Read the book: «Trace of Fever»

Praise for New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author Lori Foster

“Foster writes smart, sexy, engaging characters.”

—New York Times bestselling author Christine Feehan

“Known for her funny, sexy writing”

—Booklist

“Foster’s latest is pure entertainment and a joy to read.”

—RT Book Reviews on Back in Black

“Foster outwrites most of her peers.”

—Library Journal

“Intense, edgy and hot. Lori Foster delivers everything you’re looking for in a romance.”

—New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz on Hard to Handle

“Lori Foster delivers the goods.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Tension, temptation, hot action, and hotter romance—Lori Foster has it all! Hard to Handle is a knockout!” —New York Times bestselling author Elizabeth Lowell

Dear Readers,

I’m pleased to give you Trace of Fever, book two of my new series of über alpha hunks featuring private mercenaries who are big, capable, a little dangerous and (I hope) oh-so-sexy. If you read the first book, When You Dare, then you already know why I call them my men who “walk the edge of honor.”

My novella in the anthology The Guy Next Door got things started by introducing you to characters related to the heroine of When You Dare. Next out is Savor the Danger.

To see more about the books, visit my website at www.lorifoster.com. And feel free to chat with me on my Facebook fanpage—www.facebook.com/pages/ Lori-Foster/233405457965.

I’m very excited about this new series, and I hope you will be, too!

Trace of Fever

Lori Foster

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the Animal Adoption Foundation, a no-kill animal shelter in Hamilton, Ohio.

The AAF does remarkable work for animals. Liger, one of the cats that my son adopted from the shelter, is featured in the book. If it wasn’t for the AAF, a truly beautiful, lovable, BIG cat might not be a part of our family now.

The AAF will always be one of my “pet projects” whenever I do fundraising.

To learn more, visit www.AAFPETS.com.

Lori

CHAPTER ONE

ARMS CROSSED AND HIS shoulder propped against the wall outside the elaborate, corner high-rise office, Trace Rivers considered his options. Having an inside source would shorten his job. As a pseudobodyguard, he hadn’t been given the opportunity to uncover shit yet, and he was getting antsy. But if he could turn someone who was privy to the info he needed, then he’d get somewhere.

Murray Coburn was dirty. Trace knew it. Hell, a lot of people knew it. But they couldn’t or wouldn’t touch the bastard without rock-solid evidence. The legal system had failed.

Trace would find the evidence eventually, though, and then he’d mete out his own form of justice.

Until then he had to contend with the odd assortment of disreputable punks and bullies working for Murray.

He also had to contend with Helene Schumer, better known as Hell—a name that suited her well. She never missed an opportunity to grope him, to boss him, to make his job more trying than necessary. But as Murray’s current paramour, Hell had privileges denied to others.

If Murray uncovered her perfidy, he’d kill her without remorse. That thought didn’t bother Trace at all, but Murray would also lose trust in him, and that couldn’t happen.

The unsavory idea of using Hell didn’t sit well with Trace, but it would be expedient, especially since the lady acted like a nymphomaniac around him.

As she approached now, her intent obvious in the slanting of her eyes and the curve of her painted mouth, Trace did his utmost to ignore her. Luckily he was saved from her assault when the timid receptionist, Alice, approached with a message.

Using the name he’d given for this cover, she said, “Mr. Miller?”

Trace kept his gaze on Hell, but replied, “What is it?”

“There’s a woman downstairs asking to see Mr. Coburn. Your presence is requested to see what she wants.”

In theatrical fanfare, Hell paused with her feet braced apart, her hands on her rounded hips, her chin at a haughty angle. “A woman? Who the hell is she?”

The receptionist ducked her head. “No idea, ma’am.”

“Tell them to keep the woman there until I arrive.” Though he could have communicated directly with the staff downstairs, Trace dismissed the young woman to do the chore, to remove her from Hell’s wrath. Hell’s viciousness was one of the things Murray seemed to enjoy most about her, so he never required her to curb her more cutthroat tendency of mauling the messenger.

“I don’t want another woman seeing Murray.”

Vicious and territorial. Of course, she had to know that Murray screwed anything in a skirt, with and without consent.

“He’s out anyway.” The bastard had left two hours ago, and though he’d been favoring Trace as his personal protection, this time he’d taken another man with him.

“Find out who she is and report back to me.”

“I don’t think so.” Everyone in the organization feared Hell, almost as much as they feared Murray. Except for Trace; he felt only contempt—for them both.

And maybe that accounted for Hell’s constant pursuit, and Murray’s apparent regard.

As he started toward the elevator, Hell stepped in his way. In her spiked heels, she stood eye-level to his six-foot height. Her long dark hair hung sleek down her back, her lips and nails painted shiny red. A sheer camisole, stretched tight over her enhanced boobs, was cut low enough to display not only her cleavage but damn near her navel and tucked into a pencil-thin skirt. She looked killer-gorgeous, as always.

Gorgeous, and evil. She stared at his crotch. “How convenient for you, that you’re being called away.”

God, Trace despised her. “Yeah? How’s that?”

