Trace of Fever
Page 8
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 f**ked 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.
Murray nodded toward her chest, his gaze heated, his mouth a little too slack. “Braless?”
Now her face flamed. “I—”
Trace shifted. “She had herself bound with some sort of tight sports bra. But since that could have concealed a weapon, I cut it off her.”
He hadn’t been kidding about telling Murray! Priss waited to see how he’d react. It wasn’t what she’d expected.
“I see.” Murray’s gaze lifted to hers. “Your mother was busty?”
Good God, the cretin hadn’t yet asked her mother’s name, but he wanted to know her bra size? He was more disgusting than she’d ever imagined.
Inside, Priss churned with fury, but outside, she stammered like a virgin. “She was, yes.” Belatedly, parts of her rehearsed spiel shot to the forefront of her mind. “After you left her, she never wanted another man. So she did her best to…conceal her figure.”
“As you did with whatever undergarment Trace removed from your person?”
“Yes.” She tugged at the material of her blouse, trying to get the gaping front to close. “I’m not at all comfortable like this.”
“What you have is an asset. You should be proud.”
Oh, this was soooo not a father/daughter conversation. “Sir, I want you to know—”
“Give me your mother’s name.”
Well, ’bout damn time! A deep breath didn’t ease the tension in her chest. “Patricia Patterson.” Priss waited, but there was no recognition, and predictably, no real interest. She forged on. “I’m twenty-four, so it would have been close to twenty-five years ago that you knew her.”
“I’d have been thirty-two.” He rubbed at his goatee in fond remembrance of the past, then caught himself. “She’s dead?”
Priss ducked her head, as much from grief as to hide the incandescent rage she felt when she thought of the way her mother had suffered before finding the grace of death. “Yes. Three months ago.”
“How?” Murray asked.
“She had a stroke. It didn’t take her right away….”
As Priss replied, Murray turned to Hell and requested a drink. He even smiled at Hell’s disgruntlement and gave her an intimate kiss that left his mouth shiny with the red gloss of her lips.
His disinterest in her struggle couldn’t have been more plain.
As Hell slipped off the desk and went to the other side of the room to pour the drink, Murray pulled out a hanky and wiped his mouth.
All while Priss told the emotionally draining, all too horrific story of her mother’s ordeal.
When she’d contrived this plan, she’d expected an unfeeling monster. She’d been prepared for a sleazy villain. But this…this total lack of propriety…the man was a psychopath. He couldn’t possibly possess a single ounce of real emotion.
Somewhere along the way to building his empire of corruption, he’d become so comfortable with his power and influence that he didn’t bother hiding his innately vicious nature anymore. He had a network of conspirators who would lie for him, cover for him, and enable him.
Involuntarily, her hands curled into fists. While Hell handed Murray his drink, Trace gave a barely perceptible nudge to her shoulder. He didn’t look at her, and his stance remained alert, on duty as it were, but she caught his warning all the same.
It could be deadly for her to show her hand this early in the game.
With ice cubes clinking, Murray sipped his drink, and then asked, “So she suffered?”
Jaw tight, Priss nodded. “Immeasurably, yes.”
He took another drink. “I don’t remember her.”
To get the ball rolling, Priss opened her mouth—and Murray forestalled her.
“I’ve never f**ked 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.
Murray nodded toward her chest, his gaze heated, his mouth a little too slack. “Braless?”
Now her face flamed. “I—”
Trace shifted. “She had herself bound with some sort of tight sports bra. But since that could have concealed a weapon, I cut it off her.”
He hadn’t been kidding about telling Murray! Priss waited to see how he’d react. It wasn’t what she’d expected.
“I see.” Murray’s gaze lifted to hers. “Your mother was busty?”
Good God, the cretin hadn’t yet asked her mother’s name, but he wanted to know her bra size? He was more disgusting than she’d ever imagined.
Inside, Priss churned with fury, but outside, she stammered like a virgin. “She was, yes.” Belatedly, parts of her rehearsed spiel shot to the forefront of her mind. “After you left her, she never wanted another man. So she did her best to…conceal her figure.”
“As you did with whatever undergarment Trace removed from your person?”
“Yes.” She tugged at the material of her blouse, trying to get the gaping front to close. “I’m not at all comfortable like this.”
“What you have is an asset. You should be proud.”
Oh, this was soooo not a father/daughter conversation. “Sir, I want you to know—”
“Give me your mother’s name.”
Well, ’bout damn time! A deep breath didn’t ease the tension in her chest. “Patricia Patterson.” Priss waited, but there was no recognition, and predictably, no real interest. She forged on. “I’m twenty-four, so it would have been close to twenty-five years ago that you knew her.”
“I’d have been thirty-two.” He rubbed at his goatee in fond remembrance of the past, then caught himself. “She’s dead?”
Priss ducked her head, as much from grief as to hide the incandescent rage she felt when she thought of the way her mother had suffered before finding the grace of death. “Yes. Three months ago.”
“How?” Murray asked.
“She had a stroke. It didn’t take her right away….”
As Priss replied, Murray turned to Hell and requested a drink. He even smiled at Hell’s disgruntlement and gave her an intimate kiss that left his mouth shiny with the red gloss of her lips.
His disinterest in her struggle couldn’t have been more plain.
As Hell slipped off the desk and went to the other side of the room to pour the drink, Murray pulled out a hanky and wiped his mouth.
All while Priss told the emotionally draining, all too horrific story of her mother’s ordeal.
When she’d contrived this plan, she’d expected an unfeeling monster. She’d been prepared for a sleazy villain. But this…this total lack of propriety…the man was a psychopath. He couldn’t possibly possess a single ounce of real emotion.
Somewhere along the way to building his empire of corruption, he’d become so comfortable with his power and influence that he didn’t bother hiding his innately vicious nature anymore. He had a network of conspirators who would lie for him, cover for him, and enable him.
Involuntarily, her hands curled into fists. While Hell handed Murray his drink, Trace gave a barely perceptible nudge to her shoulder. He didn’t look at her, and his stance remained alert, on duty as it were, but she caught his warning all the same.
It could be deadly for her to show her hand this early in the game.
With ice cubes clinking, Murray sipped his drink, and then asked, “So she suffered?”
Jaw tight, Priss nodded. “Immeasurably, yes.”
He took another drink. “I don’t remember her.”
