Trace of Fever
Page 68
“What?” Again he whipped around to see her, and almost dropped a package of lunch meat. “Where’d you hear that?”
She sat on his couch and tucked the blanket around her. Outside, the rain started in earnest. If it had come a few minutes earlier, she might have been spared the audience during her arrival. Of course, she’d now be wet and miserable, so…
“Stop daydreaming.”
“Oh.” She looked away from the window. “I was in the car with Trace and heard his side of the conversation with you. Sounded clear enough to me.”
“Apparently not, cuz I’m not sweet on her. What kind of dumb-ass thing is that to say? I like her, sure, even though she’s not the easiest lady to be around.”
“No?”
Jackson didn’t seem to hear her. He continued on as he pulled food from the tiny fridge and piled it on the counter. “She has her reasons for being prickly, and I know it.”
“Those reasons are?”
“And there isn’t a man alive who wouldn’t want her. She’s about the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.” He shook his head. “But I’m not sweet about anything.” He scoffed. “That sounds like some adolescent bullshit or something.”
“You have a very limited vocabulary.”
“My balls still hurt. It’s affecting my brain.”
“Your brain is located a little low, isn’t it?”
He paused, then laughed. Shaking a loaf of bread at her, he said, “Good one. I’ll have to try to remember this sharp wit of yours.”
“If you want sharp wit, you need to meet Chris.”
“Met him. Like him.” He stuck his head back in the fridge and came out with cheese. “And yeah, he’s funny, too.”
“So what exactly do you plan to do with all that food?” He now had two or three types of lunch meat and two cheeses set out, along with a variety of condiments, pickles, lettuce and half of a tomato.
“I’m a man of many talents, baby.” He gave a bow. “So I’m fixing us some dinner. Don’t know about you, but skin-of-my-teeth escapes always make me hungry.”
Priss thought about it, then pushed up from the couch. “I’m hungry, too. And that was rather skin-of-our-teeth, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.” He gave her a once-over. “You’re handling it pretty well.”
Inside, she shook horribly. But she’d lived her life hiding from others, so she wasn’t about to bare her emotions for someone she barely knew. “Should I be crying?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.” He popped a slice of cheese into his mouth. “Crying women make me horny.”
Priss rolled her eyes and leaned against the counter in the kitchen. “Why, for God’s sake?”
“Guess because I like playing the macho role.” Jackson turned back to the counter. “And speaking of that—back at your place, it was close but I wouldn’t have let anyone hurt you.”
She believed him. “I suppose you’d have handled things, however necessary.”
“That’s about it.”
“And that, I assume, is why you’re working with Dare and Trace.” She took the bread from him. “The more I learn of this elite organization—” an organization that could rescue, or kill, as the need demanded “—the more I like it.”
“That’s good.” Jackson took out a knife to slice the tomato. “Because I have a feeling you’ll fit right in.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
AS THEY WENT AROUND to the side to enter a dank, dark section of the building, foul odors assaulted Trace’s nose. It was the smell of age, mold and…fear. “I take it this isn’t where people apply for a job.”
Murray snickered. “We’re sure as hell not going to march in the front door.” He pressed up too close to Trace’s back. “Most think this section is condemned. No one comes in here.”
“I can see why.” Like an old factory, the brick interior walls led through hallway after hallway, all narrow, all dirty and crumbling and dark. After some maneuvering they reached a room where large, idle machinery, now in disrepair, sat in a twisted heap of metal.
More than half the bulbs were missing from overhead light fixtures, and drafts through broken windows sent shadows moving and dancing, stretching out over the concrete floor.
Trace stopped to listen.
“I don’t like this,” Murray complained. “Maybe I needed more guards after all.”
“You don’t need anyone besides me.”
“Damn you, you are so cocksure of yourself.” His gaze darted around the room. “I like that.”
Keeping watch for anything that moved, breathed or seemed out of place, Trace stepped ahead of Murray. “Stay put a minute.”
Few ever dared give Murray orders, but all he said was, “Sensing a trap?”
“Just uneasy with the setup. It’s too dark and there are too many points of egress.”
“Got your gun?”
“I’m not an idiot.” Trace continued on with his easy stride along the perimeter of the room.
Sounding irritated, Murray said, “Think you ought to get it out and ready?”
“It’s ready. I’m ready.” And talking was a distraction. “Wait here.” He heard a click and looked back to see that Murray had not only armed himself, but had his gun at the ready.