As daring as always, she reached out a hand and cupped his balls through his slacks. “I anticipated a private moment with you.”

Far from enjoying her touch, Trace didn’t trust her not to mutilate him. He grabbed her slender wrist and squeezed the delicate bones. Though he knew he caused her pain, her lips parted and her eyelids went heavy.

She licked her lips and searched his gaze. “If you were naked, I would have my nails in you right now.”

Which was a damn good reason not to get naked with her. Trace smiled in triumph. “But not this time, Hell.” He removed her arm by squeezing until she gasped and her fingers opened. He tossed her aside. “I have work to do.”

“Trace?”

On a sigh, he turned back to her. “What?”

“I want you to take me shopping.”

“Not in my job description, doll.”

“It is—if Murray orders it.” She rubbed her reddened wrist over her breasts. “And Murray will order anything I want.”

Having nothing to say to that, Trace turned away from her and stepped into the elevator. When the doors closed, he let out a breath of relief.

Since he’d infiltrated the organization three weeks ago, posing as a bodyguard, Hell had been the toughest part of maintaining his cover. Eventually he’d have to deal with her. As a medicinal chemist, she supplied any and all drug persuasions that Murray might need for his human trafficking venture. Lackeys captured the women and Murray, the bastard, sold them to the highest bidder—after Hell ensured their compliance through risky drugs.

Trace looked forward to the moment when he’d deal with her.

When it came to annihilating the scourge, he didn’t discriminate against women. Helene Schumer had to go; the world would be a better place without her.

PRISCILLA PATTERSON SIMPERED and feigned distress as two hulking brutes tried to bully her toward a secluded conference room of the office building. What they intended to do to her there, she couldn’t say.

They were not gentle, making her show of defenselessness difficult to maintain. Her arm got twisted; someone pulled at her ponytail, making her gasp.

And then suddenly, a quiet but stern voice spoke up. “Let her go.”

Just that easily, she was free. She twisted to find a face to go with that deep voice, and froze.

Wow.

Unlike the Neanderthals who’d taken pleasure in manhandling her so roughly, this man looked smooth and debonair and … sexy.

He strode toward them with a frown that brooked no arguments. Standing easily six feet tall, he was muscular but not overly bulky, clean-cut but not in a too-polished GQ way. Very fair hair, straight and a little too long, contrasted sharply with the most piercing golden-brown eyes she’d ever seen. He wore khakis and an obviously expensive black T-shirt. She detected the bulk of a Kevlar vest beneath the shirt.

A black-leather shoulder holster held his gun. The belt around his waist carried two extra magazines, a stun gun, baton and mace. His black lace-up steel-toed boots could be deadly.

The man was ready for anything.

But maybe not ready for her.

That bright caramel gaze drifted over both of the hulks with contempt. “I’ll handle her from here.”

Grumbling, the men moved away.

He took her arm. “Come with me.”

Priss tried to resist, but he was far more physically persuasive—without really hurting her—than the other men had been. “Where are we going?”

“Farther away for privacy.”

“Oh. Okay.” In her flat shoes, she hustled along beside him, feeling very short and suddenly unsure of herself. “You work here?”

He didn’t reply but drew her around the corner, shielding her from prying eyes. He, on the other hand, stayed in view, and Priscilla assumed it was so he could keep an eye on the others.

Cautious and suspicious—qualities she appreciated.

He gave her a very slow perusal, from her dark reddish-brown hair in its high ponytail, to her crisp blue blouse and her over-the-knee, old-fashioned skirt, to her flat-heeled Mary Janes … and then back up again. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh.” She pretended to be flustered by his direct stare. And truthfully … she was. But only a little. This was too important for her to fudge it.

She hugged her big satchel purse to her chest and said with just the right quaver, “I came to meet Murray Coburn.”

“Why?”

She widened her eyes. “Well, that’s actually private.”

He stood there, waiting, his gaze unflinching, direct.

Ha. He didn’t know her fortitude if he thought a little stare-down would discomfort her. Pasting on what she hoped was a winsome smile, Priscilla blinked her eyes at him. “Oh, I should introduce myself.” She held out a hand. “I’m Priscilla Patterson.”

He looked at her hand, and his left eye twitched.

He didn’t touch her.

“Yes, well …” She tucked her hand back in close to her body. “Will you please tell Mr. Coburn I’m here?”

“No.” And then, striking an exasperated stance, he asked again, “Why do you want to see him?”

When she started to look away, he caught her chin and lifted her face. “I don’t have time for this, so stop the coy act.”

This time her eyes widened for real. He knew she was acting? But how?

Shaking his head, he released her. “Fine. I’ll have the men show you out.”

“No, wait.” She caught his arm—and was stunned at the unyielding strength there. It was like grabbing thick rock. “Okay, I’ll tell you. But please don’t make me leave.”

He crossed his arms, which effectively shook off her touch. “I’m listening.”

“Murray is my father.”

So still that he looked like a stone statue, the man stared at her. Only an infinitesimal narrowing of his eyes showed any reaction at all. “You’re fucking with me.”

