She had to put aside her desire for him to get his phone and delete that hideous photo from his email before he stored it anywhere else. And she had to ingratiate herself with him somehow to get him to reveal his real purpose with Murray.

When Trace tapped at her door, she jumped.

“You ready?”

Her jaw tightened. Pushing up and away from the bed where she sat with Liger, Priss cleared her throat. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

He opened the door. His gaze moved over her, from her hair tied in a high ponytail to her sloppy T-shirt and jeans, down to her flip-flops. “You are such a chameleon.”

“You said comfortable clothes.”

One hand braced overhead on the door frame, the other braced to his right, Trace nodded. “It’s fine.” Suddenly he looked resigned. He stepped in and his eyes narrowed. He held out a hand.

There was something in his eyes, something dark and dangerous that she didn’t trust, she just didn’t know. But he kept his hand out, so she accepted it.

He pulled her forward.

Would he kiss her again? Her heart thumped in a frantic rhythm. Would he apologize and explain? Would he—

Trace turned her to face the dresser, her back to his chest. His hands slid from her shoulders down her arms to her wrists.

He put her hands flat on the dresser. “You know the drill.”

The drill? Her eyes widened at her reflection in the dresser mirror. He wouldn’t dare.

With one foot, Trace nudged her into a wider stance. “Just relax. I’ll be quick about it and then we can get out of here.”

“Like hell, I will!” But when she started to turn, he held her, his arms like steel, his determination inflexible. “Damn you, Trace, you already know—”

“What?” His mouth was very close to her ear, his breath warm and soft. “That you’re some sweet little girl just looking for her daddy?”

Priss kept her mouth shut; she had never been a “sweet little” anything.

Stepping up so close that his hard body touched all along her back, Trace said, “That you don’t have a secret agenda, an agenda that could jeopardize a hell of a lot?”

“Like your agenda?”

He didn’t take the bait. His fingertips, rough textured, hot and firm, stroked the insides of her wrists. “Am I to accept that you’re exactly who you claim to be, Priss, a woman without secrets?”

His sarcasm, though spoken calmly, almost seductively, left her lungs aching with anger. “You bastard.”

“You have that right.” His hands flattened over hers; his gaze met hers in the mirror. “Now stand here like a good girl and let me do my job.”

No way in hell would she give him permission. And she couldn’t really fight him without giving herself away. Since she wasn’t sure a fight would accomplish anything substantial, she simply stared at him, daring him to get it over with.

His mouth quirked. “You’ve got backbone, honey, I’ll give you that.”

It might have been a compliment, except that his hands then went exploring, up her arms, into her armpits, down her rib cage and hips. His fingers prodded, stroked, caressed.

“I am not your honey.” Her breath labored; she would not let him hear her pant, not with anxiety or excitement.

As his palms coasted up the inside of her thighs, higher and higher, right to the sweet spot, Trace roughly whispered into her ear, “I bet you taste like honey, though, don’t you?”

Oh, God. This wasn’t a frisking. It was a damn seduction. She couldn’t bear to look at her reflection, to see how he affected her even when mocking her.

Turning her face away from the mirror, Priss rasped, “Stop it.”

And he did, at least to a point. More methodical now, less inciting, Trace checked her waist, under her br**sts, and then pulled the neckline of her T-shirt out to peek into her cle**age.

Priss jerked away and, hands fisted, turned to face him. “Satisfied?”

That strange quirky smile came again. “You have got to be kidding.”

Right there in front of her, as if it weren’t a personal thing to do, he adjusted his jeans.

Her mouth went slack. Good grief, he had an erection! And she’d just then noticed that he was all decked out in his defensive gear again, bolstered by the Kevlar vest under his dark polo, his utility belt once again loaded with a knife, nylon cuffs, stun baton, Glock, extra rounds…

He picked up her purse and rifled through it. Since seeing her remove the room key from a hidden seam the night before, he checked every crease and pocket. When he found nothing untoward, he handed it back to her.

Trying to be cavalier about all that had just happened, as well as his fully armed appearance, Priss folded her arms under her br**sts. “Expecting a war this morning?”

“Every morning, afternoon and night, actually.” He nodded toward Liger. “Gather him up and let’s get on our way.”

So now he’d act as if he hadn’t just felt her up? She scooped up the big cat, who sprawled back in her arms like a baby with a little meow of pleasure. “You’re a real dick, Trace, you know that?”

He opened the door, looked out, then hefted the cat’s bag of supplies. Already in alert mode, he said absently, “Yeah, I know.”

And then there was no more conversation as they took Liger and all his paraphernalia to Trace’s car.

IT WORKED IN HIS FAVOR, and was even a little amusing, that Priss gave him the silent treatment. He hadn’t anticipated her being that female about things. So far, nothing with her had been ordinary or expected. But the fewer questions she asked, the fewer lies he had to tell.