Trace of Fever

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.”

Of course he didn’t. Theirs hadn’t been a true relationship by any stretch. He’d used her mother for financial gain, and only by the turn of fate had her mother escaped with her life intact.

Deliberately, Priss relaxed her muscles. “I understand. It was a long time ago.”

“I won’t give you a dime, you know.” He swirled the drink, clinking the ice cubes again while smiling at her. “If you’re here for money, you’re wasting your time.”

As if she’d take anything from him—other than his black heart. “Please, you misunderstand. I don’t want or expect anything from you. It’s just that, with my mother gone, I’m alone now.”

Murray’s eyes glinted, and they went over her again. “No other relatives? No husband or at least a boyfriend?”

“No, sir. That’s why I wanted to meet you. And …” She tried for shyness. “That is, if you were interested, I thought we could get to know each other.” She rushed to add, “No obligation at all, I swear. It’s just … you’re the only family I have left now.”

That request pushed Hell over the edge. “Don’t be pathetic.” Moving to stand in front of Priss, she put her hands on her hips and thrust her breasts forward. “Why should Murray believe you’re family? How could he possibly be related to a homely little bitch like you?”

Trace snorted, and Murray laughed.

“What?” After an evil glare at Trace, Hell whipped around to face Murray. Her arms went stiff at her sides, her hands knotted. “You see a family resemblance?”

“Not at all. But despite the absurd clothing, she’s far from homely.” He gave Trace a man-to-man look. “What do you say, Trace?”

“Sexy.”

Grinning, Murray lifted his drink as if in toast. “There. You see, Hell?”

She snatched up a paperweight from Murray’s desk. “She won’t be so sexy when I finish with her.”

Jesus, Priss thought, stunned by the violent intention. Was now the moment when she should run? But no, once again, Trace stepped in front of her. He even managed to catch the projectile when Hell let out a screech and threw it.

Not at all affronted by her outburst, Murray laughed aloud, then jerked Hell around to face him. “You are such a jealous bitch, Helene, and usually it amuses me.” His laughter died and his gaze hardened. “But not now.”

Taking that warning to heart, Hell retreated.

In a milder tone now, Murray said, “This is business.” He tweaked Hell’s chin. “And you should know better than to ever interfere with business.”

For whatever reason, that appeased Hell. She even gave a lazy smile. “I see.”

“Business?” Priss asked. Could it really be that easy to get in his inner circle?

Holding out a hand toward her, Murray snapped his fingers, but not understanding, Priss waffled.

Trace took her purse from her and handed it to the big man. He dumped the contents onto his thick mahogany desk, picked up her wallet and searched through it.

Frowning, he asked, “No ID?”