Okay, so coarse language didn’t really shock her, not anymore, not at twenty-four when much of her life had been spent on the sordid side of survival. She still gasped. “Sir, really.” Fanning her face as if to alleviate a blush, Priscilla frowned at him. “I assure you that I’m serious.”

A noise at the front of the lobby drew his attention, and after a quick look, he cursed low. Catching her arm, he dragged her farther out of view and bent close. “Listen up, lady. Whatever harebrained plan you have to cozy up with Coburn, forget it.”

With complete honesty, she said, “Oh, but I can’t.”

He snarled, and then he shook her. “Trust me on this—you don’t belong here. You don’t belong in this building, much less anywhere near Coburn. Be smart and take your pert little ass out the door and away from danger.”

Pert little ass? Frowning, she looked behind herself. From what she could see, her ass—pert or otherwise—looked nonexistent thanks to the shape of the skirt.

A deliberate choice.

But because he looked genuinely concerned, which was surely at odds with the duty that would be assigned to him, Priscilla shrugged. “Sorry. I didn’t come this far just to walk away.”

Footsteps sounded behind them. His jaw tightened. “There’s a back exit. Go down the hall, hang a left, go through the—”

So stubborn! “Excuse me.” Priss stepped around him just as a behemoth rounded the corner, followed by the two men who’d bullied her earlier and another, equally disreputable-looking fellow.

She’d seen plenty of pictures, so she knew right away who stood before her.

Murray Coburn.

Dark, slick, massive in build with an enormous neck and back, he looked exactly as she’d expected, right down to the trim goatee and calculating gaze.

“What’s going on here?” Murray sized her up, and though she knew she wouldn’t be to his liking, his gaze turned smarmy. “Who are you?”

Again Priss held out a hand. “Priscilla Patterson. I’m your daughter.”

TRACE SWALLOWED DOWN a curse. He wanted to toss the girl, in her ridiculous clothes with her ridiculous ponytail, over his shoulder to carry her out the front door—away from harm.

He wanted, quite simply, to kill Murray in front of her, then kill the rest of them, too. Little Ms. Patterson might be traumatized for life, but damn it, she’d be alive.

Unfortunately he couldn’t do a damn thing except stand there looking bored and mildly put out.

Murray’s gaze swung to him, blue eyes as cold as the arctic zeroing in. “What the fuck is this, Trace?”

“A nuisance, that’s all. I was just getting rid of her.” Trace clamped a hard hand onto her arm.

With a flick of his hand, Murray stopped him from taking a single step. He dismissed the other men and after they’d walked away, he looked at her again. His brows were down in that fierce way that made most people quake in fear.

It was an affectation wasted on Trace.

Beneath his well-trimmed goatee, Murray’s mouth was flat and hard. “Bring her up to my office.”

And with that, he walked away to the private elevators.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Glaring at the girl, Trace asked, “Happy now?”

She looked almost smug when she said, “Getting there.” She gave a pointed look at his hand on her arm.

Ignoring that silent command, Trace high-stepped her toward an empty conference room on the lobby floor.

“Hey!” She tried to free herself, but couldn’t.

Funny thing, though, Trace noticed that she moved in an expedient, stylized way that, against someone without his level of skill, might have gotten her free. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

She worked up a few tears, letting them glisten on her long dark lashes. “You’re hurting me.”

“Not yet,” Trace told her, unmoved by the false show of emotion. “But the idea of putting you over my knee gets more tempting by the second.”

That left her tight-lipped and silent—with no remnant of tears to be seen.

Trace propelled her into a room and toward a conference table with chairs. “Sit.” When she started to defy him, he filled his lungs and made a move toward her.

She dropped into a seat. “Why are you doing this?” Hands gripping the chair arms, she summoned up lost bravado and lifted her chin. “You heard what Mr. Coburn said. He wants you to take me to his office.”

“Yeah. But I heard what he didn’t say, too.”

She shook her head. “What are you talking about?”

“I have to search you.”

Aghast, she said, “I beg your pardon?”

“Beg all you want.” He was so pissed right now, he might enjoy hearing it. “I’m still going to check you over. Everywhere.”

Her eyes widened in alarm.

Too late, honey. Trace nodded at her, grim, but sort of anticipating it, too. “Every nook and hollow, honey, inside every piece of clothing.”

She sputtered, and Trace noticed the flush blooming in her cheeks.

With her entire small body pulled tight in rebellion, she gasped, “You’re insane!”

Trace propped his shoulders against the wall. “If you want to see Coburn, I have to ensure you aren’t hiding a weapon, or a transmitter, of any kind.”

“No.”

“Fine.” Perfect, in fact. “Then leave. Right now.”

She hesitated. “But …”

Again, Trace took his gaze over her. She tried to hide her body under the prim clothes, but he wasn’t fooled. He’d bet his favorite knife that this particular babe was in no way innocent. Whether or not she was Murray’s spawn, he couldn’t say. There did seem to be something of a resemblance in the color of her hair, though hers was a shade or two lighter than Murray’s. And when she connived, which she’d been doing from jump, she had a certain look about her that reminded him of Coburn.

