Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [97]
“Enough.” Though she probably felt justified, Trace knew that the last thing Priss needed was a death on her conscience. “I said that’s enough!”
Almost as if in a struggle, Priss managed to release the trigger. She panted, her arms still stiff, ready to go at Helene again if she moved.
“That’s it.” Trace tried to sound soothing. “Good job.”
“Damn it.” Priss issued the complaint while looking at her hand. “She made me break a nail.”
Jackson huffed out a quick laugh. When Hell twitched and moaned, he turned and dropped down atop her, his knees straddling her hips, her arms pinned down, and his body blocking her view of the rest of the room. “I’ve got this.”
“Better late than never.” Finally, Trace managed to untangle the metal cuffs from the pipe. He half stood, half leaned on the bed. Until he freed his legs, his range of movement and leverage would be limited. “Give me my knife.”
Pulling her gaze away from Helene, Priss turned to him—and went stock-still. “Oh.” She stared at Trace’s naked body and said again, “Oh.”
“The knife.”
Face pinching with outrage, Priss looked at Helene again. “She was going to—”
“I know what she was going to do.”
Anyone could see that Priss considered inflicting more damage on Helene. Trace said firmly, “Don’t do it.”
Jackson glanced over his shoulder, then choked down a snicker. “You see what I’ve been dealing with? It ain’t natural.”
Too furious and too primed to talk, Trace pulled his pants back up but didn’t bother fastening them over his aching erection. If Jackson dared make a single comment about his condition, he’d flatten him.
He said again, “The knife.” His commanding tone finally got through to Priss and she moved with belated alacrity.
“Sorry.” She snatched up the knife and came to him.
Trace held out his hand, but instead of giving it to him, Priss went to work on the restraints, wielding the knife with clumsy inefficiency, sawing needlessly before finally cutting through the resistant nylon. “She made these so tight….”
“Quiet.” Taking the knife from her, Trace surged over to Jackson and released his hands. He gave him the handcuffs and, with the most pressing issues resolved, turned back to Priss. “I want you out of here.”
In that instant, Helene started to come around. Jackson flipped her to her stomach and secured the handcuffs to her wrists. She moaned, and Jackson said, “Sorry, sweetheart,” before giving her a sharp tap to the jaw.
She went out like a light again. He sat back against the wall, his legs over Helene, using her like a footstool, and frowned at Trace. “I can explain.”
Trace gave him one hard, direct look. “Shut up.”
“Right.” Going silent, Jackson concentrated on freeing his ankles.
“Don’t be mad at him,” Priss interjected. “I insisted—”
Bodily turning Priss, Trace headed her toward the connecting room. “Not another word out of you, and don’t you dare move until I come for you.”
“Trace…”
“Now.”
She jumped at his hard, furious tone, but damn it, he couldn’t moderate his temper. When she started to speak again, he gave her his deadliest stare. He’d been through a day of hell, and finding her anywhere near the carnage was enough to send him through the roof. Control? Shot to hell.
With any luck, Helene didn’t know who had stunned her, and Trace wanted to keep it that way. She couldn’t know that Priss had been hiding in the connecting room, or that she’d been with Jackson.
He could only hope.
But either way, he didn’t want Priss still around when Helene came to.
She gave him a look of hurt and left for the adjoining room.
“What do we do with this one?” Jackson asked. He nudged Helene with his feet.
Trace turned his back on Jackson without answering.
He went to Helene’s purse and dumped it. Inside he found two more vials of the serum. Apparently she’d planned on one crazy little party for herself.
Jackson was already on his feet, so Trace tossed the vial to him. “Shoot her up with that shit. Use the needle she dropped, but give her a