She had just given Liger his food when a tap sounded on the connecting door. Priss’s heart leaped into her throat.
With excitement.
Not dread, or annoyance, or even indifference.
Pure, sizzling stimulation. Suddenly she was wide-awake.
Tamping down her automatic smile, Priss leaned on the door. “Yeah?”
“Open up.”
Still fighting that twitching grin, Priss tried to sound disgruntled as she asked, “Why?”
Something hit the door—maybe his head—and Trace said, “I heard you up and moving around, Priss. I have coffee ready, but if you don’t want any—”
Being a true caffeine junkie, she jerked open the door. “Oh, bless you, man.” She took the cup straight out of Trace’s hand, drank deeply and sighed as the warmth penetrated the thick fog of novel sentiment. “Ahhhh. Nirvana. Thank you.”
Only after the caffeine ingestion did she notice that Trace wore unsnapped jeans and nothing else. Her eyes flared wide and her jaw felt loose. Holy moly.
“That was my cup,” Trace told her, bemused.
But Priss could only stare at him. Despite the delicious coffee she’d just poured in it, her mouth went dry.
When she continued to stare at him, at his chest and abdomen, her gaze tracking a silky line of brown hair that disappeared into his jeans, Trace crossed his arms.
Her gaze jumped to his face and she found him watching her with equal fascination.
A little lost as to the reason for that look, Priss asked with some belligerence, “What?”
With a cryptic smile, Trace shook his head. “Never mind. Help yourself, and I’ll get another.”
Oh, crap, she’d snatched away his cup! “Sorry.”
He lifted a hand in dismissal and went to the coffee machine sitting atop the dresser. His jeans rode low on his hips. The sun had darkened his skin, creating a sharp contrast to his fair hair.
Another drink was in order, and another sigh of bliss. Hoping to regain her wits, Priss said, “God, nothing in the world tastes better than that first drink of coffee.”
Trace looked over his shoulder, his attention zeroing in on her mouth, then her chest and finally down to her bare legs. “Oh, I don’t know about that.
She eyed his gorgeous body, and raised a brow. “Doing a little flaunting of your own this morning, huh?”
“In deference to your delicate sensibilities, I pulled on jeans. Isn’t that enough?”
Enough for what, her peace of mind? Ha. Being around Trace, especially with him like this, half-naked, sent her heart racing like a marathon runner’s. “Maybe it would be,” Priss admitted, “if you don’t look so good.”
The compliment sent his right eyebrow arching high.
“Oh, come on, Trace. You know what you look like.” She visually devoured him again, more blatantly this time, and noticed a rise behind the fly of his jeans. For her?
Well-well-well. Flattering.
In case I’m not around to save your luscious ass, I wanted to know about the garage.”
She tipped her head, then said with a straight face devoid of humor, “You think my ass is luscious?”
He fought off another grin and shrugged. “Even for a man with hands my size, it’s big enough for a handful. But it’s not out of proportion with your equally notable rack.”
That must not have been the sweet talk Priss wanted, given her darkening expression.
Both hands fisted. “Pig.”
“You asked.
While Molly stood off to the side laughing, both dogs bounding around her, Priss snuggled up against Matt and got twirled right off her feet.
She put her head back and laughed aloud. Her hands clung to Matt’s shoulders.
Her pelvis flattened against his.
Long ropes of hair wrapped in silver foil stuck out around her head. She wore a cape and she had cotton wrapped in and around her toes.
For a woman set on murdering her father, she looked mighty happy.
Liger was the only one to notice Trace’s entrance. The big cat jumped down from the windowsill and started his way. Chris and Dare crowded in behind Trace.
And still Trace stood there in the open doorway, frozen with some anomalous, churning emotion.
Yeah, Matt was more than able to handle Priss. The son-of-a-bitch had just picked her up off her feet. Again.
And again, Priss held on to him.
Near his ear, Chris said, “Yeah, uh, this might be a good time to remind you that Matt is gay.”
“Somehow,” Trace told him, “that’s not mattering to me much right now.”
Dare said, “You never know when to quit, do you, Chris?”
As Matt twirled her around, Priss laughed without reserve, and Trace wanted her so damn bad that he couldn’t see straight.
Huffing from her exertion, her face flushed and her expression happy, she looked toward the door—and went still.
Dare pushed past Trace and went to the wall unit to turn down the music.
Into the silence, Chris asked, “Everyone having fun?”
“God, Chris,” Dare said. “Trace is going to kill you if you don’t shut up.”
“Really?” Priss struck a pose of annoyance, one hip cocked out, her arms crossed, her chin elevated. “And here Molly and Chris assured Matt that you weren’t the type to cause bodily harm.”
“They must have been jesting.” Trace was well used to Chris’s warped sense of humor, so Chris wasn’t in any danger. But Matt . . . Trace zeroed in on him. In a tone more lethal for the quietness of it, he asked, “What are you doing?”
“Harmless dancing?” Matt replied in a nervous question, unsure of the right answer.
Priss suddenly stepped in front of Matt, which left Matt bemused. “Don’t act snarky with him, Trace. I asked him to dance with me. We had some time to kill before this crud comes out of my hair. And you were nowhere to be found.”
Matt pulled her aside, earning a glare from Trace. He quickly held up his hands, palms out, to prove he wasn’t touching her. “Speaking of time, we can go wash your hair right now, if everyone will just excuse us.”
“I need a minute with Priss first.” Trace eyed her militant stance, and had to fight a smile. She had a backbone of steel. He liked that. “Alone.