Trace glanced at the chunky black watch on his wrist. “Make up your mind, but make it up fast. What’s it to be? Do you want to leave, or do you want my hands all over you?”

The new gleam of tears looked authentic, but her chin didn’t lower. “I’m not leaving.”

Trace pushed away from the wall. “Up with you, then.” He caught her elbow, drawing her to her feet. The top of her head barely reached his chin. She had a delicate bone structure, but was clearly filled with underlying steel.

He turned her. “Put your hands flat on the table and spread your legs wide.”

For a span of five seconds, she didn’t move. Her shoulders were rigid, her neck stiff. That high, dark red ponytail hung almost to the middle of her back. Freed, her hair would just kiss the top of her ass.

He smoothed his hand down that long tail—and his palms burned.

As if in slow motion she plopped her heavy, loaded purse onto the tabletop. First her left hand, then her right, landed on the table, fingers opened for balance.

Trace gently kicked her feet back a little, then said, “Open up, honey.”

Her narrow back expanded on a breath of courage. She lifted her right foot and dropped it back down a few inches away.

Trace took great pleasure in saying softly, “Wider.”

When she still barely moved, he stepped up behind her. Holding her waist, he nudged her feet far apart, as far as the skirt would allow.

The muscles in her bare calves strained. The skirt pulled taut around that rounded behind. Her shoulders remained as proud and stiff as ever.

They were in a position of lovers, so it was no wonder that he suddenly noticed her delectable scent. Baby soft, and woman sweet.

His nostrils flared—and he forced himself to step away.

“Stay like that.” Moving to the side of her, Trace upended her purse on the tabletop. Photos, pen, notebook, makeup, brush, comb, mirror, tissues, calculator, candy bar, book … “Jesus, everything but the kitchen sink.”

“Bastard,” she whispered.

He tsked. “Now, is that any way for a schoolgirl to talk?”

“I’m a grown woman.”

“Yeah? How old?”

He could almost hear the sawing of her teeth before she ground out, “Twenty-four.”

Trace opened her wallet and checked her driver’s license. “Twenty-four,” he agreed. “But dressed like a parochial pupil.” With no more than a casual glance he memorized her address. Seemed odd that she’d live in the same state as Murray if they’d never met.

Soon as he could, he’d have the address checked out.

But just in case Murray had the same thought … Trace glanced at her, saw her gaze was averted, and slid the license into his pocket.

He rifled through the rest of her belongings, searched the interior of the purse for any hidden pockets. “Speaking of your clothes …” He glanced at her. “I’m not fooled, so you can save the prim act.”

She whipped her head around 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 back and she put her hands to her breasts in a slow, deep massage. Her eyes closed and she heaved another deep breath.

Definitely affected, Trace noted that her hands were small, and her breasts … were not. It was sinfully enticing, watching her soothe the irritated flesh while making those soft, cooing sounds of pure pleasure.

Such a contrast it made, her feminine, unadorned hands with the short, clean nails—rubbing over those pale, voluptuous breasts, working them as if to alleviate an ache.

Trace clamped his hands over hers, and her eyes shot open.

Through his teeth, he said, “That’s enough.”

The tip of her tongue came out to moisten her lips. “Getting to you?”

“Trust me on this, you don’t want to find out.” His hands were twice the size of hers, so his thumbs and each fingertip sank into pliable, soft flesh. Acutely aware of that, of her, he said, “Will you leave now?”

Her small nostrils flared on a quick inhalation. “Not on your life.”

Furious, Trace pushed back from her but kept his tone calm and detached. “Button up your blouse and tuck it back in.”

She did so in haste, proving she hadn’t been as comfortable with her partial nudity and provocative display as she’d wanted him to believe. “It’s not going to fit right now.”

Stepping to the side, Trace jammed all her belongings back into her purse, glad that he’d kept the license. When shit went south, as it was bound to do, he wanted a way to identify her. Given all his computer expertise and resources in the government and military, tracking her would be a piece of cake.

“Done?”

She smoothed her hair and nodded. “Now may I see my father?”

It pissed him off enough that Trace didn’t reply. He just handed her purse to her, took her arm and started her out the door.

Gut instincts told him that things had just gotten horribly complicated. And he could put the blame squarely on Ms. Priscilla Patterson’s too-proud shoulders.

CHAPTER TWO

PRISS STRODE INTO THE private elevator as if she had every right, as if her heart weren’t bumping hard against her ribs, as if her nerves weren’t sorely jumbled.

Keeping her cool had taken real effort, but good God, of all the scenarios she’d planned for, expected and discounted, being intimately groped by a man like him, a man so unlike the other men in the organization, had never factored in.

In the elevator, he held silent, but she saw him twice look at her blouse. She could feel his gaze, damn it, deep inside herself. And she knew what he was looking at.

Without the binding, her boobs were far too noticeable. The damned buttons gaped and the material strained.