She sat on his couch and tucked the blanket around her. Outside, the rain started in earnest. If it had come a few minutes earlier, she might have been spared the audience during her arrival. Of course, she’d now be wet and miserable, so…
“Stop daydreaming.”
“Oh.” She looked away from the window. “I was in the car with Trace and heard his side of the conversation with you. Sounded clear enough to me.”
“Apparently not, cuz I’m not sweet on her. What kind of dumb-ass thing is that to say? I like her, sure, even though she’s not the easiest lady to be around.”
“No?”
Jackson didn’t seem to hear her. He continued on as he pulled food from the tiny fridge and piled it on the counter. “She has her reasons for being prickly, and I know it.”
“Those reasons are?”
“And there isn’t a man alive who wouldn’t want her. She’s about the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.” He shook his head. “But I’m not sweet about anything.” He scoffed. “That sounds like some adolescent bullshit or something.”
“You have a very limited vocabulary.”
“My balls still hurt. It’s affecting my brain.”
“Your brain is located a little low, isn’t it?”
He paused, then laughed. Shaking a loaf of bread at her, he said, “Good one. I’ll have to try to remember this sharp wit of yours.”
“If you want sharp wit, you need to meet Chris.”
“Met him. Like him.” He stuck his head back in the fridge and came out with cheese. “And yeah, he’s funny, too.”
“So what exactly do you plan to do with all that food?” He now had two or three types of lunch meat and two cheeses set out, along with a variety of condiments, pickles, lettuce and half of a tomato.
“I’m a man of many talents, baby.” He gave a bow. “So I’m fixing us some dinner. Don’t know about you, but skin-of-my-teeth escapes always make me hungry.”
Priss thought about it, then pushed up from the couch. “I’m hungry, too. And that was rather skin-of-our-teeth, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.” He gave her a once-over. “You’re handling it pretty well.”
Inside, she shook horribly. But she’d lived her life hiding from others, so she wasn’t about to bare her emotions for someone she barely knew. “Should I be crying?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.” He popped a slice of cheese into his mouth. “Crying women make me horny.”
Priss rolled her eyes and leaned against the counter in the kitchen. “Why, for God’s sake?”
“Guess because I like playing the macho role.” Jackson turned back to the counter. “And speaking of that—back at your place, it was close but I wouldn’t have let anyone hurt you.”
She believed him. “I suppose you’d have handled things, however necessary.”
“That’s about it.”
“And that, I assume, is why you’re working with Dare and Trace.” She took the bread from him. “The more I learn of this elite organization—” an organization that could rescue, or kill, as the need demanded “—the more I like it.”
“That’s good.” Jackson took out a knife to slice the tomato. “Because I have a feeling you’ll fit right in.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
AS THEY WENT AROUND to the side to enter a dank, dark section of the building, foul odors assaulted Trace’s nose. It was the smell of age, mold and…fear. “I take it this isn’t where people apply for a job.”
Murray snickered. “We’re sure as hell not going to march in the front door.” He pressed up too close to Trace’s back. “Most think this section is condemned. No one comes in here.”
“I can see why.” Like an old factory, the brick interior walls led through hallway after hallway, all narrow, all dirty and crumbling and dark. After some maneuvering they reached a room where large, idle machinery, now in disrepair, sat in a twisted heap of metal.
More than half the bulbs were missing from overhead light fixtures, and drafts through broken windows sent shadows moving and dancing, stretching out over the concrete floor.
Trace stopped to listen.
“I don’t like this,” Murray complained. “Maybe I needed more guards after all.”
“You don’t need anyone besides me.”
“Damn you, you are so cocksure of yourself.” His gaze darted around the room. “I like that.”
Keeping watch for anything that moved, breathed or seemed out of place, Trace stepped ahead of Murray. “Stay put a minute.”
Few ever dared give Murray orders, but all he said was, “Sensing a trap?”
“Just uneasy with the setup. It’s too dark and there are too many points of egress.”
“Got your gun?”
“I’m not an idiot.” Trace continued on with his easy stride along the perimeter of the room.
Sounding irritated, Murray said, “Think you ought to get it out and ready?”
“It’s ready. I’m ready.” And talking was a distraction. “Wait here.” He heard a click and looked back to see that Murray had not only armed himself, but had his gun at the ready.
