Trace of Fever

“Hold on.”

He took another turn, hit the expressway, and got off on an exit two miles down the way. He pulled into an old, dilapidated movie theater another mile off the exit. Steering the Mercedes behind the ramshackle screen, he put it in Park, took out his gun and waited.

Beside him, Priss sat stock-still, her breath held.

Only the rush of muted traffic on the main road could be heard. Gun held balanced on his knee, Trace turned to her. “Breathe.”

She inhaled sharply, almost choking. “You lost him?”

“I think so, but we’ll wait here a minute to be sure.”

Still wide-eyed, she looked around. “Are you familiar with this area?”

“Nope.” Trace visually outlined her face; the pert nose, the lush mouth, the long dark eye lashes and keen green gaze. “At least, not as familiar as you are with fetish wear.”

Her gaze jerked over to him. Those delicately arched brows pinched down. “What are you talking about?”

“You.” Using the gun, he gestured at her body. “In that boner-inspiring fluff called underwear. You’re more than comfortable with it. Hell, a real innocent wouldn’t even have figured out how to wear it, much less used it to taunt me.”

Her lips curled. “Oh, poor Trace. Did you feel taunted?”

“Yeah.” He stared at her mouth. “I did.” It occurred to him that he hadn’t seen a single freckle on her. Not on her face, not on her body.

Curious, given the color of her hair.

He tapped the gun against his leg, drawing Priss’s attention to it. It’d help if she showed just a modicum of uncertainty. Not that he didn’t appreciate her cool cooperation in this now jumbled case, but still … “So tell me, Priscilla Patterson. What did you do before you decided to bedevil me?”

PRISS PONDERED the idea of lying. Again.

“Don’t bother.”

Damn, he was astute. So what the heck? She put her chin up. “I’m the owner of an adult store.”

That annoying gun-tapping stopped. His eyes narrowed, and then he gave a dramatic, negligent shrug. “Somehow, with you, that makes sense.”

“I’m not sure I like it that you think so.” Was he trying to pigeonhole her? Jerk. “And you know, it’s really conceited of you to think I’m here on account of you.”

Trace wedged his shoulder against the door, getting comfortable. “Is that right?”

“Yeah.” Priss reached over and patted his cheek. “You’re just an unexpected perk.” She rested her hands on her thighs, aware of Trace looking at her chest in the stupid halter. “I’m here for Murray.”

“Because he’s your father?”

“Yeah.” She slanted him a look. “And because I’m going to kill him.”

For long seconds, Trace said nothing. He reholstered the gun, shifted back in his seat and put the car in gear. “You’re not killing anyone, Priss, but I’d like to hear more about this dirty little store of yours.”

“I am so killing him, as soon as I can.” And in the same even, nonchalant tone, she said, “The shop is great, not at all dirty. It’s well run—by me—and it stays busy. It supported me and my mother before she passed away.”

Thinking of her mother hurt, so she shook that off.

“How big is it?”

“Not even as big as Murray’s office. Most of our business is DVDs and books, along with the occasional battery-operated item.” She bobbed her eyebrows at him. “The underwear … well, we have a few crazy things, like crotchless panties and pasties and bondage bras, but mostly just for display. When people want stuff, they order out of a catalog, and we get a percentage of the sales.”

Trace drove out, and there wasn’t a single sign of their tail. “Go on.”

“What else do you want to know?”

His gaze kept moving around the area, alert, cautious. His question sounded almost as an afterthought. “You ever wore any of the merchandise before?”

“Nope. I’m a comfy cotton kind of gal.”

He nodded, then tossed out, “How did your mother die?”

Lacking a smooth transition, Priss wondered if Trace hoped to take her off guard, or was it just his way? Even as he questioned her—and listened to her answers—he kept constant surveillance of the area.

When they were on the main road again, he stuck with back streets rather than return to the highway.

“Mom had a stroke.”

“So what you told Murray was the truth?”

She nodded.

Trace drove with one hand and, with the other, he reached over for her knee. “I’m sorry.”

Priss badly wanted to cover his hand with her own, but before she could really think about it, he withdrew again. “You haven’t exactly been nice to me, Trace, so why should I believe you care?”

He shrugged. “We’re each stuck in our role, and you know it.” He glanced at her, then away again. “I lost my parents, both of them, long ago. Regardless of everything else we have going on, I know how it is to go through that.”

Priss accepted his explanation. “Thanks.”

“It was rough?”

“Yeah.” Such an understatement. “Mom suffered for a long time before she died. She was … incapacitated. Unable to care for herself. Little by little, she wasted away, and in the end, her death was a mercy.”

Putting his hand back on her knee, Trace squeezed in a show of comfort. “You cared for her yourself?”

“The best I could.” Her chest hurt, remembering how inadequate she’d been. “There wasn’t anyone else. But I still had to work, and we’d laid low for so long—”

“Staying out of Murray’s radar?”

“Why else? Not that mom thought Murray would have any real interest in me, not as a father anyway. She didn’t trust him, with good reason. And yes, that’s why we had a sex shop. Mom said Murray never would have thought to look for us there.”

“He’d have assumed she went back to her middle-class upbringing?”

Priss nodded. “So she hid where she knew he wouldn’t look for her. But because of our lifestyle, we never had much insurance, or much cash put away.”