Along the way, he’d occasionally had to manipulate an innocent, always without real harm.

But this time, with Priss…an unbearable churning of guilt, regret and anger left him keyed up and furious.

What was it about Priscilla Patterson that turned him inside out like this? More than most, he understood the need for a clear head, for uncompromised dedication to seeing the job through.

Murray and his ilk, his associates and admirers, were a waste of humanity at best, a threat to unprotected people at worst. After what had happened to his sister, no way in hell could Trace let any of them slide. He’d see them all in hell before he quit.

But with Priss in his arms, her damned oversize cat staring at him with unblinking eyes, Trace wanted to rage against the fates. Why had she come into his life at this particular moment?

Drugging Priss was necessary; he couldn’t put his friend Dare, or Dare’s new wife, at risk.

Would Priss understand?

Would she forgive him?

“Shit.” After scrubbing a hand over his face, he then drifted it more gently over Priss’s silky hair. She wore that damned ponytail again, which was a shame. He liked her hair long and loose. It was so damned sexy.

Out of self-preservation, he levered her away from him and into her own seat. Drugged, she looked deceptively sweet and demure.

Right.

The woman didn’t have a demure bone in her small, lust-inspiring body, and she epitomized deception. So why the hell should he care if she forgave him or not? They had jack squat in common. It wasn’t like they’d ever be in a relationship—beyond their joint but denied efforts to destroy Murray Coburn.

Yeah, he believed that to be her motive. Why she wanted to destroy Murray—that’s what he needed to figure out. Once he had all the facts, he could decide how far she was willing to go, and how much she’d sacrifice, who she would sacrifice, to reach her goal.

Using just one knuckle, Trace smoothed over her temple, her cheek, and down her pale throat, pausing where her pulse beat steadily.

Shaking his head, he accepted that he was more pathetic than a high school geek on his first date.

The buzzing of his cell phone brought him out of his absurd mind-set of regret. Liger continued to stare with what looked like recrimination.

“You don’t know anything about it,” Trace told the cat as he dug out the phone and flipped it open to answer with a succinct, “Miller.”

“Where are you?”

Murray. It needed only this. Bland, his constant throbbing of anger tamped into submission, Trace replied, “At this precise moment, or overall?”

“Never mind that. I don’t really give a shit. I just need to know that you can be back here by seven tonight.”

Trace’s mind whirled with possibilities, but he still sounded robotic and detached when he said, “To the office?”

“Yeah. Is that a problem?”

“You want me there, I’ll be there.” Trace glanced at his watch. Yeah, he had enough time to make the trip, put Priss through the routine and get back. His gaze went to Priss; he’d hate it if he’d drugged her for no reason. “What’s up?”

“I want you to accompany me on some business tonight.”

An exchange? The sick bastard wanted him to take part in selling women?

Both with fury and anticipation, Trace’s heart clenched and every muscle in his body tightened. This was the first time he’d been invited to witness a business deal; it could be the in he’d been looking for.

Seeing Priss passed out beside him, knowing she might be next in Murray’s deadly game, Trace almost snarled into the phone, “I see.”

There was a pause, and then Murray asked silkily, “Am I sensing some animus here?”

“No.” He kept his reply short to minimize the chance of Murray hearing real animus—like the “I’m going to take great f**king pleasure in tearing you apart” kind of animus. “Seven at the office. Got it.”

“Good. So tell me, is everything going well with Priscilla?”

Given the perfect segue, Trace rubbed the back of his neck and said, “She’s a bumpkin, Murray.”

“Are you referring to something specific?”

Cursing silently, Trace looked away from Priss; even with her passed out cold, he couldn’t bear to see her while betraying her privacy in such a way. His hope was that he could preserve her modesty by gaining Murray’s interest in her…down-to-earth uniqueness.

She was certainly different from the elite socialites surrounding Murray. As regular patrons of the finest beauty spas, those pampered ladies considered a Brazilian wax a fashion necessity.

In contrast to their polish, Priss’s wholesome and un-contrived beauty could be considered a novelty.

“No tattoos, no piercings.” Trace pinched the bridge of his nose and said, “And she’s never been…trimmed.”

“Come again?”

Plain speaking didn’t feel right when Priss was the woman under discussion. Trace sought less crude, insulting words. “She’s au natural.”

Heightened, almost electric delight came through the phone as Murray asked in a hushed, gleeful tone, “You mean…?”

So he had to spell it out? “Between her legs.” Trace flexed his free hand, trying to release the building tension. Basic, territorial instinct made it nearly impossible for him to discuss Priss so intimately with Murray. “Otherwise, she’s as groomed as any other woman.”