“Enjoying yourself?” she asked with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

If anything, her jibe only made him intensify his study. He stood there, negligence personified, his hands clasped behind his back, his stance casual and relaxed. “I can see the outline of your nipples.”

She nearly strangled on her fury. “Go to hell!”

“What are you? C cup? Maybe even a D?”

Oh, God, she did not want to stand here alone with him, closed up in such a small space with his heat and scent invading her lungs. “None of your damn business.”

He lifted his hand in front of him, not to touch her, but to imagine it covering her right breast. His face screwed up while he pretended to heft her. “I’d say a full C.”

A fine trembling started in her neck and went down her spine. She needed to stay composed to face off with Murray Coburn, but for whatever reason, this man wanted to demolish her control. “I say go kill yourself.”

He cracked a smile.

And what that smile did for him…. She couldn’t deny that he was devastatingly handsome. Probably a cutthroat villain, but still gorgeous. That disheveled fair hair and those intense, oddly colored eyes … she shivered.

He lifted a brow. “Cold?”

“No.” She had to distract him. “So I didn’t catch your name.”

“No one gave you my name.”

“It’s a secret, then?” She tried to hunch her shoulders to make her chest less noticeable. “How strange.”

“That doesn’t help,” he said of her posture, “and if you’re really interested?” He held out a hand. “Trace Miller.”

She disdained touching him again. “Is that your real name or an alias?”

With a grin, he retracted his proffered hand. “What do you think?”

“I think you took my driver’s license.”

He went still for a heartbeat, giving her a small measure of satisfaction. Lifting her hands in a “woo-woo” way, she intoned, “I know all, see all.” Then she curled her lip. “And besides, you suck at stealth.”

The elevator stopped and the doors opened with a silent whoosh. Trace took her elbow to keep her from stepping out. Bending to her ear, he said on a mere breath of sound, “Actually, I excel at stealth, which tells me that you have to be trained to think otherwise. So now I’m wondering, what is a trained and deceptive woman doing here, claiming to be the daughter of one of the most powerful and fearsome businessmen in the area?”

Shoot. She shouldn’t have baited him. He was good, and of course he’d know it, the egomaniac. When she tried to pull free, he easily restrained her.

And then another voice intruded.

“Well, well. What the fuck is this?”

Priss looked up at the female, and then had to look up even more. Good God, an Amazon. A really spiteful-looking Amazon all decked out in killer duds as if on the make.

Putting on her sweet and innocent face, Priss said, “Hello. I’m here to see Murray Coburn.”

And suddenly Trace was in front of her. She realized why when the Amazon tried to crowd closer, no doubt to intimidate her physically. Wow. Priss braced herself behind him, trying to see what happened. His big shoulders shifted, flexed under her hands, and then he went still again—all without making a sound.

The Amazon had been forced back several feet, heaving and furious.

Oh, he was good, all right. Really good. She hated to be impressed, but she just couldn’t help it.

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 my driver’s license?” A short laugh—caused by nerves and something else, something sort of like gratitude—escaped her. “You took it so that they couldn’t?”

“Let’s go.” He started her on her way again. “It’s never a good idea to keep Murray waiting.”

At the enormous double doors, Trace turned the knob, took a quick survey inside and gestured her in.

When she entered, Priss saw why he’d checked before letting her past him.

The Amazon waited.

A little more subdued now, she sat on the corner of Murray Coburn’s massive desk. Sunlight poured through the wall of windows behind her, bathing her in a glow, putting blue highlights in her inky-black hair.

Her gaze, narrowed and mean, tracked Priss’s every movement.

Despite herself, Priss stepped a little closer to her self-appointed protector.

“Priscilla Patterson,” Trace said, as if formal introductions were just the thing for the situation. He gestured toward her father. “Murray Coburn. And the lovely lady with him is Helene Schumer.”

Lovely lady? Priss bit back a gag.

Behind his desk, Murray surveyed her. “You made it this far, girl, so don’t start cowering now.”

Had she been cowering? Well, hell. That was the impression she wanted to give, but this time, it hadn’t been feigned.

She felt like she’d entered a viper’s nest.

“Where do you want her?” Trace asked, taking personal responsibility for seating her.

Murray’s gaze crawled all over her, lingering on her breasts. She wanted to clobber Trace for that.

“The chair there will do,” Murray said, indicating a padded seat in front of his desk, far too close to the Amazon’s pointy-toed shoes.

Priss eyed the woman. What was it Trace had called her? Hell—short for Helene. Yeah, that suited her.

Sinking back into her veneer of shy reserve, Priss gave a tremulous smile. “Thank you so much for agreeing to see me. I know this is a shock, that I’m a shock. And I wouldn’t blame you if you’d refused me.”

Air unchanging, Murray said, “Sit.”

That one blunt word, said as a succinct command, left her nettled. Priss wiped all hostility from her manner and moved forward. Gingerly, she perched at the edge of the chair, ready to bolt if the Amazon took aim at her head.

Trace stood behind her. To Murray, he probably looked positioned to restrain her if necessary. Priss hadn’t known him long, but she was a good judge of character, and despite whatever role Trace Miller played in her father’s evil enterprise, she knew he wouldn’t hurt her.

