Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [82]
She was still crouched down, trying to assess whether she was hurt or not, when Jackson landed beside her. He whipped off his T-shirt and stuffed her into it, all the while looking up at the bathroom window.
Priss looked up, too, and saw that he’d had the foresight to close it.
She tugged the shirt down as far as it’d go. It smelled of him, nice, hot, manly. But he wasn’t Trace and she didn’t care how manly he might be. She was so mortified she didn’t know if she’d ever recover.
“This way.” Catching her elbow, he forced her to her feet again and headed toward the back of the building, but he balked when he saw the littered debris on the ground. Beer bottles, rusted cans, sticks and other unidentifiable items would lacerate her bare feet.
He looked down at her. Priss shook her head and started to back step, but he said, “Sorry,” then tossed her over his hard shoulder again.
He jogged to his car, jostling her all the way so that her big boobs repeatedly bounced against his shoulder. One big, hot hand held on to the backs of her thighs, the other just above her behind.
When he dumped her into the front seat of a vehicle parked in the shadows, she was so grateful that she felt like crying. She didn’t though. Instead, she scrambled over to the passenger seat and readjusted the damn T-shirt.
He was behind the wheel in a heartbeat and, without turning on his headlights, rolled the car forward slowly, his gaze going back and forth from the rearview mirror—no doubt watching for the intruder—and the narrow alley in front of him.
“Put on your seat belt.”
Priss couldn’t draw a deep breath. She couldn’t think beyond knowing that this man had just seen her naked in ways she’d never even imagined, in a variety of poses, all because someone had broken into the apartment with the intent of hurting her or…or something.
She put on the belt.
After removing a ludicrous cowboy hat, he peeled off the blackout mask and dropped it on the seat between them.
“Who was it?” Priss felt him glance her way, but she couldn’t bear to look at him yet. Arms wrapped around herself, knees pressed tightly together, she kept her gaze straight ahead to stare out the windshield.
“Helene.”
“But…the door was locked. How did she get in?”
“You kidding? That barracuda has a bag of tricks that’d put Houdini to shame. She wants in, she’s getting in, with or without an invite.”
Overwhelmed at the idea of what Helene had likely planned, Priss covered her face.
Sounding more curious than concerned, Jackson asked, “You gonna cry?”
“No.” She shook her head, resolute. “No, I’m not.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
He couldn’t be that obtuse. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Ah, yeah, gotcha. Modesty issue, huh?” He drove in a deceptively relaxed way. “Look, yours isn’t the first tail I’ve ever seen, okay?”
Fury stole Priss’s breath. She reacted without thinking, slugging him hard in the shoulder.
“Ow!” He grabbed her wrist and tossed her hand back at her. “I was trying to comfort you, woman.”
“Comfort!” He couldn’t be serious. No man could be that dense. “You’re a…a Neanderthal!”
“Am not.”
Flattened by his careless attitude, Priss stared at him in disbelief. He was a gorgeous guy, but still a jerk. Shaggy blond hair, darker and more unkempt than Trace’s, piercing green eyes, a strong jaw and…she peeked at his naked chest… Built.
Her chin lifted. “Where in the world did they even find you?” It had to be under a rock. Or deep in a cave.
He glared at her. “They who?”
“Trace and Dare.”
Giving her a cautious frown, Jackson rubbed at one bloodshot, swollen eye. “That’s top secret.”
That’s top secret, she mouthed, making fun of him, lashing out in her embarrassment.
He went rigid with affront. “Goddamn it, woman, you blinded me, nutted me, and damn near clubbed me to death. Now you have to ridicule me, too?”
He dared to complain to her? “You snuck into my bathroom. You saw me naked!”
“Yeah.” His mouth twitched. He nodded just a little. “Yeah, I did.” As he turned on his headlights and pulled onto the street, he said in an aside,