So were her knees.

For the longest time, Trace just looked at her. For once, instead of being on guard, her expression appeared serene and at peace.

When sleeping.

When drugged.

He couldn’t keep his hands off her, off the warm flesh of her arms, the silk of her hair. To him, the ponytail looked torturous, pulling at her scalp.

Feeling like a bastard, Trace withdrew his knife, lifted her hair and, using just the tip of the blade, cut through the rubber band.

Priss didn’t stir.

After massaging her scalp to ease any conceived discomfort, he spread out the long locks, trailing them across his lap, feeling the coolness, the weight of her hair.

Jesus, she was dead to the world, so why was he was tormenting himself like this? He wasn’t going to take advantage of her right now, so he’d be smart to buckle her back in and get this cursed trip over with.

The cat jumped up into the seat to watch him more closely. Cautiously, given that soul-deep stare, Trace reached out to rub Liger’s ear, and got a small meow in return.

“I won’t hurt her.” But he knew he already had.

Maybe in acceptance of his statement, maybe out of feline laziness, Liger curled up against Priss’s side and started purring. He overflowed the seat, but didn’t seem to mind.

He only wanted to be next to Priss.

At least the cat trusted him, Trace decided. It was a start.

Taking the time to rearrange both woman and animal, Trace buckled Priss back into her seat and let Liger get comfortable next to her. He started the truck, put it in gear, and drove from the garage.

With Priss so soft, warm and sexy beside him, it was going to be a very long drive.

AT THE FUZZY EDGES OF HER mind, Priss realized that the radio music had suddenly stopped—and she was no longer in motion.

The stillness closed in around her.

Confusion gnawed on her contentment, and she peeked open one eye to see Trace behind the wheel of what looked like the dashboard to an old truck.

Window open, he spoke outside the vehicle, into what looked like an intercom. Priss stayed very still and listened.

“No one followed us. But I might need a minute or two to bring her around.”

Another voice, deep and mellow, came through an intercom, but Priss couldn’t catch what was said.

“Yeah,” Trace replied. “She’s been out pretty damn hard.”

Out? She tried to think, but that hurt her head. The truck moved forward, slowly now, and stopped beneath some shade.

Little by little, as the fog cleared, memories tumbled back in.

Being at the garage. Eating breakfast. Talking to Trace, being kissed by him…

Drinking the water.

Oh, God.

Everything slammed back into her sluggish brain. Trace had drugged her!

How long had she been out? What had he done to her? She attempted to take inventory of her body, but other than remaining lethargy, nothing seemed amiss.

The sudden pounding of her heart did more to revive her than anything else could have. She had to concentrate hard to hide her awareness, to keep from jerking upright and lambasting Trace with her fury.

Where were they, and what did he have planned?

She felt Trace draw nearer. She breathed in his scent, and heard him say, “It’s okay, boy. I bet you’re ready for a break, aren’t you? Even though you slept most of the way.”

He spoke to Liger. She felt a furry tail drift past her, and panic settled in.

She would not let Trace or anyone else hurt her cat.

That didn’t really make sense, given that Trace had wanted to protect Liger. But how could she trust him on anything after he’d tricked her into drinking water with drugs in it?

“Good God,” came yet another voice, this one right outside the truck. “Are you sure that’s a domestic cat?”

“A friendly one, yeah.” The truck moved as the driver’s door opened. “Don’t be a sissy, Chris. He’s as gentle as a lamb.”

A man laughed. “Hand him out. I’ll see what Dare’s girls think of him.”

The bench seat shifted beneath her. “Just be careful. I don’t know what he’ll think of the girls and I don’t want him spooked.”

“Damn, you are a big boy, aren’t you?”

Liger gave his sweet little meowing reply, which made the man laugh again. “Don’t worry, Trace. I’ll take good care of him.”

She recognized the name Dare from Trace’s phone call. But Chris? His girls? Just where had Trace taken her, and why? At least she knew they meant no harm to her cat. Even now, she could hear Chris talking to Liger, soothing him, coddling him with soft words. And he’d sounded sincere enough when he told Trace that he’d take good care of Liger.

So her cat was safe—but was she?

As subtly as possible considering that her limbs still felt leaden and her head stuffed with cotton, Priss slid her hand back and opened her seat belt. It made a quiet but distinct “clink” and the belt loosened.

Aware of Trace’s gaze now on her, of him looming closer, she kept her eyes closed, relaxed, her body boneless.

His hand touched her cheek, moved over her jaw, then under her chin. “Priss?” His fingertips felt so warm, and oddly gentle. “Come on, honey. You’ve been out long enough.”

Honey? How dare he?

Remembering all the training she’d put herself through, Priss reacted without warning. Her fist came up hard and fast. She aimed for Trace’s nose, which would have done the most damage. But at the last second he turned and she connected with his left eye instead. Even in the close confines of the truck cab, she got some momentum on the punch.