Trace of Fever

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.