To get the ball rolling, Priss opened her mouth—and Murray forestalled her.

“I’ve never fucked a red-haired woman.”

“Oh.” His bluntness unsettled her. So he’d make no pretense of being a smooth businessman, of being anything other than a crude bully? He had enough money and power that he didn’t have to bother hiding his true nature in the sanctity of his office?

Or did he already know she’d never have the chance to share what she learned?

If only she could blush on cue, Priss thought, but that little trick eluded her. Instead, she touched her long ponytail. “My hair color is that of my grandmother. My mother had darker hair.” She nodded toward the woman perched on his desk. “Beautiful, much like hers.”

Hell leaned toward her, her body vibrating with menace.

With a casual lift of a hand, Murray warned the Amazon to stay back. She retreated, but she wasn’t happy about it. Slowly, her father came out of his seat.

Priss eyed him warily. Would he try to kill her outright, as Trace suspected?

When Murray propped a hip against the front of his desk, Priss nearly melted with relief. Until his big feet bumped against hers.

No way in hell was he unaware of the contact. Priss fought the need to shrivel away from his foul touch. Her gut told her that the understated move was in no way fatherly.

A test? Or a warning?

Whatever Murray’s real intent, she didn’t know. She just knew it made her stomach pitch. Given that she trusted her instincts, she also knew to be on guard.

Murray nodded toward her chest, his gaze heated, his mouth a little too slack. “Braless?”

Now her face flamed. “I—”

Trace shifted. “She had herself bound with some sort of tight sports bra. But since that could have concealed a weapon, I cut it off her.”

He hadn’t been kidding about telling Murray! Priss waited to see how he’d react. It wasn’t what she’d expected.

“I see.” Murray’s gaze lifted to hers. “Your mother was busty?”

Good God, the cretin hadn’t yet asked her mother’s name, but he wanted to know her bra size? He was more disgusting than she’d ever imagined.

Inside, Priss churned with fury, but outside, she stammered like a virgin. “She was, yes.” Belatedly, parts of her rehearsed spiel shot to the forefront of her mind. “After you left her, she never wanted another man. So she did her best to … conceal her figure.”

“As you did with whatever undergarment Trace removed from your person?”

“Yes.” She tugged at the material of her blouse, trying to get the gaping front to close. “I’m not at all comfortable like this.”

“What you have is an asset. You should be proud.”

Oh, this was soooo not a father/daughter conversation. “Sir, I want you to know—”

“Give me your mother’s name.”

Well, ‘bout damn time! A deep breath didn’t ease the tension in her chest. “Patricia Patterson.” Priss waited, but there was no recognition, and predictably, no real interest. She forged on. “I’m twenty-four, so it would have been close to twenty-five years ago that you knew her.”

“I’d have been thirty-two.” He rubbed at his goatee in fond remembrance of the past, then caught himself. “She’s dead?”

Priss ducked her head, as much from grief as to hide the incandescent rage she felt when she thought of the way her mother had suffered before finding the grace of death. “Yes. Three months ago.”

“How?” Murray asked.

“She had a stroke. It didn’t take her right away….”

As Priss replied, Murray turned to Hell and requested a drink. He even smiled at Hell’s disgruntlement and gave her an intimate kiss that left his mouth shiny with the red gloss of her lips.

His disinterest in her struggle couldn’t have been more plain.

As Hell slipped off the desk and went to the other side of the room to pour the drink, Murray pulled out a hanky and wiped his mouth.

All while Priss told the emotionally draining, all too horrific story of her mother’s ordeal.

When she’d contrived this plan, she’d expected an unfeeling monster. She’d been prepared for a sleazy villain. But this … this total lack of propriety … the man was a psychopath. He couldn’t possibly possess a single ounce of real emotion.

Somewhere along the way to building his empire of corruption, he’d become so comfortable with his power and influence that he didn’t bother hiding his innately vicious nature anymore. He had a network of conspirators who would lie for him, cover for him, and enable him.

Involuntarily, her hands curled into fists. While Hell handed Murray his drink, Trace gave a barely perceptible nudge to her shoulder. He didn’t look at her, and his stance remained alert, on duty as it were, but she caught his warning all the same.

It could be deadly for her to show her hand this early in the game.

With ice cubes clinking, Murray sipped his drink, and then asked, “So she suffered?”

Jaw tight, Priss nodded. “Immeasurably, yes.”

He took another drink. “I don’t remember her.”

Of course he didn’t. Theirs hadn’t been a true relationship by any stretch. He’d used her mother for financial gain, and only by the turn of fate had her mother escaped with her life intact.

Deliberately, Priss relaxed her muscles. “I understand. It was a long time ago.”

“I won’t give you a dime, you know.” He swirled the drink, clinking the ice cubes again while smiling at her. “If you’re here for money, you’re wasting your time.”

As if she’d take anything from him—other than his black heart. “Please, you misunderstand. I don’t want or expect anything from you. It’s just that, with my mother gone, I’m alone now.”

