Trace of Fever
Page 97
“Just doing a job.”
Definitely Murray’s benefit. Sighing, Priss lifted one foot—and felt his hands settle on her hips with the pretense of steadying her. He was so warm, his hands sure, his comfort undeniable regardless of the games they were forced to play.
Staving off the emotion became more difficult. “Trace…”
The door flew open and Murray strode in, saying, “All ready?”
God bless Trace, he turned, and Priss was able to use his big body as a shield to hastily yank on the underwear. As she straightened, Trace stepped aside, and their moves couldn’t have been more choreographed if they’d practiced them together.
Seeing her properly clothed, Murray couldn’t hide his annoyance. “Where are the shoes?”
“Right here.” Priss sat—her back to the men—and slipped on the narrow, pointy-toed stilettos. The absurd ensemble was in no way presentable for any afternoon event, other than perhaps stripping or…getting sold.
Voice strained, Murray said, “Let’s have a look at you.”
Tugging at the low neckline of the dress, Priss stood again. With no help for it, feeling very self-conscious, she presented herself to the men. “The dress is too tight.”
“Nonsense.” Murray licked loose lips, his narrowed gaze lingering on her br**sts, and then her legs. “You look quite nice.”
Her smile hurt. “Thank you.” She busied herself by folding her own clothes and stacking them together.
Alice spoke from the doorway. “Everything is ready.”
“Good, good.” Murray reached for Priss’s hand. “Let’s go, then, shall we?”
She didn’t want to touch him, but she didn’t want to blow the opportunity, either. Leaving her sensible clothes behind, she nodded. “All right.”
His fat, clammy fingers griped hers too tightly, and his thumb kept brushing over her skin in a suggestive way. Priss’s stomach roiled, and it took all her concentration not to react to his vile attention.
On the ride down the elevator, Trace stood with his hands clasped at his back, Alice stared at her feet, and Murray toyed with her until she wanted to scream and slap him away.
Perv.
Disgusting, abusive, evil. The world wouldn’t miss him when he was gone.
Once in the parking garage, Murray finally released her, but his torment didn’t end. At his insistence, Trace drove and Alice rode shotgun. She and Murray took up the backseat.
Twice he let his thigh touch hers, and when she moved away, he put his hand on her knee. Priss made a point of being so jumpy—just as any woman would be—that he finally gave that up. But nothing she did could dissuade him from sliding his sleazy gaze over her cle**age. She felt violated, and that made her imagine how her mother had felt dealing with so much more, with more than any woman should ever have to bear.
Anxious for her shot to hurt him, Priss kept her purse to the other side of her, away from Murray and his prying eyes. If need be, she could retrieve her weapons quickly, but she didn’t want to do that until they’d freed Murray’s latest victims.
And Alice. Somehow, difficult as the prospect might be, she wanted to help her, too.
Murray started a conversation on his power and connections that sounded more like a veiled threat than anything else. Priss pretended to listen, but instead she kept stealing glances at Trace. Because he looked alert and tense, but not really worried, Priss decided that she wouldn’t worry, either.
He constantly scanned the area. Murray probably thought the diligence was part of Trace’s normal vigilance, but Priss wondered if he watched for something specific.
Like maybe Jackson. Or the police.
“Planning to shoot someone?” Trace suddenly asked.
Priss didn’t understand until she realized that Murray had pulled a gun and had it resting across his knee—aimed at her.
Her breath strangled in her throat.
With his usual smarmy smile, Murray shrugged. “Only if necessary.”
TRACE LET HIS INSTINCTS kick in. He kept things cool, detached, as he finished the ride to the factory.
Fulfilling her role, Priss gaped at the gun. “Oh, my. Is this trip dangerous?”
As if he bought her acting, Murray laughed. “Yes, child.” And then, with ominous overtones: “More dangerous for some than others.”
“Then I’m very glad you’re prepared.”
“Is that right?” Murray grinned. “What about you, Trace? Are you glad?”
Maybe Murray was onto him, or maybe he just wanted to be rid of Priss. Either way, Trace wouldn’t make it easy for him. “It’s unnecessary, because I can handle things, but I understand your caution.”
Proving he didn’t see Priss as a threat, Murray looked out the side window. “Yes. I thought you might.”
Trace considered things, and decided that Murray wouldn’t shoot Priss in his own car. Too many complications waited down that road: DNA evidence, false registration on the vehicle, even the clean up.
No, if Murray truly felt susceptible and chose to shoot anyone, he’d shoot Trace first. And knowing that, accepting that—at least for right now—Priss was safe enough, made it possible for him to keep up appearances.
Beside him, Alice closed her eyes and fisted her hands. She looked ready to come unhinged at any moment. Murray had bullied her one time too many, leaving her fragile and emotionally drained. Trace wanted to reassure her, but he couldn’t. Not yet.
He glanced back at Priss and, though she smiled, he saw a taut expression on her face.
