Trace of Fever. Lori Foster
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to burn him with a look. The tight ponytail emphasized her high cheekbones, the straight bridge of her nose. “You’re suggesting what, exactly?”
Trace examined a photo of her as a younger girl with a woman who looked a lot like her. Maybe her mother.
Even when young, she’d still looked pugnacious, as if preparing to take on the world. The photo left him unsettled. “You’re up to something, and I don’t like it.”
“It’s none of your business.”
He continued his examination of her belongings, saying casually, “Who gets killed around here is my business.”
There was a pause, but no real fear. “You think my own father would kill me?”
Trace scrutinized her. She was more subtle, but in her own way, he had no doubt that she could be every bit as lethal as Hell. The edge of danger was there in her clear green eyes, in her too-cool voice. Under the circumstances, she was one amazingly composed cookie.
He’d have to remember that.
As she watched him look her over, Trace stepped around behind her. “Eyes forward.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“As well you shouldn’t.” He put his hands on her throat. Silk. Warm, sleek silk. Slowly, he dragged his fingers down to her shoulders, then down each arm. So slim, and so damn young.
In a real pat-down, he’d be thorough, but fast. Not this time. If he could get her out of here, he was willing to cross the line. Priscilla Patterson might be an enigma with a double agenda, but he still didn’t want to see her slaughtered. And if she played with Coburn, that’s what would happen.
“Easy now.” He put his hands over her breasts—and realized she’d bound herself. He quirked a brow. “Hiding something?”
Strained, she rasped, “I’m modest.”
“Uh-huh.” He went down her ribs to her concave belly, over the lush swell of her hips, the length of her thighs, and back up under her skirt.
She jerked.
Voice low and rough, Trace said, “Be still.” Keeping one hand on the small of her back, he reached up between her legs. Very skimpy panties—and nothing else.
Well, heat. Lots of heat.
He brought his palm to the soft flesh of each inner thigh, cupped over her crotch where he felt her springy curls beneath the silky material of underwear, and—
“You can tell I’m not hiding anything!”
“You’re hiding something, all right.” Reluctantly, Trace brought his hand out but his fingers and palm continued to tingle. For a moment, he clasped her hips and just held her like that, bringing himself under iron control. When she started to straighten, he said, “Not yet.”
Her forehead hit the tabletop and she groaned. Her legs were still straight, leaving her bottom high, in the perfect position for sex. This way, a man would go so deep—
As if knowing his thoughts, she locked her hands over her head and gave a low growl, bringing a reluctant and crooked smile to his mouth.
She didn’t intimidate easily, and he’d tormented himself enough. “Straighten up so I can unbutton your blouse.”
“Why?”
“I need to go beneath the binding.”
She started to shake. Trace had a feeling it was repressed rage, not nervousness. But she did straighten her arms, levering her chest up and away from the table.
As he started on the small buttons, she asked, “What will my father say when I tell him what you did to me?”
“Why don’t you tell him and find out? But know this—it’s what he expected me to do.”
She twisted to look at him over her shoulder. “You’re serious?”
“He’s a high-level businessman with plenty of enemies. Protecting him is my job. No one here knew he had a daughter, so why should we just believe you?” The buttons were all opened now, so Trace turned her to face him.
Wide elastic circled her upper body. It could have been a girdle or some such, definitely not meant for a woman’s chest.
It was so tight, he didn’t see how she could even hide her breasts under there, much less anything else. But then, he’d stopped looking for a real weapon almost from jump.
This little exercise was all about making her rethink her plan.
“You can breathe with that restriction?”
“I breathe just fine.”
He met her gaze. “Lower it.”
Her arms hung loose at her sides, her stance relaxed, and Trace knew what she planned. He saw it in her eyes.
Smiling again, this time in anticipation, he whispered, “Try it.”
She looked startled. “What?”
“You want to attack, honey. I see it.” He looked at her mouth. “If your modesty is worth blowing whatever plans you have, then go for it.”
Her teeth locked. She seemed to be considering it.
“But know,” Trace told her, crowding in a little closer, “you can’t best me. Whatever you think you know, whatever capabilities you think you have, it’s not enough. Not even close.”
Time ticked by slowly while they stared at each other. Her breathing deepened, her eyes narrowed.
“Now or never,” Trace taunted, and he knew that for whatever perverse reason, he wanted her to react. Every nuance, every flicker of her thick lashes, fascinated him. Never had he met a woman like her. She had to be as crooked as Murray to be involved in any way, but still she intrigued him.
Slowly, her gaze still locked with his, she lifted her hands, hooked her fingertips in the top of the elastic binding, and began tugging it down.
Trace continued to watch her face; he saw her lips part on a deeper, cleansing breath. She had to be more comfortable now, but why hide her curves in the first place?
Reaching toward his back, he withdrew his knife and clicked it open.
Priscilla’s gaze finally left his, but only to look at the blade in curiosity. She tipped her head, then brought her attention back to him. “Automatic switchblade, ergonomic handle, three-and-a-quarter-inch blade.”
“You know your knives.”
“I know weapons.” She still didn’t look scared as much as defiant. “What do you plan to do with that?”
“Don’t move.” Trace tried not to stare at her breasts, now reddened with deep groves showing from the squeeze of the damned elastic. Her nipples were dark pink, soft and luscious.
Catching the top of the binding, he stretched it out from her body and slipped the tip of his blade inside. Like carving through butter, the elastic separated as he sliced the knife downward. It fell away from her body.
Looking her over, Trace replaced the knife in a back pocket. His gaze zeroed in on her breasts. “You really tortured those poor beauties.”
She didn’t make a sound.
“Care to tell me why?”
Her chin lifted. “Boobs are distracting.”
“That’s usually the purpose, right?”
Rather than answer, she held up her palms. “Do you mind?”
His abdomen clenched. Trying not to sound affected, Trace gestured with his chin. “Knock yourself out.” Please, go ahead, he thought. Touch yourself.
With a slight moan, her head tipped