Murray’s eyes glinted, and they went over her again. “No other relatives? No husband or at least a boyfriend?”

“No, sir. That’s why I wanted to meet you. And …” She tried for shyness. “That is, if you were interested, I thought we could get to know each other.” She rushed to add, “No obligation at all, I swear. It’s just … you’re the only family I have left now.”

That request pushed Hell over the edge. “Don’t be pathetic.” Moving to stand in front of Priss, she put her hands on her hips and thrust her breasts forward. “Why should Murray believe you’re family? How could he possibly be related to a homely little bitch like you?”

Trace snorted, and Murray laughed.

“What?” After an evil glare at Trace, Hell whipped around to face Murray. Her arms went stiff at her sides, her hands knotted. “You see a family resemblance?”

“Not at all. But despite the absurd clothing, she’s far from homely.” He gave Trace a man-to-man look. “What do you say, Trace?”

“Sexy.”

Grinning, Murray lifted his drink as if in toast. “There. You see, Hell?”

She snatched up a paperweight from Murray’s desk. “She won’t be so sexy when I finish with her.”

Jesus, Priss thought, stunned by the violent intention. Was now the moment when she should run? But no, once again, Trace stepped in front of her. He even managed to catch the projectile when Hell let out a screech and threw it.

Not at all affronted by her outburst, Murray laughed aloud, then jerked Hell around to face him. “You are such a jealous bitch, Helene, and usually it amuses me.” His laughter died and his gaze hardened. “But not now.”

Taking that warning to heart, Hell retreated.

In a milder tone now, Murray said, “This is business.” He tweaked Hell’s chin. “And you should know better than to ever interfere with business.”

For whatever reason, that appeased Hell. She even gave a lazy smile. “I see.”

“Business?” Priss asked. Could it really be that easy to get in his inner circle?

Holding out a hand toward her, Murray snapped his fingers, but not understanding, Priss waffled.

Trace took her purse from her and handed it to the big man. He dumped the contents onto his thick mahogany desk, picked up her wallet and searched through it.

Frowning, he asked, “No ID?”

Trace had been right about the driver’s license. His boldness blew her away. “I, uh, only recently moved here. From North Carolina, I mean. That’s where my mother and I lived.”

“If you didn’t drive, then how’d you get here?”

“Bus?”

“You’re asking me?”

Priss realized how she’d said that, and rephrased her answer. “I didn’t know if you meant here, as in your office, or here, Ohio. Either way, I took the bus.”

Murray’s eyes narrowed. “Where are you staying?”

Her brain scrambled, but with Trace’s warning in mind she came up with a lie. “I’m in a hotel.” She named the location, which was a good five miles from where she’d actually rented an apartment.

Hell picked up a photo. “Your mother?”

“Yes.”

She smirked. “I see why Murray left her.”

Oh, soon, Priss thought. Very soon she would make Hell pay for that insult. “My mother never blamed him. She said she knew it was a brief affair and hadn’t expected anything more.” Transferring her attention back to Murray—in time to see him studying her calves—Priss said, “That’s why she never contacted you about me. She knew you hadn’t been involved enough to want responsibility for a child.”

He laughed. “Is that what she told you?”

“Yes. That you were a powerful, accomplished man, and that she couldn’t burden you, knowing your preferences.”

“She was protective of you.”

“Yes.”

“And she was right.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

Priss saw that they were twice the size of Trace’s arms, to match Murray’s thick neck and colossal back. But put to the test, Priss would place her bet on Trace every time. He had a quiet but lethal edge to him that instilled confidence in his ability. He might not be savage like Murray, but he would be effective.

Probably why Murray had hired him.

Behind his goatee, Murray’s lips curled in a smirk. “I never wanted a child, but you’re here now, aren’t you?”

Priss took that as a rhetorical question and kept her mouth shut.

Taking her arm, Murray pulled her, not gently but without overt hostility, from the chair. Not giving her much choice, he turned her in a circle, inspecting her from every angle. “I’ve made up my mind.”

“About?” she asked hopefully.

“We’ll get acquainted over lunch.”

Still recovering from that sudden spin, Priss said, “Oh! Yes. Lunch would be great.” I could kill you over lunch. There’d probably be plenty of time.

“But not just yet.”

Confused, Priss said, “What?”

Murray surveyed her with a critical eye—and disdain of her person. “You’re not exactly a fashion plate, now, are you? If I’m to be seen with you in public, we need to do some … adjustments.”

“Adjustments?”

“Surely you realize that more flattering clothes are required, along with a makeover of sorts.” Before she could protest, Murray said, “My treat of course.” And then with a smarmy smile, he continued, “It’s the least I can do.”

Sounding bored, Trace asked, “Want me to take care of it?”

Murray nodded. “Yes, that will work. Take her shopping for a new wardrobe, and then make an appointment at the salon. Total do-over, Trace. Hair, makeup, waxing …” He gave a salacious smile. “Whatever she needs.”

Priss tried not to look as appalled as she felt.

Trace continued to look bored. “No problem.”

