Trace of Fever
Page 19
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.”
They rode in silence for a while, and Priss—thinking Trace’s nosiness had been appeased—closed her eyes. It had been a long, very tumultuous day. And it wasn’t over yet.
After ten minutes or so, Trace asked, “You asleep?”
“No.” It had been so long since she’d had any real sleep, she’d forgotten what it was like.
“Who’s running the shop for you while you’re here?”
“My partner, Gary Deaton.” Priss hated to think about that, because no way would Gary keep up things the way she wanted.
“Partner, as is business, or personal?”
“Personal? Eewwww. Hardly.” Such a repugnant thought made her shudder. “Business only, thank you very much. And actually, he’s not really a partner. More like an employee. I just call him a partner because he works as many hours as me, sometimes more. Right now, while I’m here, definitely more.”
“Anyone else in the picture?”
“No, and what do you care anyway?”
“Just wondering if anyone else is involved in this harebrained plan of yours.” He turned another corner, and they ended up on a road familiar to her. “Or if you have someone back home who’ll start looking for you soon if you don’t check in.”
Priss wasn’t really worried, but she wouldn’t take Trace lightly, either. “Thinking about killing me again?”
He gave a short laugh. “Killing you, no.”
So what was he thinking of doing with her? She didn’t dare ask. Keeping Trace Miller, or whatever his real name might be, at arm’s length was a dire necessity. “Life on the lam doesn’t lend itself to romantic entanglements.”
His thumb rubbed over her knee, and Priss wondered if he was aware of doing it, if he did it on purpose to turn her on, or if it was an extension of the thoughts she saw flickering across his face.
“Trace…”
“It occurs to me that I didn’t see a single freckle on you. Not on your face.” He gave her a quick, level look. “And not on your body.”
“Yeah, so?”
“That’s kind of curious, don’t you think, given the color of your hair?”
Priss lifted his hand and dropped it over next to him. “Okay, first off, hands to yourself. Got it?”
He said nothing, but she saw the corner of his mouth tilt up in the slightest of smiles.
“Secondly, did you happen to notice that my brows and lashes are a darker brown without a hint of red?”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I’m not like some redheads who are…” Her face heated. “Red all over.”
“Yeah?” He glanced at her lap meaningfully. “Do tell.”
Priss punched him in the shoulder. “I don’t like what you’re thinking.”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking.” And with another provoking grin, “Do you?”
Like she’d say it out loud? No way. Priss crossed her arms. “If you were hinting that you think I dye my hair, I don’t. Everything on me is natural.”
“We’ll see.”
“No, we will not see a damn thing!”
Under his breath, Trace said, “I damn near saw today. If I’d moved a foot closer for a better look—”
“Stop it!” Priss felt heat throbbing in her face, and she hated it. “And that reminds me. I want you to delete that damned picture.”
“Not a chance. Seeing you in that getup was a trophy moment for me.” He pulled into a lot, put the car in Park and looked around. Forestalling her anger, he said, “You weren’t kidding. This place really is a dive.”
Well, hell. She hadn’t even noticed that she was back at her run-down apartment. It unnerved her that he’d distracted her enough to make her unaware of her surroundings. That could be deadly.
Sooner or later, she’d take him off guard, and then she’d get his phone and smash it. If he had emailed the picture to himself, well, at least she’d have some payback. Until then… “What now?”
“Now we go in, get some of your stuff and make it look like you’re staying at the hotel. If anyone checks on you there, and you aren’t around, you can always claim you were out late hitting bars or something.”
“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.”
They rode in silence for a while, and Priss—thinking Trace’s nosiness had been appeased—closed her eyes. It had been a long, very tumultuous day. And it wasn’t over yet.
After ten minutes or so, Trace asked, “You asleep?”
“No.” It had been so long since she’d had any real sleep, she’d forgotten what it was like.
“Who’s running the shop for you while you’re here?”
“My partner, Gary Deaton.” Priss hated to think about that, because no way would Gary keep up things the way she wanted.
“Partner, as is business, or personal?”
“Personal? Eewwww. Hardly.” Such a repugnant thought made her shudder. “Business only, thank you very much. And actually, he’s not really a partner. More like an employee. I just call him a partner because he works as many hours as me, sometimes more. Right now, while I’m here, definitely more.”
“Anyone else in the picture?”
“No, and what do you care anyway?”
“Just wondering if anyone else is involved in this harebrained plan of yours.” He turned another corner, and they ended up on a road familiar to her. “Or if you have someone back home who’ll start looking for you soon if you don’t check in.”
Priss wasn’t really worried, but she wouldn’t take Trace lightly, either. “Thinking about killing me again?”
He gave a short laugh. “Killing you, no.”
So what was he thinking of doing with her? She didn’t dare ask. Keeping Trace Miller, or whatever his real name might be, at arm’s length was a dire necessity. “Life on the lam doesn’t lend itself to romantic entanglements.”
His thumb rubbed over her knee, and Priss wondered if he was aware of doing it, if he did it on purpose to turn her on, or if it was an extension of the thoughts she saw flickering across his face.
“Trace…”
“It occurs to me that I didn’t see a single freckle on you. Not on your face.” He gave her a quick, level look. “And not on your body.”
“Yeah, so?”
“That’s kind of curious, don’t you think, given the color of your hair?”
Priss lifted his hand and dropped it over next to him. “Okay, first off, hands to yourself. Got it?”
He said nothing, but she saw the corner of his mouth tilt up in the slightest of smiles.
“Secondly, did you happen to notice that my brows and lashes are a darker brown without a hint of red?”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I’m not like some redheads who are…” Her face heated. “Red all over.”
“Yeah?” He glanced at her lap meaningfully. “Do tell.”
Priss punched him in the shoulder. “I don’t like what you’re thinking.”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking.” And with another provoking grin, “Do you?”
Like she’d say it out loud? No way. Priss crossed her arms. “If you were hinting that you think I dye my hair, I don’t. Everything on me is natural.”
“We’ll see.”
“No, we will not see a damn thing!”
Under his breath, Trace said, “I damn near saw today. If I’d moved a foot closer for a better look—”
“Stop it!” Priss felt heat throbbing in her face, and she hated it. “And that reminds me. I want you to delete that damned picture.”
“Not a chance. Seeing you in that getup was a trophy moment for me.” He pulled into a lot, put the car in Park and looked around. Forestalling her anger, he said, “You weren’t kidding. This place really is a dive.”
Well, hell. She hadn’t even noticed that she was back at her run-down apartment. It unnerved her that he’d distracted her enough to make her unaware of her surroundings. That could be deadly.
Sooner or later, she’d take him off guard, and then she’d get his phone and smash it. If he had emailed the picture to himself, well, at least she’d have some payback. Until then… “What now?”
“Now we go in, get some of your stuff and make it look like you’re staying at the hotel. If anyone checks on you there, and you aren’t around, you can always claim you were out late hitting bars or something.”
