Lori Foster – Trace of Fever (страница 2)
They were not gentle, making her show of defenselessness difficult to maintain. Her arm got twisted; someone pulled at her ponytail, making her gasp.
And then suddenly, a quiet but stern voice spoke up. “Let her go.”
Just that easily, she was free. She twisted to find a face to go with that deep voice, and froze.
Wow.
Unlike the Neanderthals who’d taken pleasure in manhandling her so roughly, this man looked smooth and debonair and … sexy.
He strode toward them with a frown that brooked no arguments. Standing easily six feet tall, he was muscular but not overly bulky, clean-cut but not in a too-polished
A black-leather shoulder holster held his gun. The belt around his waist carried two extra magazines, a stun gun, baton and mace. His black lace-up steel-toed boots could be deadly.
The man was ready for anything.
But maybe not ready for her.
That bright caramel gaze drifted over both of the hulks with contempt. “I’ll handle her from here.”
Grumbling, the men moved away.
He took her arm. “Come with me.”
Priss tried to resist, but he was far more physically persuasive—without really hurting her—than the other men had been. “Where are we going?”
“Farther away for privacy.”
“Oh. Okay.” In her flat shoes, she hustled along beside him, feeling very short and suddenly unsure of herself. “You work here?”
He didn’t reply but drew her around the corner, shielding her from prying eyes. He, on the other hand, stayed in view, and Priscilla assumed it was so he could keep an eye on the others.
Cautious and suspicious—qualities she appreciated.
He gave her a very slow perusal, from her dark reddish-brown hair in its high ponytail, to her crisp blue blouse and her over-the-knee, old-fashioned skirt, to her flat-heeled Mary Janes … and then back up again. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh.” She pretended to be flustered by his direct stare. And truthfully … she was. But only a little. This was too important for her to fudge it.
She hugged her big satchel purse to her chest and said with just the right quaver, “I came to meet Murray Coburn.”
“Why?”
She widened her eyes. “Well, that’s actually private.”
He stood there, waiting, his gaze unflinching, direct.
Ha. He didn’t know her fortitude if he thought a little stare-down would discomfort her. Pasting on what she hoped was a winsome smile, Priscilla blinked her eyes at him. “Oh, I should introduce myself.” She held out a hand. “I’m Priscilla Patterson.”
He looked at her hand, and his left eye twitched.
He didn’t touch her.
“Yes, well …” She tucked her hand back in close to her body. “Will you please tell Mr. Coburn I’m here?”
“No.” And then, striking an exasperated stance, he asked again, “Why do you want to see him?”
When she started to look away, he caught her chin and lifted her face. “I don’t have time for this, so stop the coy act.”
This time her eyes widened for real. He knew she was acting? But how?
Shaking his head, he released her. “Fine. I’ll have the men show you out.”
“No, wait.” She caught his arm—and was stunned at the unyielding strength there. It was like grabbing thick rock. “Okay, I’ll tell you. But please don’t make me leave.”
He crossed his arms, which effectively shook off her touch. “I’m listening.”
“Murray is my father.”
So still that he looked like a stone statue, the man stared at her. Only an infinitesimal narrowing of his eyes showed any reaction at all. “You’re fucking with me.”
Okay, so coarse language didn’t really shock her, not anymore, not at twenty-four when much of her life had been spent on the sordid side of survival. She still gasped. “Sir, really.” Fanning her face as if to alleviate a blush, Priscilla frowned at him. “I assure you that I’m serious.”
A noise at the front of the lobby drew his attention, and after a quick look, he cursed low. Catching her arm, he dragged her farther out of view and bent close. “Listen up, lady. Whatever harebrained plan you have to cozy up with Coburn, forget it.”
With complete honesty, she said, “Oh, but I can’t.”
He snarled, and then he shook her. “Trust me on this—you don’t belong here. You don’t belong in this building, much less anywhere near Coburn. Be smart and take your pert little ass out the door and away from danger.”
A deliberate choice.
But because he looked genuinely concerned, which was surely at odds with the duty that would be assigned to him, Priscilla shrugged. “Sorry. I didn’t come this far just to walk away.”
Footsteps sounded behind them. His jaw tightened. “There’s a back exit. Go down the hall, hang a left, go through the—”
So stubborn! “Excuse me.” Priss stepped around him just as a behemoth rounded the corner, followed by the two men who’d bullied her earlier and another, equally disreputable-looking fellow.
She’d seen plenty of pictures, so she knew right away who stood before her.
Murray Coburn.
Dark, slick, massive in build with an enormous neck and back, he looked exactly as she’d expected, right down to the trim goatee and calculating gaze.
“What’s going on here?” Murray sized her up, and though she knew she wouldn’t be to his liking, his gaze turned smarmy. “Who are you?”
Again Priss held out a hand. “Priscilla Patterson. I’m your daughter.”
TRACE SWALLOWED DOWN a curse. He wanted to toss the girl, in her ridiculous clothes with her ridiculous ponytail, over his shoulder to carry her out the front door—away from harm.
He wanted, quite simply, to kill Murray in front of her, then kill the rest of them, too. Little Ms. Patterson might be traumatized for life, but damn it, she’d be alive.
Unfortunately he couldn’t do a damn thing except stand there looking bored and mildly put out.
Murray’s gaze swung to him, blue eyes as cold as the arctic zeroing in. “What the fuck is this, Trace?”
“A nuisance, that’s all. I was just getting rid of her.” Trace clamped a hard hand onto her arm.
With a flick of his hand, Murray stopped him from taking a single step. He dismissed the other men and after they’d walked away, he looked at her again. His brows were down in that fierce way that made most people quake in fear.
It was an affectation wasted on Trace.
Beneath his well-trimmed goatee, Murray’s mouth was flat and hard. “Bring her up to my office.”
And with that, he walked away to the private elevators.
Fuck, fuck,
She looked almost smug when she said, “Getting there.” She gave a pointed look at his hand on her arm.
Ignoring that silent command, Trace high-stepped her toward an empty conference room on the lobby floor.
“Hey!” She tried to free herself, but couldn’t.
Funny thing, though, Trace noticed that she moved in an expedient, stylized way that, against someone without his level of skill, might have gotten her free. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
She worked up a few tears, letting them glisten on her long dark lashes. “
“Not yet,” Trace told her, unmoved by the false show of emotion. “But the idea of putting you over my knee gets more tempting by the second.”