By way of dismissal, Murray said, “On your way out, stop by Alice’s desk and set the lunch appointment on my calendar.”

“Do you have a specific date in mind?”

Still holding Priss’s arm and giving her that very non-paternal appraisal, Murray shrugged. “Whenever I’m free after she’s had the work done.”

“Got it.”

Priss gaped at the autocratic management of her life. No one had even bothered to consult her. “Shopping?” She tried to sound appreciative. “That’s so … generous of you, but really, I don’t need—”

Hell loomed near again. “Do you realize what an important man Murray is? Do you realize his stature in society? He can’t be seen with you when you look so—” she searched for a word, and settled on the not-so-insulting “—common.”

“Oh, but …” But Priss really wanted to deck Helene. Just one good palm shot to the nose, hard enough to leave her a bloody mess, but not hard enough to drive her cartilage into her brain. Priss forced a nervous smile. “It’s just that I didn’t want to impose.”

Hell made a rude sound. She scooped up the contents of Priss’s purse and dumped it all in her arms. “You imposed the minute you showed up here claiming a relationship. Accept Murray’s generosity. You need it.”

“Down, Helene. That’s not necessary.” Chuckling at the exchange, though it wasn’t in the least funny, Murray asked her, “Isn’t that right, Priscilla?”

“Well, of course…. I mean …” She struggled to get everything back in her purse. “If you’re sure that’s what you really want to do—”

He dismissed her ramblings. “Drive her home, Trace. Make sure that she’s secure.” He gave Trace a telling look. “Wherever she’s staying.”

“I’ll see to it.” And again Trace took her arm to lead her from the room.

Behind her, Priss heard Hell muttering something indistinct and she heard Murray laughing some more while playfully shushing her.

After closing the doors behind them, Trace gave her arm a jerk, drawing her from her thoughts. “Come on, then.”

Mulish, Priss made him drag her every step. He only went as far as the poor receptionist’s desk. “Hey, hon. Can you check Murray’s calendar for me? He wants me to set up an extended lunch.”

“Sure, Trace.” After tucking her short brown hair behind her ear, Alice began typing. Her slender fingers flew over the keyboard. While she did that, Priss again studied Trace. He spoke so kindly to Alice, in a tone he hadn’t used on Hell, or on her. He actually sounded … gentle. Kind.

So, did old Trace have something going on with the mousy secretary? Priss considered it—and shook her head. No, not likely.

Alice peered up at Trace with big brown eyes. “He’s free tomorrow for a few hours.”

No, no, no. She wasn’t ready yet.

Trace frowned, and to Priss’s relief, he said, “That’s not enough time for me to prep her.”

Alice glanced at Priss with new sympathy. “Oh. I see.”

Oh, what? What did she see? Priss wondered. Put out that Trace so thoroughly ignored her, she started over to a leather chair to sit, but without looking away from Alice, Trace caught her wrist and kept her ensnared beside him.

“Early next week he has three hours free. That’d give you through the weekend to … finish.”

“That’ll work. Pick a swanky place and set the reservation. Wherever Murray likes best, okay? I’ll get the details from you later.”

Priss tapped her foot in impatience. She couldn’t cross her arms, not with the way Trace kept her trapped in his hold, so foot tapping was the only way to express her annoyance.

But then Trace’s big foot came down over hers, not hard, but with a clear message. He didn’t even look at her while he gave the silent order for her to be still. The jerk.

“Got it,” Alice said.

“Thanks, honey.” He straightened again and, after removing his foot, turned his dangerous stare on Priss. “Let’s go.”

Without a word of complaint, she followed him to the elevator. She was more than ready to breathe in some fresh air untainted by corruption and evil.

This time the elevator took them all the way to the basement and into a private parking garage.

“I parked out—”

Trace jerked her closer, making it almost look as if she’d tripped, when she hadn’t. As he helped her straighten, he breathed near her ear, “Monitored.”

“Ah.” She knew better than to start looking around, but the idea of surveillance made her skin crawl.

Was Murray watching her even now? She fought off a shiver of dread.

When Trace stopped at a spiffy, shiny-clean, black Mercedes with darkened windows, Priss lifted her brows. “Wow.”

He opened the passenger door, and she more than willingly got in.

“Buckle up.” He shut her door, circled the hood and folded his big body in behind the wheel. With both doors closed, he took several deep breaths, then braced his hands on the steering wheel, squeezing and working until his knuckles turned white and the muscles in his forearms bulged.

Impressive. Knowing no one could see her through the dark windows, Priss lifted her brows. “Is it safe in here?”

By way of answer, he whipped his head around to pin her in place with white-hot rage. “I should save myself a lot of trouble and just kill you now, before Murray has me do it.”

Oh, shit. Priss reached for the door handle, but the locks clicked into place, and she knew she wouldn’t be going anywhere, not unless Trace wanted her to.

Possibilities and probable scenarios winged through her mind. Should she fight right now, or wait until they were out on the street? How should she attack? Face first, or the more susceptible crotch?

She peeked over at Trace, and knew no matter what she tried, he’d be ready. Well, hell.