Lori Foster - Trace of Fever

“He’d have assumed she went back to her middle-class upbringing?”

Priss nodded. “So she hid where she knew he wouldn’t look for her. But because of our lifestyle, we never had much insurance, or much cash put away.”

They rode in silence for a while, and Priss—thinking Trace’s nosiness had been appeased—closed her eyes. It had been a long, very tumultuous day. And it wasn’t over yet.

After ten minutes or so, Trace asked, “You asleep?”

“No.” It had been so long since she’d had any real sleep, she’d forgotten what it was like.

“Who’s running the shop for you while you’re here?”

“My partner, Gary Deaton.” Priss hated to think about that, because no way would Gary keep up things the way she wanted.

“Partner, as is business, or personal?”

“Personal? Eewwww. Hardly.” Such a repugnant thought made her shudder. “Business only, thank you very much. And actually, he’s not really a partner. More like an employee. I just call him a partner because he works as many hours as me, sometimes more. Right now, while I’m here, definitely more.”

“Anyone else in the picture?”

“No, and what do you care anyway?”

“Just wondering if anyone else is involved in this harebrained plan of yours.” He turned another corner, and they ended up on a road familiar to her. “Or if you have someone back home who’ll start looking for you soon if you don’t check in.”

Priss wasn’t really worried, but she wouldn’t take Trace lightly, either. “Thinking about killing me again?”

He gave a short laugh. “Killing you, no.”

So what was he thinking of doing with her? She didn’t dare ask. Keeping Trace Miller, or whatever his real name might be, at arm’s length was a dire necessity. “Life on the lam doesn’t lend itself to romantic entanglements.”

His thumb rubbed over her knee, and Priss wondered if he was aware of doing it, if he did it on purpose to turn her on, or if it was an extension of the thoughts she saw flickering across his face.

“Trace …”

“It occurs to me that I didn’t see a single freckle on you. Not on your face.” He gave her a quick, level look. “And not on your body.”

“Yeah, so?”

“That’s kind of curious, don’t you think, given the color of your hair?”

Priss lifted his hand and dropped it over next to him. “Okay, first off, hands to yourself. Got it?”

He said nothing, but she saw the corner of his mouth tilt up in the slightest of smiles.

“Secondly, did you happen to notice that my brows and lashes are a darker brown without a hint of red?”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I’m not like some redheads who are …” Her face heated. “Red all over.”

“Yeah?” He glanced at her lap meaningfully. “Do tell.”

Priss punched him in the shoulder. “I don’t like what you’re thinking.”

“You don’t know what I’m thinking.” And with another provoking grin, “Do you?”

Like she’d say it out loud? No way. Priss crossed her arms. “If you were hinting that you think I dye my hair, I don’t. Everything on me is natural.”

“We’ll see.”

“No, we will not see a damn thing!”

Under his breath, Trace said, “I damn near saw today. If I’d moved a foot closer for a better look—”

“Stop it!” Priss felt heat throbbing in her face, and she hated it. “And that reminds me. I want you to delete that damned picture.”

“Not a chance. Seeing you in that getup was a trophy moment for me.” He pulled into a lot, put the car in Park and looked around. Forestalling her anger, he said, “You weren’t kidding. This place really is a dive.”

Well, hell. She hadn’t even noticed that she was back at her run-down apartment. It unnerved her that he’d distracted her enough to make her unaware of her surroundings. That could be deadly.

Sooner or later, she’d take him off guard, and then she’d get his phone and smash it. If he had emailed the picture to himself, well, at least she’d have some payback. Until then … “What now?”

“Now we go in, get some of your stuff and make it look like you’re staying at the hotel. If anyone checks on you there, and you aren’t around, you can always claim you were out late hitting bars or something.”

“Barhopping doesn’t work with my cover.”

His jaw tightened. “I’ll think of something. But from here on out, you’re in survival mode. Got it?”

“No.” Nothing and no one would keep her from doing what needed to be done. Priss tried to open her door, but it still didn’t budge. “Unlock it.”

Instead he pulled her around to face him. He started to blast her, but something funny happened. Instead of reading her the riot act, he stared into her eyes, then down at her mouth. His entire demeanor changed. He looked just as tense, but now for different, hotter reasons.

He still stared intently at her mouth when Priss heard the lock click open. She glanced down and saw that Trace had reached back for the door, all without breaking that disturbing, electrifying visual contact with her.

She met his gaze again, and softened. Damn, but resisting Trace wouldn’t be easy, not if he kept looking at her like that. “You’re coming in, too?”

“Yes.” Suddenly, almost violently, he turned away from her and left the car. Still a gentleman, he strode around to her side and opened her door. “Let’s get this night over with.”

Well. That sounded insulting. Priss would have let herself out, except that she had to extract the room key from a hidden pocket in the design of her purse.

“Fine.” She moved out of the car to stand beside him. “But when we go in, watch where you step.”

“Why?” Taking her arm, he started for the entrance, again surveying the area all around them. “You have land mines hidden around?”

Priss ignored him. “It’s this way.” She took the lead, steering him toward the side entrance. Nearby police sirens screamed, competing with music from the bar next door. “I’m on the second floor.”

They passed a hooker fondling a man against the brick facing of the building. Priss stepped over and around a broken bottle. Tires squealed and someone shouted profanities.

Distaste left a sour expression on Trace’s face. “This dive needs to be condemned.”

“Maybe, but it’s shady enough that no one asked me any questions when I checked in.”

“It’s also shady enough that you could get mugged, raped or murdered in the damned lot and no one would notice.”

Priss shook her head. “I’m not worried about that.” They went up the metal stairs, precariously attached to the structure.

After muttering a rude sound, Trace said, “There’s a lot you should be worried about, but aren’t.”

No reason to debate it with him. Her options on what to worry about, and what to ignore, were pretty damned limited. “This way.”

The ancient run-down house had been reworked in better years to accommodate four separate tenants. She was on the back corner, facing the bar.

Trace nodded toward the rowdy establishment. “It fired up early.”

“My understanding is that it opens with lunch and is going pretty strong by early dinner. It won’t bother me. I’m used to that type of noise.”

Trace gave her a long look, but Priss refused to meet his probing gaze.

Using the key, she unlocked the dead bolt and then the door lock. “Careful now.”

“Careful of what?” Trace asked.

They stepped in and before she could turn on a light, a low growl sounded. Behind her, Trace froze.

But not for long.

Somehow, before she even knew it, Priss found herself behind Trace, pressed to the wall. When she realized he’d pulled his gun, she smacked his shoulder. “Don’t you dare shoot my cat!”