Trace of Fever

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.