But she kissed like a schoolgirl.

Drawn inexplicably by the snare of inexperience, Trace teased her lips with his tongue. She had the most amazing mouth, so full and soft, so damn sexy.

On a shaky breath, she parted her lips, and he dipped his tongue inside.

Priss went very still, poised on tiptoes, breathing fast and hard through her nose. Unable to help himself, Trace held her head in both hands and fit himself to her more securely, deepening the kiss, gently ravaging her sweet mouth.

She moaned, excited and accepting, but not really…participating. He had the awful suspicion she didn’t know how.

Could it be possible? Trace eased back to look at her. Her eyes were closed, her nostrils flared, her body leaning into his, flushed and ripe.

Over a kiss.

Slowly, her thick lashes lifted to reveal her dilated eyes. “Trace?”

Son-of-a-bitch. He knew women, and while he suspected Priss was devious enough to outact an Emmy winner when it suited her purpose, he didn’t think she was faking it now. The woman reeked of sexual purity, of carnal curiosity and a craving of the unknown.

Why him? Why the hell did he have to be the one to gain her attention? Not that he much liked the idea of anyone else initiating her—Jesus, what an old-fashioned idea—especially not that freak, Murray.

Priss looked at his mouth with naked yearning. Each deep breath caused her br**sts to strain against the soft cotton tee, repeatedly drawing his attention to them.

Her tongue touched her upper lip, then retreated. “What’s wrong?”

Trace wanted to implode. Seconds ago, she’d edged near panic at the mention of rape; now she sounded as eager as he felt.

But he didn’t dare follow through with all he wanted. Not yet. Not with so much on the line.

“Go get dressed.” Taking a deliberate step away from her, and then another, Trace tried to distance himself from her. He could see the fine trembling in her small but lush body. Her ni**les pebbled against the T-shirt, begging for the touch of his fingers.

Or his mouth.

A delicate flush warmed her skin.

He steeled himself against it all. “I’ll see you back here in ten minutes.”

Confusion, and then shame, shadowed Priss’s hungry expression before that stubborn chin of hers went into the air. “In a hurry to leave, are we?”

“We have a lot to get done.” Unable to bear the hurt still visible in her gaze, Trace turned his back on her. His pulse pounded and his guts clenched. “Wear your regular clothes, something comfortable for a long ride.” God, I’d like to take her on a long ride, with both of us naked, her straining under me—

“Where are we going?”

Pushed to the limit, Trace ignored her question; conversing with her further would do nothing to cool his desire. He needed away from her. He needed her fully dressed.

Besides, the fewer details she knew, the better. For her, and for him.

As he gathered up his own change of clothes and shaving kit, he said, “Ten minutes, Priss.”

Priss sauntered up behind him, so close that he felt her nearness like the static of a violent storm. It sizzled along his nerve endings, sent a thrumming through his blood.

“You are so damn secretive,” she complained, and then to Liger, “Let’s go, baby. We didn’t want to shower with him anyway.”

The second the connecting door closed, Trace dropped back against a wall, squeezed his eyes shut and groaned softly. Shower with her? Hell, yeah, he’d love that. The idea of running soap-slick hands over all of her rich curves and sexy hollows was enough to take out his knees.

He remembered how she looked in that itty-bitty thong and barely there bra, not just her body, but her defiance, her pride. Few women could have handled that situation with such cool emotional control.

He knew a cold shower was in order. It would help with his boner, but not with the rest of his turbulence, because with her, it was more than the physical attributes that got to him. So much more.

Shit.

For reasons beyond the obvious, he needed to avoid added involvement with Priscilla Patterson. It wasn’t just the job he had to protect, but his heart, as well.

And just when in hell had he gotten a heart?

Other than the people he’d die for, his sister and his best friends, everyone was a means to an end, a way for him to carry out an assignment. They made up the puzzle pieces necessary to put together a clear picture. Period.

He kept bystanders as safe as he could, but he did not care for them. Not that way.

Not this way.

Trace pushed off of the wall and stalked into the bathroom. He turned on the cold water full blast and shucked off his jeans.

It would be a change of pace for him, but he needed to repel Priss, to make her not want him. Fighting himself was difficult enough—fighting her, too, would be impossible.

Whatever it took, he needed Priss to see him as one of the bad guys. Given his self-appointed role in this undercover sting, and the heinous things Murray required of him, it shouldn’t be too hard to do. He’d just act out his part, and in the end, she’d despise him almost as much as she did Murray.

And with that decision made, Trace stepped into the icy water and prayed for a clearer head, and a surcease of the sensual torment.

PRISS STEWED IN HER ANGER, stoking the embers even as she showered, as she brushed out her long hair and dressed. Even as she brushed Liger, talking to him in a crooning voice she hoped hid her real emotions.

Why had Trace kissed her, only to reject her? A game? A test?