Trace was quick to say, “It’s not the same.”

“With neither of us sharing any real details, we’ll never know if it’s the same or not, will we? But I mean it, Trace, I understand why you don’t want to discuss your sister’s personal and private business.”

She sounded genuine enough, but Trace wasn’t satisfied. “You’re here with me, Priss. In the thick of things. I require details from you.” That is, beyond the details he’d already gleaned in his cursory background check on her.

“Yup. In the thick of it.” She laced her fingers together over her stomach and relaxed in the seat. “Now that I’ve eaten, I feel better.”

“You were feeling bad?”

She rolled one shoulder. “Melancholy maybe. Anyway, describe Jackson for me so I’ll know the enemy from the babysitter.”

“I doubt Jackson would like being called a babysitter.” Not that he gave a damn what Jackson liked.

“No?” Priss lifted her brows. “How about deadly enforcer? Bodyguard? What exactly should I call him?”

Her continued detachment wore on Trace. “Odds are you won’t need to refer to him at all. But so that you can recognize him if it does become necessary, he has dark blond hair, green eyes. Around my height, but bulkier.”

“As in more muscular?”

He scowled. “I suppose.”

“Huh.” She lifted a brow. “Hard to imagine, really.”

“What?”

“Anyone being more muscular than you. I mean, you’re pretty ripped.”

Trace shifted. He was flattered, but also uneasy. Priss was in a strange mood and it didn’t bode well. “Like I said, he’s bulkier with it.”

“Mmm.” Tipping her head, Priss studied his shoulders, his chest. She shook her head as if to clear it. “So he’s good-looking?”

What damned difference did it make? Trace frowned at the line of questioning. “Hell, I don’t know. My sister says he looks like a lake bum.”

That got her grinning. “Really? That’s intriguing. Most of the lake bums I’ve seen are tan, fit and athletic.”

Yeah, that sounded like Jackson—if you added in razor-sharp reflexes and uncompromising competence. “You’ll be safe with him.”

“From what I overheard, I wonder if your sister and Jackson have something going on.”

“No.” Trace shook his head, sure that they didn’t. Did they? He ground his teeth, and then moved on to more pertinent information.

For the remainder of the long drive, he instructed Priss on probable escape routes from the old apartment. Being an expert, he remembered every egress and where it led. “Jackson will look it over himself, and I’m guessing that if it becomes necessary, he’ll come in through the window in the bathroom.”

She did a double take. “You think he’d fit?”

“It’s the window least likely to be noticed, and yeah, you’d both fit.” Jackson knew how to squeeze in and out of tight places. And Priss, if it came to that, would learn.

Going over details on security, Trace told her not to open the door to anyone and not to leave the apartment for any reason. It’d be best to keep her windows locked but leave the drapes in the front room parted enough for any of Murray’s henchmen to see her. If they knew she was inside, they might not feel obligated to have her presence verified.

“When you go to bed, it wouldn’t hurt to bar the door.” Murray was so unpredictable that she couldn’t take too many precautions.

Priss toyed with a lock of hair hanging over her shoulder. “So…if you finish with Murray in time, do you think you might come in to see me?”

She obviously hadn’t understood when Jackson asked him the same thing. “No. I might be keeping watch, but from a safe distance.”

“Oh.”

Trace saw her disappointment. He wished he could return to her, but that’d really be pushing their luck.

The next two hours passed pleasantly enough. They talked, but not about anything controversial. After returning the truck to the garage and retrieving the Mercedes, they stopped to pick up the rest of Priss’s clothes from Twyla. It was right at closing time for the shop. Trace kept checking his watch, but he was still on track to meet Murray.

Twyla wanted to gush about how improved Priss looked even as she admonished her for not wearing the new, more provocative clothes.

“I’m saving them for Murray,” Priss told her with the appropriate giddiness of a schoolgirl. “After all, he bought them for me.”

Twyla approved. “And don’t you forget it.”

They exited the shop with Twyla dogging their heels, trying to continue the conversation. But the day had been too long already for unnecessary politeness. Trace helped Priss into the car and shut the door. While Priss gave a happy wave to Twyla, Trace ignored her and went around to the driver’s side.

“You were rude.”

“She’s under Murray’s umbrella, so trust me, she’s used to worse.” Glad to be out of there, Trace added, “She’s aware of every scheme, so don’t start feeling sorry for her.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You waved like she was a close friend.”

“Fulfilling my role as a giddy girl, that’s all.” Priss settled in her seat. “Besides, I’ve known a lot of women like Twyla, prickly and bossy. But that doesn’t mean she’s in cahoots with a maniac.”