Yeah, she’d gotten that impression.

“No way in hell is he going to let anyone get close, most definitely not a daughter. A dissipated son, maybe. Murray could relate to that. But a fresh-faced, moral daughter? Not in this lifetime.”

So her con had been wrong from the very beginning. And if she’d really done her homework, she’d have known that. But no, she’d gotten high on her need for revenge, and she’d gone off half-cocked on righteousness. “Damn.”

“Yeah.” Trace rolled one shoulder. “Look at it this way, what you’re presenting and the way you’re presenting it is the antithesis to what Murray wants in his life.”

Now that her perspective was different, Priss knew he was probably right. “I see your point.” It sickened Priss to even consider it, but she said it anyway. “Maybe I should have tried to…you know, come on to him?” She fought off a gag.

“Hell, no!” Trace sent her a furious glare. “He’d have used you, then shared you, then sold you.”

Her temper unraveled without warning. “Then what should I have done?” Hurt squeezed in on Priss, prodded by memories of her mother’s fear and the irreversible damage done to her. Her mother had lived in hell, never able to escape the past or the constant terror of being caught again. She saw things that weren’t there, ran from men who only wanted conversation, and for all intents and purposes, she’d kept Priss hidden.

She’d kept her a prisoner.

For her own good. Or so her mother had always said.

Her life had consisted of undue caution, warnings, crying jags and wretched, clinging panic.

Priss said again, more quietly this time, “What should I have done?” If she didn’t make Murray pay, then it was all for nothing—her mother’s suffering, her abysmal upbringing, all of it.

Her life had little enough meaning already. Without this one driving purpose, she’d have…nothing at all.

WHEN PRISS GOT QUIET, it bothered Trace. He knew right where her thoughts had gone. He didn’t want to push her, but the sooner they got it all out in the open, the sooner they could deal with it.

She sat slumped beside him, her head resting against the back of the seat, one hand beside her, the other braced against the door where it met the window.

The casual pose didn’t fool him; he could feel her throbbing tension, and the pain she tried to hide.

Trace reached for her hand and gave her fingers a squeeze. Quietly, he asked, “Do you want to talk about your mother?”

Without looking at him, without even an ounce of real interest, Priss said, “No, why? You want to talk about what it is you and Dare do?”

Exasperated, Trace released her. “What does one have to do with the other?”

“I was raised not to trust any man.” Leisurely, she rolled her head to face him. “That includes you. Especially you.”

They needed a break, and she needed to eat. Thinking food might improve her disposition, he pulled into a gas station with a small store attached.

“Come on. Pick out some food and then I’ll tell you what I can.”

She immediately perked up. “Really? You mean it?”

“That hungry?” He smiled at her newly animated expression.

Priss shook her head. “That curious.”

The second he parked the truck, she opened her door and got out. Trace had to hustle to keep up with her. He grabbed her arm before she could step into the store.

“You need to show a little more caution, at all times.”

At a more sedate pace, they entered, and Priss grabbed a burrito, chips, a soda and prepackaged doughnuts. Trace bought his own drink, but he was careful not to touch Priss’s food. He was afraid if he did, she’d find a reason to refuse it.

When they returned to the truck, he scanned the area and found it clear. While Priss prepared her food, he put in a call to Jackson.

Priss pretended preoccupation, but he knew she listened to, and memorized, every word.

Jackson answered on the first ring but said nothing.

“I need you on duty tonight.”

Recognizing Trace’s voice, he said, “Yeah? Doing what?”

There was something about Jackson that often rubbed Trace the wrong way. Maybe it was how Jackson and his sister, Alani, always squabbled. Or maybe it was that women ogled him nonstop.

Feeling a little tetchy about the idea of Jackson keeping an eye on Priss, Trace growled, “Does it matter?”

“Nope.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Like a parent schooling a kid, Jackson said, “I kind of need some instruction here, Trace. I’m not psychic. Or did you want me to guess?”

Shit. Trace rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I thought Dare had told you.”

“Nope. Nothing specific anyway.”

He let out a breath that didn’t really do much to hedge his possessiveness. “Murray wants me to accompany him tonight.”

Jackson’s whistle of surprise was nearly drowned out as Priss choked on her drink. Trace reached over and rubbed between her shoulder blades while she bent forward, coughing.

“So he’s finally biting.” Jackson sounded duly impressed with the progress. “’Bout damn time.”

A little early, actually, which was why Trace had to assume this might be a trap. “While I’m gone, I want eyes on Priss. Every minute.”

“Got it.”

“I need you ready to intervene if it comes to that.” And once again, Trace despised that he might have to rely on someone else. That it had happened with his sister still burned him. He didn’t want to entrust Priss’s care to anyone else. He trusted Jackson’s ability to handle things or he wouldn’t be working with him, but…that wasn’t the point.