Still playing innocent, Trace realized. Not that Helene would buy it. But at least it kept her occupied, and he almost had the lock free….

As if in deep thought, Helene ran the fingers of her free hand along her cle**age, slowly, back and forth. “You’re quite the morsel, aren’t you?” Her attention went to Jackson’s lap, his abs, and then back to his face. “Hmm. Now what should I do with you?”

Grinning at her, he said, “Did I overhear some discussion about blow jobs?”

She leaned in long enough to slug him in the face, then quickly backed away again.

Trace had never in his life felt so helpless. Who was with Priss? How the hell would this twisted scenario end now that Jackson had flubbed his way into it?

And worse, what would Murray’s reaction be to all this?

Jackson flexed his jaw, and continued with his easy humor. “Maybe I misunderstood. I could’ve sworn I heard you mention—”

“Shut up!” She stomped back over to her purse and, with her back to the men, fiddled with something. Jackson was about to push to his feet when she returned, one hand behind her back.

He eyed her cautiously. “Change your mind, then, sugar?”

“Possibly.” Crouching down near him, but not too near, Helene said, “But not until I have you properly sedated.” She parted her knees, giving Jackson an eyeful—and the idiot looked. “When I get done with you, you won’t be so damned handsome.”

“Well, it’s bound to be an improvement. Being this good-looking is a curse. The women won’t leave me alone.” He smiled at her. “Case in point.”

She presented the needle.

Jackson scowled. “You don’t need that.”

Tapping the syringe, she let one drop leak from the end. “It’ll make you all nice and easy to get along with. Better still, it’ll shut you up for a bit.” Grinning, Helene nodded toward Trace. “How do you think I got him tied up?”

“I thought maybe he was willing.”

“No.” She smiled. “But don’t worry. It’s not going to hurt you. Not too bad, anyway. And there are no serious side effects.”

“I’m not sure I believe that.”

“Oh, stop being a baby. Do you really think I want dead bodies left behind? Well, I don’t.”

Jackson positioned his feet again. “Lady, you are not sticking me with that.”

“Oh, I believe I am.” She held it like a dagger in her fist, raised high, ready to stab him wherever she could.

And Priss appeared out of nowhere. Without making a sound, she slipped into the room, swooped up the discarded stun baton and jolted Helene with a steady stream of electricity.

Trace felt the lock give away. Quick as he could, he started freeing his hands.

Priss held the baton steady, her face twisted with rage, her body rigid. The needle fell out of Helene’s hand, and Jackson was quick to use his heel to bring it closer to him.

The handcuffs caught in the pipe, frustrating Trace.

Jackson surged to his feet, then propped himself against the wall, hobbled by his ankle restraints. “Good timing, darlin’.”

Dear God. With every second that passed, they ran the risk of Priss’s duplicity being discovered. Trace would kick Jackson’s ass for this stunt later, but for right now, he wanted to ensure Priss’s safety.

Given the circumstances, any other woman would be hysterical. But not Priss. She was clearheaded enough to time her entrance to go unnoticed, to retrieve and use the stun baton with devastating effect—possibly deadly effect if she didn’t let up.

Her jaw tightened as she clenched her teeth and kept on firing.

Trace had no choice but to take control. Calmly, his voice low and even, he said, “She’s done for, honey. I need you to ease up now.”

Priss didn’t seem to hear him. She looked determined to inflict more damage.

Helene fell to her back, her body jerking and flinching. Her eyes rolled back and spittle formed at the sides of her mouth.

“Enough.” Though she probably felt justified, Trace knew that the last thing Priss needed was a death on her conscience. “I said that’s enough!”

Almost as if in a struggle, Priss managed to release the trigger. She panted, her arms still stiff, ready to go at Helene again if she moved.

“That’s it.” Trace tried to sound soothing. “Good job.”

“Damn it.” Priss issued the complaint while looking at her hand. “She made me break a nail.”

Jackson huffed out a quick laugh. When Hell twitched and moaned, he turned and dropped down atop her, his knees straddling her hips, her arms pinned down, and his body blocking her view of the rest of the room. “I’ve got this.”

“Better late than never.” Finally, Trace managed to untangle the metal cuffs from the pipe. He half stood, half leaned on the bed. Until he freed his legs, his range of movement and leverage would be limited. “Give me my knife.”

Pulling her gaze away from Helene, Priss turned to him—and went stock-still. “Oh.” She stared at Trace’s naked body and said again, “Oh.”

“The knife.”

Face pinching with outrage, Priss looked at Helene again. “She was going to—”

“I know what she was going to do.”

Anyone could see that Priss considered inflicting more damage on Helene. Trace said firmly, “Don’t do it.”

Jackson glanced over his shoulder, then choked down a snicker. “You see what I’ve been dealing with? It ain’t natural.”