Trace of Fever
Page 30
When he went through a fast-food drive-through for breakfast sandwiches, he didn’t ask for her preference, and she didn’t offer up any suggestions. Because he had very specific drinks in mind, he didn’t order any juice or coffee to go with the food. Although her nose twitched at the delicious smell, she didn’t say a word when he set the bag of warm biscuit sandwiches on the floor near her feet.
Which was perfect.
Unfortunately, it couldn’t last. Some things she needed to know, so minutes later as Trace pulled into the nearly hidden, private garage, he said, “Enough already, Priss. I need your attention so stop pouting.”
The muscles in her jaw flexed, but she sounded bland enough when she replied. “Go to hell.”
He ignored that. She had to be curious about where they were, and why. At the bottom of a sloping drive that took them underground, Trace reached out the window and pushed a private code into a gate keypad that protected the garage.
A large fence lifted, allowing them in. “I made sure we weren’t followed, and if you ever need to come here, you should do the same.”
Her green eyes looked mysterious and oh, so alert in the dim lighting of the garage. “Why would I come here?”
Trace pretended surprise. “A question? Seriously? Common sense prevails over stubbornness, huh? Terrific.”
Her right hand balled into a small but credible fist. “I repeat, Trace Miller, go to hell.”
Trace couldn’t help chuckling. For some reason, it almost made him proud that she’d recognized the last name as fictitious, even though no one else had thought a thing of it.
He gave her a telling look. “I’m guessing that you might need the garage because you’re definitely up to something—something shady and absurd—and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know you’re in over your head. Sooner or later you’ll realize it, and I only hope it’s in time for you to make a strategic—and safe—retreat. In case I’m not around to save your luscious ass, I wanted you to know about the garage.”
She tipped her head, then said with a straight face devoid of humor, “You think my ass is luscious?”
He fought off another grin and shrugged. “Even for a man with hands my size, it’s big enough for a handful. But it’s not out of proportion with your equally notable rack.”
That must not have been the sweet talk Priss wanted, given her darkening expression.
Both hands fisted. “Pig.”
“You asked.” Trace pulled up next to a ’72 Chevy 4x4. The rough body of the truck was mostly green but with a driver’s side beige truck-bed panel. “This is a protected, private garage. If you’re ever in danger, on the run, and you know your car has been made, you can pull in here and switch out your ride for another.”
That stunned her. More observant now, she sat up higher and looked around. “Hey. That’s my car.” She pointed to the blue Honda.
“Yeah. I had it moved here.” He watched her. “Had the plates changed out, too.”
That left her eyes rounded. “How many of these cars are yours?”
“Five.” They ranged from disreputable to nondescript to ultimately expensive and classy. Whatever was called for, the vehicle would match.
When no longer in this area, they’d be traded in for different cars, stored in a different garage rented in the appropriate place.
Trace patted her thigh in a dispassionate way that didn’t even come close to representing how he felt. “Get Liger and I’ll get his stuff and our food.”
“So there is food for me?” she quipped. “Because, you know, you did promise me breakfast.”
“Did I?” He hauled out the big cat’s belongings, two water bottles and the bag of breakfast.
“Yeah, and I’m famished.” Arms overflowing with the giant kitty, Priss followed him to the passenger door of the truck. She eyed the rusty, mismatched exterior, the loose residue of dirt in the truck bed, the redneck bumper stickers in various stages of wear. “Slumming it?”
“Being cautious.” He opened the door and stored Liger’s stuff behind the bench seat. “Hop in and buckle up.”
“The seat belts work?”
She sounded dubious. “Yeah, smart-ass. Safety first, you know.” He took the cat from her, which sent Liger into a deep, rumbling purr. That the cat liked him was almost a compliment.
After Priss had secured herself, Trace gave Liger a few strokes along his furry back, then handed him into Priss. “He’ll ride in your lap?”
“I’m not about to stuff him into a carrier, if that’s what you’re asking. He’d complain the entire way.”
The carrier would have been more convenient for his plans, but he could improvise.
Trace went around to his own side of the truck. “Let’s get the food together before we get on the road.”
He made sure to give her the biscuit first. He really did want to ensure that she ate, since it was going to be a long day for her and she wouldn’t get another chance until they got to their destination.
“So do I need a code to get into the garage?”
He shared a password with her. “Punch it in, then press Enter and the gate will lift. On your way out, it opens automatically at your approach.”
