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 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.”
Sensually stroked by that hot glance and the low timbre of his suggestive words, Priss followed him in. So did Liger. Now fed, the big cat strode past her and leaped up to Trace’s bed, disturbing the covers that Trace had already smoothed back into place. Liger chose to stretch across the pillows near the headboard. He pawed the soft cotton a moment, showed his claws, yawned and relaxed.
Trace gestured toward the small round table and two chairs. “Take a seat, Priss.”
Last night, after relocating to the hotel, she and Trace had eaten dinner at that table. It had been … nice.
A revelation even.
They’d shared quiet conversation, talking about everything under the sun without either of them giving away anything too personal or important. Pure chitchat. A way to pass the time.
For Trace, it had seemed mundane, a casual occurrence that he’d indulged many times.
For Priss, it was a profound thing to sit across from a man and really, truly enjoy him—his appearance, his sense of humor and wit, his intelligence and his attention. Even while eating a loaded cheeseburger, he’d stayed alert to every sound in the hallway and parking lot, and every movement she made, no matter how big or small. Having his undivided interest, protected by his irrefutable competence, had been really nice.
“I don’t mind sitting.” But first … Priss finished off her coffee and looked at the full pot. “Is it all right if I get a refill?”
“Help yourself.”
When Priss moved toward the coffee machine, rather than give her room, Trace leaned back on the edge of the dresser and watched her. She could detect his early-morning scent of warm skin, musky male and palpable sex appeal. Delicious.
Would he smell that sinful up close, if she put her nose in his neck, or near that solid chest? Or … maybe lower?
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 didn’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.
“I’m sure you’ve had more than your fair share of adoration.”
He recovered with a level look of mockery. “I’m thirty years old, brat, so you can assume I’ve seen some adoration—and suffered bouts of total rejection.”
“Rejection? Really?” She found that hard to fathom. “Either you’ve known some stupid women, or there’s a side of you I haven’t yet witnessed.”
“It’s safe to say that you’ve seen only the side I chose to show you.”
“Hmm.” It was difficult to absorb Trace’s provoking words, given that his body hair fascinated her. It scattered over his chest and trailed down his abdomen. Even the hair on his forearms, covering muscles and large bone, somehow seemed supersexy. It was shades darker than the pale hair on his head, but then, his lashes and brows were dark, too. And that interesting beard stubble …
Unable to stop herself, Priss reached out and stroked her fingers along his jaw. “I like this early-morning side of you. You look … I don’t know. Raw and very manly.”
Other than the narrowing of his eyes, Trace held perfectly still.
Catching herself, Priss dropped her hand and went to the table. “I don’t suppose we could order up breakfast?”
For long moments he continued to study her. “I’d rather we get ready and go out. Anything that can be checked, like room service for two, should be avoided.”
“To maintain both our covers?” Not that Priss expected him to admit to a cover. It was enough that he’d put her in a room close to his, near the ground floor, with access to stairs and back exits that disappeared into busy roads.
“To keep you safe.” Trace joined her at the table. “If Murray suspects you of being anything other than what you say you are—”
“I know, I know. I’m fish food.” She made a face. “We need to talk about something else, at least until I’m awake enough to show my true contempt for good old Murray.”
“How about you tell me why you want to kill him?”
She had wondered when he’d come back around to that. “On an empty stomach? Bleh.”
“You’ll tell me later?”
“Sure,” she lied, “if you’ll change the subject to something more palatable for now.”
“All right.” Trace sipped his coffee with more restraint than she’d been able to show. “How’d you sleep?”
“Like the dead, thank you.”
He gave a theatrical wince. “Bad analogy,