid, not an ounce of give to his muscles. Huh. She squeezed just a little, fascinated despite herself.
When was the last time any man had caught her interest? Not counting Murray, since her interest in him was all toxic.
The Amazon drew her attention with a slow, contemptible smile.
“One of these days, Trace, definitely sooner than you think, I will settle up with you. Count on it.” And with that she spun on her very high stiletto heels and sashayed away.
“Friend of yours?” Priss asked.
He turned on her so fast, she jumped back a foot.
“You don’t look happy,” Priss noted. What an understatement. “It was just a question. Don’t implode or anything, okay?”
He fumed quietly, and even in his rage, he looked self-possessed. “Under no circumstances will you provoke that woman. Do you understand me?”
Intrigued by the warning, Priss tried to see around him to wherever the woman had gone. He didn’t allow it.
His big, hard hand clasped her face, none too gently. “She will slit your throat and smile while doing it. And no one here will stop her. Do you understand me?”
“Uh…” It wasn’t easy to speak with the way he smooshed her cheeks, but she felt compelled to point out, “You stopped her.”
“This time.” He leaned down, close enough to kiss her, but his eyes said he had far from affectionate gestures on his mind. “I won’t always be around.”
“Duly noted. Now you can stop abusing my face.” He released her and she worked her jaw. “Jerk. I bruise easy.”
His eye did that interesting twitching thing again before he grabbed her elbow and hustled her forward.
The surroundings were decadent. Authentic art on the walls. Twelve-foot ceilings. Polished-marble floors. And tinted windows everywhere.
When she balked, trying to take it all in, Trace all but dragged her. “This way.”
“So dear daddy is rich, huh?”
“You’d be better served to note his power, not his financial status.”
“Got some influence, does he?”
That she’d dropped her Little Ms. Innocent facade didn’t faze him at all. “More than you could realize, or you wouldn’t be here.”
They passed a desk where a cowed woman kept her head down and her shoulders hunched. Pathetic.
To her, Trace spoke gently, as if addressing a child. “He’s expecting us, hon. Tell him we’re here.”
“Yes, sir.” Using an intercom, she announced, “Mr. Coburn, Mr. Miller is here with a young lady.”
“Send her in. Trace, too. I want him in on this.”
Priss started forward, but Trace didn’t, so she got pulled up short. “Well?” She gave his shoulder a shove. “What’s the holdup now?”
He chewed his upper lip, and she could have sworn he looked agonized. After a long hesitation, he yanked her away from the desk and tightened his hold on her arm. “Listen to me, and listen good. Give him no personal information that might make it easier for him to have you tracked. Protect your privacy as much as you can. I’ll stall them as much as I can. When you leave, don’t go anywhere familiar.” His thumb rubbed her arm. “Do you have money on you?”
Agog, Priss stared up at him. “You’re actually trying to protect me?” Had she misunderstood his role in all this?
In a precise, angry tempo, he asked again, “Do. You. Have money? On you?”
“Inside my shoe.”
He straightened, his expression impressed. “Good girl.”
If he didn’t stop referring to her as a child, she just might brain him. And then it dawned on Priss. “That’s why you swiped