What Priss didn’t know was that the gate had a two-step function. A secondary, numerical password cleared the login. If anyone accessed the garage without the numbers, an alert was sent out, notifying him of the breech.
Which was perfect.
Unfortunately, it couldn’t last. Some things she needed to know, so minutes later as Trace pulled into the nearly hidden, private garage, he said, “Enough already, Priss. I need your attention so stop pouting.”
The muscles in her jaw flexed, but she sounded bland enough when she replied. “Go to hell.”
He ignored that. She had to be curious about where they were, and why. At the bottom of a sloping drive that took them underground, Trace reached out the window and pushed a private code into a gate keypad that protected the garage.
A large fence lifted, allowing them in. “I made sure we weren’t followed, and if you ever need to come here, you should do the same.”
Her green eyes looked mysterious and oh, so alert in the dim lighting of the garage. “Why would I come here?”
Trace pretended surprise. “A question? Seriously? Common sense prevails over stubbornness, huh? Terrific.”
Her right hand balled into a small but credible fist. “I repeat, Trace Miller, go to hell.”
Trace couldn’t help chuckling. For some reason, it almost made him proud that she’d recognized the last name as fictitious, even though no one else had thought a thing of it.
He gave her a telling look. “I’m guessing that you might need the garage because you’re definitely up to something—something shady and absurd—and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know you’re in over your head. Sooner or later you’ll realize it, and I only hope it’s in time for you to make a strategic—and safe—retreat. In case I’m not around to save your luscious ass, I wanted you to know about the garage.”
She tipped her head, then said with a straight face devoid of humor, “You think my ass is luscious?”
He fought off another grin and shrugged. “Even for a man with hands my size, it’s big enough for a handful. But it’s not out of proportion with your equally notable rack.”
That must not have been the sweet talk Priss wanted, given her darkening expression.
Both hands fisted. “Pig.”
“You asked.” Trace pulled up next to a ’72 Chevy 4x4. The rough body of the truck was mostly green but with a driver’s side beige truck-bed panel. “This is a protected, private garage. If you’re ever in danger, on the run, and you know your car has been made, you can pull in here and switch out your ride for another.”
That stunned her. More observant now, she sat up higher and looked around. “Hey. That’s my car.” She pointed to the blue Honda.
“Yeah. I had it moved here.” He watched her. “Had the plates changed out, too.”
That left her eyes rounded. “How many of these cars are yours?”
“Five.” They ranged from disreputable to nondescript to ultimately expensive and classy. Whatever was called for, the vehicle would match.
When no longer in this area, they’d be traded in for different cars, stored in a different garage rented in the appropriate place.
Trace patted her thigh in a dispassionate way that didn’t even come close to representing how he felt. “Get Liger and I’ll get his stuff and our food.”
“So there is food for me?” she quipped. “Because, you know, you did promise me breakfast.”
“Did I?” He hauled out the big cat’s belongings, two water bottles and the bag of breakfast.
“Yeah, and I’m famished.” Arms overflowing with the giant kitty, Priss followed him to the passenger door of the truck. She eyed the rusty, mismatched exterior, the loose residue of dirt in the truck bed, the redneck bumper stickers in various stages of wear. “Slumming it?”
“Being cautious.” He opened the door and stored Liger’s stuff behind the bench seat. “Hop in and buckle up.”
“The seat belts work?”
She sounded dubious. “Yeah, smart-ass. Safety first, you know.” He took the cat from her, which sent Liger into a deep, rumbling purr. That the cat liked him was almost a compliment.
After Priss had secured herself, Trace gave Liger a few strokes along his furry back, then handed him into Priss. “He’ll ride in your lap?”
“I’m not about to stuff him into a carrier, if that’s what you’re asking. He’d complain the entire way.”
The carrier would have been more convenient for his plans, but he could improvise.
Trace went around to his own side of the truck. “Let’s get the food together before we get on the road.”
He made sure to give her the biscuit first. He really did want to ensure that she ate, since it was going to be a long day for her and she wouldn’t get another chance until they got to their destination.
“So do I need a code to get into the garage?”
He shared a password with her. “Punch it in, then press Enter and the gate will lift. On your way out, it opens automatically at your approach.”
What Priss didn’t know was that the gate had a two-step function. A secondary, numerical password cleared the login. If anyone accessed the garage without the numbers, an alert was sent out, notifying him of the breech.