Silence reigned for half a minute, then she said, “Heck of a shiner you’ve got there.”
Again his mouth quirked with a grin. “It’ll probably look worse in a few more hours.” One thing about Priss, she would always amuse him. “You took me by surprise so it was a direct shot.”
Subdued, she hung her head. “Pure reaction to realizing I’d been drugged. Sorry.”
Pure reaction? Meaning she was trained enough to react by instinct? Every hour he learned something new about her. If she was trained, that would be a good thing. Not that she could possibly have enough instruction to deflect the likes of Murray. “I’m fine, Priss. Don’t worry about it.”
“I won’t.
Does anyone swim in there?”
“Everyone does.” Without thinking, he added, “I can bring you back sometime when we’re not so pressed for—” Trace caught himself before finishing that awesome thought. Pressed for time or not, the odds of him ever returning here with Priss were slim to none.
Gaze cynical, Priss looked at him over her shoulder. “Yeah, right. Maybe we’ll do that.” She turned to face him. “Sometime when we’re not at odds, when we’re not dealing with a madman who enjoys selling women, when you haven’t just drugged me earlier in the day?”
Trace rubbed the back of his neck. “All of the above.
I’m not a person who does well with idle time.”
“Seriously? I never would have guessed.”
His teasing didn’t bother her, especially when she looked at her ring again. Smaller diamonds surrounded the impressive princess-cut stone, making it glint brightly in the sunlight. “It is so perfect.”
“If it’s not, we can exchange it—”
She snatched the ring up close to her chest. “Never.”
Trace gave a slow, sexy grin. “So, Priscilla Patterson, since you approve of my job, my home, my friends and my ring, will you try another new experience—and marry me?”
Joy bubbled up, but she didn’t want to shout just yet. “When you go off to—” She glanced at Matt “—work, will you at least tell me what’s going on?”
“Yes. As much as I can.”
“Will you be honest about the danger involved?”
“I’ll be honest with you about everything.”
“Okay.” She peeked at him, and winced in dread. “Did you want a big wedding?”
Trace frowned at the continued line of questioning. “I want whatever you want.”
That almost made her cry, too. “Another first,” she whispered, because before now, what she wanted hadn’t really mattered. She kept smoothing her hands over his chest, as always drawn by his physique. “You should enter a wet T-shirt contest. You’d win.”
Chris snorted, but Matt agreed.
Jackson stood quietly as Alani came into the house. Unlike the other women, she didn’t wear a swimsuit. Shame. He’d love to see her in one. Everyone had duly celebrated Trace’s engagement, and Alani seemed taken with Priss—but then, who wouldn’t be? Priss was funny, smart, cute and—luckily for Trace—stacked.
Unaware of Jackson, Alani stopped to look out the patio doors. She looked . . . wistful. Like maybe she wanted to take part, but couldn’t.
In so many ways, despite being kidnapped by flesh peddlers, or maybe because of that, she was still an innocent. At just-barely twenty-three, she acted much older.
Like a virgin spinster.
Every night, in his dreams, they burned up the sheets.
Here, in reality, she avoided him. She avoided involvement.
But he’d get her over that. Somehow.
Suddenly Priss came in, wet hair sleek down her back, rivulets of water trailing between her breasts. She spotted Jackson right off and, after smiling at Alani, asked them both, “Why aren’t you guys coming down to swim?”
Alani jerked around to stare at Jackson with big eyes.
His crooked smile told her that he had her in his sights. “I was just about to ask Alani that.”
Priss laughed. “You’re still dressed.”
“I can undress fast enough.” He looked at Alani. “What about you?”
Her lips parted. “No, I . . . didn’t bring a suit.”
“Pity. Maybe we could move up to the cove and skinny-dip in private?”
Pointing a finger at him, Priss said, “Behave, you reprobate!” And then to Alani, “Beware of that one.”
Still watching him, Alani nodded.
I’m heading out.”
Her gaze searched his and, a little breathless, she asked, “Leaving?”
“Yeah.” He stepped closer. Any second how Trace would intrude. “Thing is, Alani, I can’t be around you without wanting you. Bad. Really bad.”
“Oh.”
“If that’s crude, well, then screw it, I’m crude. I know we’d have a great time in bed, but since you aren’t ready for that yet, well . . . I promised Trace I wouldn’t pressure you.”
Her neck went stiff. “Dear God. You discussed this with my brother?”
“No!” He cut a hand through the air and his voice lowered. “When . . . if . . . I get you out of your panties, believe me, it’ll be a private thing between us. No way in hell would I discuss that with anyone else.”
Her face went as red as Priss’s had.
“Trace and I talked about you maybe decorating my house, that’s all.”
“Oh.” Face still hot, she said, “I—”
“Yeah, forget it. That’s off. Like I said, I’d just hanker for you, and you aren’t exactly reciprocating. So that’s that.”
She blinked fast.
“But if you ever change your mind, all you have to do is let me know.” He reached out and touched her cheek. Her skin was soft and warm and he wanted to feel her all over.
All over him. Naked. Hungry. Wet . . .
Damn, he had it bad. “I can promise you, if you do come to me, you won’t regret it.”
She swallowed, licked her lips and damned if her eyes didn’t heat. She wanted him, too. He had to believe that. But Trace was starting up the hill, and the others were looking on, and the last thing he wanted was to make Alani uncomfortable.
“Tell everyone I said goodbye. You make up any excuse you want.” And with that, he left Alani standing there, watching after him as he walked away.
God willing, she’d contact him soon.
He wasn’t sure he could stand it if she didn’t.
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