He gave a halfhearted shrug.

Body rigid, Helene conceded the possibility of that, but still hissed to Trace, “Nothing to you personally.”

“I’m charged with protecting her.”

Helene leaned closer to him, her dilated eyes glittering, her breath sweet. “It’s none of your damn business.”

Aware of Murray taking it all in, Trace clasped her arm and moved her out of his line of vision. “You misunderstand, Murray. Whatever you want to do with Priscilla is your business. It’s Helene’s twisted little heart that sort of sours my stomach.” And then to Helene, “It’s kind of pathetic, the way you get your jollies, don’t you think?”

She lashed out. “Bastard!”

Trace caught her wrist before her palm connected with his face. In front of Murray, uncaring, he wrested her into a chair none too gently. His hands squeezed her wrists, keeping her still. She’d be bruised later, and he didn’t give a damn.

“Don’t ever,” he warned through his teeth, “try to slap me. You won’t like the consequences.”

Helene gasped in air, equal parts furious and aroused.

Psychotic bitch.

Trace stepped away from her and turned to Murray, ready to explain if necessary, only to find him smiling his Cheshire cat grin.

To Helene, Murray said, “Trace’s right, of course.” He took his suit coat from an ornate hook on the wall. “I’ll reprimand you later for that little display of rebellion.”

Shit. Trace didn’t want to feel guilty about Helene. He glanced at her, but the threat of punishment had only stirred her more. A flush stained her skin and her eyes were heavy, smoky with lust.

“You ready?” Trace asked Murray. He needed some fresh air in a bad way.

“I am.” On his way to the door, Murray paused to stand over Helene. “And you…”

Tremulous with excitement and fear, she flattened her back in the chair. “Yes?”

Murray cupped her face. “I think you should go see Priscilla. Take some of your drugs, the ones that help expose the truth. Ferret out her feelings—on me, on Trace, and on sexual deviance. Don’t hurt her, but otherwise…have fun. I’ll touch base with you when I finish my business for the night.”

His legs suddenly leaden, his heart missing a beat, Trace stood there, immobilized, sick. Murray didn’t trust him—didn’t trust anyone—and so his unending suspicions would never be satisfied. Trace’s instincts screamed for him to kill them both, right now, before they could touch Priss.

What to do?

Helene squealed like an excited schoolgirl. Leaping from her seat, she threw herself against Murray for a long, intimate, tongue-twining kiss.

Hearing his own heartbeat in his ears, Trace slipped his hand into his pocket. If he could use his phone without Murray noticing, he could alert Jackson to the problem.

But Murray released Hell and, anxious to be on his way, slapped Trace on the back. “Let’s go. You can drive. I don’t feel like taking an entourage tonight.”

Think, Trace. Get it together. Forcing concentrated thought, he said, “You don’t want backup?”

“You are my backup.” He glanced at Trace. “Think you can handle that?”

“As long as we aren’t ambushed by an army, yeah, I can handle it.”

“That’s what I’m counting on. I don’t want to alert anyone with a damn parade of cars or people. And I want to show this little f**k that I don’t need a contingent of men to demolish him.”

“All right.” It was risky. Trace knew it, so Murray had to know it, too. He was counting on the buyer coming alone, or with only a few men. But then, Murray had gotten to his position in the game by leading the front lines. He wasn’t a coward; no, he was more like a bully, always up for cruelty, especially when he could administer it himself. Maybe this was how he fed his sickness, by taking part every so often.

They left the office with Helene rushing past them. On her way to her own office, no doubt to gather the tools of her trade, she blew a kiss to Murray, and sent a look of fierce satisfaction at Trace.

She would demolish Priss. Murray’s order not to hurt her just meant no broken bones or scars. Anything else was fair game.

Helene would abuse her, sexually assault her, and leave her more destroyed than Priss could ever imagine. Priss had her strengths, but she wasn’t on a par with Helene.

He couldn’t let that happen. Jackson was on the scene, and he could handle things, Trace knew it. But he wouldn’t leave this to chance.

If necessary, he’d kill Murray. Tonight.

While Murray mused over what would take place between the women, Trace calculated how much time he had. Jackson was in the area, and he had dossiers on all the key players, including Helene. He’d recognize her if he saw her.

They were still in the garage when Helene rushed down and got into her own sporty little BMW convertible. From the passenger seat, Murray watched her, smiling in indulgence, rubbing his thigh, calculating.

Trace started the car. “You might not have a daughter left when Helene finishes with her.”

“She knows better,” Murray murmured. “Helene is something. Pity she’s so unstable.”

What the hell did that mean? Helene pulled out ahead of them at top speed, her tires squealing, her long hair blowing back with the top down.

It wasn’t until they’d nearly reached their destination that Murray got a phone call, distracting him enough for Trace to send Jackson the code. He prayed he was in time, and when he got a single hum of the phone in reply, he knew Jackson was on it.