Definitely Murray’s benefit. Sighing, Priss lifted one foot—and felt his hands settle on her hips with the pretense of steadying her. He was so warm, his hands sure, his comfort undeniable regardless of the games they were forced to play.
Staving off the emotion became more difficult. “Trace…”
The door flew open and Murray strode in, saying, “All ready?”
God bless Trace, he turned, and Priss was able to use his big body as a shield to hastily yank on the underwear. As she straightened, Trace stepped aside, and their moves couldn’t have been more choreographed if they’d practiced them together.
Seeing her properly clothed, Murray couldn’t hide his annoyance. “Where are the shoes?”
“Right here.” Priss sat—her back to the men—and slipped on the narrow, pointy-toed stilettos. The absurd ensemble was in no way presentable for any afternoon event, other than perhaps stripping or…getting sold.
Voice strained, Murray said, “Let’s have a look at you.”
Tugging at the low neckline of the dress, Priss stood again. With no help for it, feeling very self-conscious, she presented herself to the men. “The dress is too tight.”
“Nonsense.” Murray licked loose lips, his narrowed gaze lingering on her br**sts, and then her legs. “You look quite nice.”
Her smile hurt. “Thank you.” She busied herself by folding her own clothes and stacking them together.
Alice spoke from the doorway. “Everything is ready.”
“Good, good.” Murray reached for Priss’s hand. “Let’s go, then, shall we?”
She didn’t want to touch him, but she didn’t want to blow the opportunity, either. Leaving her sensible clothes behind, she nodded. “All right.”
His fat, clammy fingers griped hers too tightly, and his thumb kept brushing over her skin in a suggestive way. Priss’s stomach roiled, and it took all her concentration not to react to his vile attention.
On the ride down the elevator, Trace stood with his hands clasped at his back, Alice stared at her feet, and Murray toyed with her until she wanted to scream and slap him away.
Perv.
Disgusting, abusive, evil. The world wouldn’t miss him when he was gone.
Once in the parking garage, Murray finally released her, but his torment didn’t end. At his insistence, Trace drove and Alice rode shotgun. She and Murray took up the backseat.
Twice he let his thigh touch hers, and when she moved away, he put his hand on her knee. Priss made a point of being so jumpy—just as any woman would be—that he finally gave that up. But nothing she did could dissuade him from sliding his sleazy gaze over her cle**age. She felt violated, and that made her imagine how her mother had felt dealing with so much more, with more than any woman should ever have to bear.
Anxious for her shot to hurt him, Priss kept her purse to the other side of her, away from Murray and his prying eyes. If need be, she could retrieve her weapons quickly, but she didn’t want to do that until they’d freed Murray’s latest victims.
And Alice. Somehow, difficult as the prospect might be, she wanted to help her, too.
Murray started a conversation on his power and connections that sounded more like a veiled threat than anything else. Priss pretended to listen, but instead she kept stealing glances at Trace. Because he looked alert and tense, but not really worried, Priss decided that she wouldn’t worry, either.
He constantly scanned the area. Murray probably thought the diligence was part of Trace’s normal vigilance, but Priss wondered if he watched for something specific.
Like maybe Jackson. Or the police.
“Planning to shoot someone?” Trace suddenly asked.
Priss didn’t understand until she realized that Murray had pulled a gun and had it resting across his knee—aimed at her.
Her breath strangled in her throat.
With his usual smarmy smile, Murray shrugged. “Only if necessary.”
TRACE LET HIS INSTINCTS kick in. He kept things cool, detached, as he finished the ride to the factory.
Fulfilling her role, Priss gaped at the gun. “Oh, my. Is this trip dangerous?”
As if he bought her acting, Murray laughed. “Yes, child.” And then, with ominous overtones: “More dangerous for some than others.”
“Then I’m very glad you’re prepared.”
“Is that right?” Murray grinned. “What about you, Trace? Are you glad?”
Maybe Murray was onto him, or maybe he just wanted to be rid of Priss. Either way, Trace wouldn’t make it easy for him. “It’s unnecessary, because I can handle things, but I understand your caution.”
Proving he didn’t see Priss as a threat, Murray looked out the side window. “Yes. I thought you might.”
Trace considered things, and decided that Murray wouldn’t shoot Priss in his own car. Too many complications waited down that road: DNA evidence, false registration on the vehicle, even the clean up.
No, if Murray truly felt susceptible and chose to shoot anyone, he’d shoot Trace first. And knowing that, accepting that—at least for right now—Priss was safe enough, made it possible for him to keep up appearances.
Beside him, Alice closed her eyes and fisted her hands. She looked ready to come unhinged at any moment. Murray had bullied her one time too many, leaving her fragile and emotionally drained. Trace wanted to reassure her, but he couldn’t. Not yet.
He glanced back at Priss and, though she smiled, he saw a taut expression on her face.
