скачать книгу бесплатно
“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.”
Pert little ass? Frowning, she looked behind herself. From what she could see, her ass—pert or otherwise—looked nonexistent thanks to the shape of the skirt.
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, fuck. Glaring at the girl, Trace asked, “Happy now?”
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. “You’re hurting me.”
“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.”
That left her tight-lipped and silent—with no remnant of tears to be seen.
Trace propelled her into a room and toward a conference table with chairs. “Sit.” When she started to defy him, he filled his lungs and made a move toward her.
She dropped into a seat. “Why are you doing this?” Hands gripping the chair arms, she summoned up lost bravado and lifted her chin. “You heard what Mr. Coburn said. He wants you to take me to his office.”
“Yeah. But I heard what he didn’t say, too.”
She shook her head. “What are you talking about?”
“I have to search you.”
Aghast, she said, “I beg your pardon?”
“Beg all you want.” He was so pissed right now, he might enjoy hearing it. “I’m still going to check you over. Everywhere.”
Her eyes widened in alarm.
Too late, honey. Trace nodded at her, grim, but sort of anticipating it, too. “Every nook and hollow, honey, inside every piece of clothing.”
She sputtered, and Trace noticed the flush blooming in her cheeks.
With her entire small body pulled tight in rebellion, she gasped, “You’re insane!”
Trace propped his shoulders against the wall. “If you want to see Coburn, I have to ensure you aren’t hiding a weapon, or a transmitter, of any kind.”
“No.”
“Fine.” Perfect, in fact. “Then leave. Right now.”
She hesitated. “But …”
Again, Trace took his gaze over her. She tried to hide her body under the prim clothes, but he wasn’t fooled. He’d bet his favorite knife that this particular babe was in no way innocent. Whether or not she was Murray’s spawn, he couldn’t say. There did seem to be something of a resemblance in the color of her hair, though hers was a shade or two lighter than Murray’s. And when she connived, which she’d been doing from jump, she had a certain look about her that reminded him of Coburn.
Trace glanced at the chunky black watch on his wrist. “Make up your mind, but make it up fast. What’s it to be? Do you want to leave, or do you want my hands all over you?”
The new gleam of tears looked authentic, but her chin didn’t lower. “I’m not leaving.”
Trace pushed away from the wall. “Up with you, then.” He caught her elbow, drawing her to her feet. The top of her head barely reached his chin. She had a delicate bone structure, but was clearly filled with underlying steel.
He turned her. “Put your hands flat on the table and spread your legs wide.”
For a span of five seconds, she didn’t move. Her shoulders were rigid, her neck stiff. That high, dark red ponytail hung almost to the middle of her back. Freed, her hair would just kiss the top of her ass.
He smoothed his hand down that long tail—and his palms burned.
As if in slow motion she plopped her heavy, loaded purse onto the tabletop. First her left hand, then her right, landed on the table, fingers opened for balance.
Trace gently kicked her feet back a little, then said, “Open up, honey.”
Her narrow back expanded on a breath of courage. She lifted her right foot and dropped it back down a few inches away.
Trace took great pleasure in saying softly, “Wider.”
When she still barely moved, he stepped up behind her. Holding her waist, he nudged her feet far apart, as far as the skirt would allow.
The muscles in her bare calves strained. The skirt pulled taut around that rounded behind. Her shoulders remained as proud and stiff as ever.
They were in a position of lovers, so it was no wonder that he suddenly noticed her delectable scent. Baby soft, and woman sweet.
His nostrils flared—and he forced himself to step away.
“Stay like that.” Moving to the side of her, Trace upended her purse on the tabletop. Photos, pen, notebook, makeup, brush, comb, mirror, tissues, calculator, candy bar, book … “Jesus, everything but the kitchen sink.”
“Bastard,” she whispered.
He tsked. “Now, is that any way for a schoolgirl to talk?”
“I’m a grown woman.”
“Yeah? How old?”
He could almost hear the sawing of her teeth before she ground out, “Twenty-four.”
Trace opened her wallet and checked her driver’s license. “Twenty-four,” he agreed. “But dressed like a parochial pupil.” With no more than a casual glance he memorized her address. Seemed odd that she’d live in the same state as Murray if they’d never met.
Soon as he could, he’d have the address checked out.
But just in case Murray had the same thought … Trace glanced at her, saw her gaze was averted, and slid the license into his pocket.
He rifled through the rest of her belongings, searched the interior of the purse for any hidden pockets. “Speaking of your clothes …” He glanced at her. “I’m not fooled, so you can save the prim act.”
She whipped her head around to burn him with a look. The tight ponytail emphasized her high cheekbones, the straight bridge of her nose. “You’re suggesting what, exactly?”
Trace examined a photo of her as a younger girl with a woman who looked a lot like her. Maybe her mother.
Even when young, she’d still looked pugnacious, as if preparing to take on the world. The photo left him unsettled. “You’re up to something, and I don’t like it.”
“It’s none of your business.”
He continued his examination of her belongings, saying casually, “Who gets killed around here is my business.”
There was a pause, but no real fear. “You think my own father would kill me?”
Trace scrutinized her. She was more subtle, but in her own way, he had no doubt that she could be every bit as lethal as Hell. The edge of danger was there in her clear green eyes, in her too-cool voice. Under the circumstances, she was one amazingly composed cookie.
He’d have to remember that.
As she watched him look her over, Trace stepped around behind her. “Eyes forward.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“As well you shouldn’t.” He put his hands on her throat. Silk. Warm, sleek silk. Slowly, he dragged his fingers down to her shoulders, then down each arm. So slim, and so damn young.
In a real pat-down, he’d be thorough, but fast. Not this time. If he could get her out of here, he was willing to cross the line. Priscilla Patterson might be an enigma with a double agenda, but he still didn’t want to see her slaughtered. And if she played with Coburn, that’s what would happen.
“Easy now.” He put his hands over her breasts—and realized she’d bound herself. He quirked a brow. “Hiding something?”
Strained, she rasped, “I’m modest.”
“Uh-huh.” He went down her ribs to her concave belly, over the lush swell of her hips, the length of her thighs, and back up under her skirt.
She jerked.
Voice low and rough, Trace said, “Be still.” Keeping one hand on the small of her back, he reached up between her legs. Very skimpy panties—and nothing else.
Well, heat. Lots of heat.
He brought his palm to the soft flesh of each inner thigh, cupped over her crotch where he felt her springy curls beneath the silky material of underwear, and—
“You can tell I’m not hiding anything!”
“You’re hiding something, all right.” Reluctantly, Trace brought his hand out but his fingers and palm continued to tingle. For a moment, he clasped her hips and just held her like that, bringing himself under iron control. When she started to straighten, he said, “Not yet.”
Her forehead hit the tabletop and she groaned. Her legs were still straight, leaving her bottom high, in the perfect position for sex. This way, a man would go so deep—
As if knowing his thoughts, she locked her hands over her head and gave a low growl, bringing a reluctant and crooked smile to his mouth.
She didn’t intimidate easily, and he’d tormented himself enough. “Straighten up so I can unbutton your blouse.”
“Why?”
“I need to go beneath the binding.”
She started to shake. Trace had a feeling it was repressed rage, not nervousness. But she did straighten her arms, levering her chest up and away from the table.
