Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [89]
Rain pounded from the sky, leaving the streets steaming from the earlier heat of the day, as Trace escorted Murray into the office. They went past an army of night guards and most of them not only nodded to Murray, they deferred to Trace as they would a drill sargeant.
Idiots, all of them. Most knew what they did, who they protected, but some of them went by the creed of “seeing nothing, hearing nothing, repeating nothing.”
Almost to himself, Murray said, “You’re better than all of them put together.”
He was, but Murray’s mood was strange, too introspective, and he didn’t want to find all the guards dead in the morning. “They have their uses.”
“True enough.” Murray strode into his office and went straight to the bar. “Drink?”
“No, thanks.” He wasn’t about to muddle his senses with alcohol, and besides, he didn’t trust Murray or Hell not to slip something into his drink.
Of course that thought led him to Priss and unrelenting guilt.
Murray sprawled into his chair. “I have a slew of employees on different levels performing many different duties. But for the business I’m in and the security I require, you’re far more valuable to me than the rest.”
Trace eyed him. He didn’t know if Murray wanted to promote him, confide in him or fuck him. “Was there something else you needed from me tonight?”
For the longest time Murray studied him, then he laughed and shook his head. “No. You’re free to go.”
“You’re sure?” If Murray wanted to spill his guts, Trace damn straight wanted to listen.
“Get some sleep,” Murray suggested. “You’ve surely tired yourself after the brutality of the day.”
“No.”
Amused, Murray tilted his head. “No, you won’t sleep, or no, you aren’t tired?”
Trace shrugged. “Both, I guess.” He looked at his watch. “You think Helene is done with Priscilla yet?”
“Doubtful.” Rocking back in his big office chair, Murray cradled the glass of whiskey and propped his feet on the desk. “For tonight, don’t worry about Priscilla.”
“Great.” Thank God Jackson would keep Helene from getting anywhere near Priss. “Then I think I’ll get some dinner, maybe hit up a club.”
“Missing your social time lately?”
Trace thought about how to answer, and settled on saying, “Following up a fight with a relaxing lay suits me.”
“If you can call what you do a fight,” Murray snorted. “You’re so damn fast and effective, there’s no real fight to it.”
“Did you want it otherwise?”
Shaking his head, Murray said, “No, that wasn’t a complaint, just an observation. But I understand the adrenaline rush, so go and get some relief, but stay on call in case something comes up.”
“Always.”
“Oh, and, Trace?”
One hand on the door, Trace glanced back.
“I’ve decided to move up my lunch with Priscilla. I’m anxious to see her now that she’s been made over.”
One blow after another. Cautiously, Trace turned to face him. “All right.” He wanted to ask why the change, but didn’t dare push things.
“I have to admit I’m curious about Helene’s effect on her, too.” Murray watched him. “Think she’ll be hysterical, or accepting?”
Staring him in the eyes, Trace said only, “Hard to say.”
“Women are all so different,” Murray mused in agreement. “And yet, they’re all weak.”
Trace kept quiet.
“We’ll keep the meeting private, but I want you there watching on as security—just in case things get out of hand.”
Meaning if Priss didn’t go along with Murray’s twisted plans? “I can take care of it.”
“No, I’ll make the arrangements with Alice myself.” Murray smiled. “I’ll let you know the details.”
As far as dismissals went, that wasn’t too subtle. Trace nodded and let himself out. Despite what he’d told Murray, he had no interest in clubs or other women.
The sex…yeah, that sounded right. But only with Priss. God, he needed her.
Anxious to make a private call to Jackson to check on Priss’s welfare, Trace headed straight for his apartment. There was enough traffic to make it difficult to spot anyone following him, but he did notice one set of headlights that stayed too close.
When he pulled into the lot next to the apartment, the car went on past.