“Barhopping doesn’t work with my cover.”

His jaw tightened. “I’ll think of something. But from here on out, you’re in survival mode. Got it?”

“No.” Nothing and no one would keep her from doing what needed to be done. Priss tried to open her door, but it still didn’t budge. “Unlock it.”

Instead he pulled her around to face him. He started to blast her, but something funny happened. Instead of reading her the riot act, he stared into her eyes, then down at her mouth. His entire demeanor changed. He looked just as tense, but now for different, hotter reasons.

He still stared intently at her mouth when Priss heard the lock click open. She glanced down and saw that Trace had reached back for the door, all without breaking that disturbing, electrifying visual contact with her.

She met his gaze again, and softened. Damn, but resisting Trace wouldn’t be easy, not if he kept looking at her like that. “You’re coming in, too?”

“Yes.” Suddenly, almost violently, he turned away from her and left the car. Still a gentleman, he strode around to her side and opened her door. “Let’s get this night over with.”

Well. That sounded insulting. Priss would have let herself out, except that she had to extract the room key from a hidden pocket in the design of her purse.

“Fine.” She moved out of the car to stand beside him. “But when we go in, watch where you step.”

“Why?” Taking her arm, he started for the entrance, again surveying the area all around them. “You have land mines hidden around?”

Priss ignored him. “It’s this way.” She took the lead, steering him toward the side entrance. Nearby police sirens screamed, competing with music from the bar next door. “I’m on the second floor.”

They passed a hooker fondling a man against the brick facing of the building. Priss stepped over and around a broken bottle. Tires squealed and someone shouted profanities.

Distaste left a sour expression on Trace’s face. “This dive needs to be condemned.”

“Maybe, but it’s shady enough that no one asked me any questions when I checked in.”

“It’s also shady enough that you could get mugged, raped or murdered in the damned lot and no one would notice.”

Priss shook her head. “I’m not worried about that.” They went up the metal stairs, precariously attached to the structure.

After muttering a rude sound, Trace said, “There’s a lot you should be worried about, but aren’t.”

No reason to debate it with him. Her options on what to worry about, and what to ignore, were pretty damned limited. “This way.”

The ancient run-down house had been reworked in better years to accommodate four separate tenants. She was on the back corner, facing the bar.

Trace nodded toward the rowdy establishment. “It fired up early.”

“My understanding is that it opens with lunch and is going pretty strong by early dinner. It won’t bother me. I’m used to that type of noise.”

Trace gave her a long look, but Priss refused to meet his probing gaze.

Using the key, she unlocked the dead bolt and then the door lock. “Careful now.”

“Careful of what?” Trace asked.

They stepped in and before she could turn on a light, a low growl sounded. Behind her, Trace froze.

But not for long.

Somehow, before she even knew it, Priss found herself behind Trace, pressed to the wall. When she realized he’d pulled his gun, she smacked his shoulder. “Don’t you dare shoot my cat!”

His confusion was palpable. “Cat?”

“Yes, as in a pet.” Priss stepped away from him and found a lamp. Though she’d checked in days before contacting Murray, she wasn’t yet entirely accustomed to the space. She fumbled for a moment before getting the light on.

Liger, her enormous kitty, came over to her and rubbed his head against her shin. Priss knelt down to hug him, to stroke along his broad back. She got a throaty purr in response.

Gun now hanging limp at his side, Trace stared at her. “You have to be kidding me.”

“Put away your gun, Trace.” She dropped to her butt on the floor and let Liger crawl into her lap. Because he was twenty-three pounds of solid love, he overflowed in every direction. Priss laughed as he ran the edge of his teeth along her knee, then rolled to his back.

“Good God. That’s a domestic cat? Really? I’ve never seen one so big.”

“He’s a Maine coon. They’re naturally large.”

“You’re telling me that’s a normal size?”

“For the males, yeah. I found him at a shelter a few years ago. Isn’t he beautiful?”

“Actually…” Trace holstered the gun and hunkered down beside her. “Yeah. He is.”

For whatever reason, that surprised Priss. “You like animals?”

“Sure.” He held out a hand to Liger. “Is he friendly?”

Priss rubbed her nose against the cat’s neck. “Very. He’s also really smart. He’s a big lover boy, aren’t you, Liger?”

The cat watched Trace, then put a giant paw on his thigh. He let out another snarl, making Trace go still.

“That’s just his way of checking you out. He won’t bite,” Priss assured him. “I mean, he will, but not unless you were doing something you shouldn’t.”

“He has his claws?”