She reached for the coffee cup, got about half of it gulped down, then stepped back. “Care to join me?”

Already stepping in, he said, “I was going to insist.” He took the cup from her and set it outside the tub, closed the curtain, and reached for the soap.

“What are you going to do?”

“Bathe you.” He turned her so her back was to his chest, the water sluicing over her br**sts. “You hadn’t danced, hadn’t made love. I’m guessing no one has ever pampered you, either.”

The feel of his soap-slick hands sliding down her body made her eyes heavy and her breath shallow. “No.”

“Good.” His erection nudged her backside as he whispered, “Then I can be first at this, too.”

OVER AN HOUR LATER, after they’d run out of energy, Priss curled up against Trace in the bed. She loved how familiar it already felt to be with him like this, her head on his shoulder, his hand curved over her hip.

Staying like this for…oh, forever…would be heavenly. But they both knew reality would soon interfere.

Priss hated to ruin the moment, but it wasn’t in her nature to stew in silence. And after the closeness they’d shared in the last twenty-four hours…well, she felt she deserved a few answers.

A hand on his chest, her leg over his, she tipped her face up to see Trace. “What are you really doing with Murray?”

Though his gaze slanted down at her, he stayed stubbornly silent. After all the tenderness, the intimacy, his lack of trust was almost palpable. Considering she could still taste him, and her heart still pounded with excitement, that should have been insulting.

But for whatever reason, it wasn’t. Trace was who he needed to be in order to keep others safe, to rescue them from horrendous situations. She got it, more now than ever.

“You need me to go first, huh?” Her hand stroking his chest hair, Priss said, “I can understand that.”

When dealing with Murray and his ilk, trust was an elusive thing.

She drew a breath, and burrowed closer to Trace’s heat. The confession she needed to make left her throat feeling raw and her chest tight. But it had to be said.

She sensed Trace’s stillness, maybe even a little dread. He wanted to know her secrets, but he intuitively knew that the truths would be ugly.

“Murray not only raped my mom, he passed her around to his friends and let them all rape her, too. That lasted for about two weeks before she found an opportunity to get away.”

Tension suddenly gripped Trace. His arm around her back tightened. The seconds ticked by as the implications of what she’d said sank in. “You don’t know if he’s your father or not, do you?”

Priss shook her head. Years ago, she’d been ashamed for what her mother had suffered, and how it had left her with no knowledge of her father. Later, she’d been wounded that anyone could care so little, be so cruel. And finally, when her mother began fading away from her stroke, she’d gotten angry.

The anger had saved her from despair, leaving her with a single purpose to focus her life.

Until she’d met Trace. She still wanted to kill Murray, but she also wanted to somehow protect the tentative relationship with Trace.

She doubted it was possible to do both.

“My mom never knew.” She tucked her face into his throat. “She didn’t want to know. For most of my life, she was scared to death of any man who tried to get close. When she knew she was dying, it took all her effort to tell me that not all men were monsters. She said she wanted me to be careful, to always be on guard, but she didn’t want me to live with her hang-ups.”

Quietly, Trace asked, “When did she tell you about Murray?”

“When I was fourteen. I was selfish and bitching about wanting to go to a public school, to date and have friends.”

“That doesn’t sound selfish to me at all. It sounds really normal.”

“For a normal kid, maybe it would have been. But that’s not me. Because of what Murray did to my mom, we could never be normal like that.”

Trace turned on his side toward her, and Priss ended up on her back. He smoothed her hair from her face, traced one of her eyebrows with his thumb. “You aren’t normal, Priscilla Patterson. You’re unique.” He kissed her, very soft and sweet. “Extraordinary.” Another kiss, this one lingering. “And exceptionally hot.”

Priss smiled. “The only other person to tell me that is Gary Deaton, and he just wanted in my pants.”

“I’ve already gotten in your pants, so you can believe me when I say it.”

“Maybe.”

A little sad, Trace braced himself over her. “So let me understand this. When you were an impressionable fourteen-year-old child, your mother told you that she’d been held captive by a madman and passed around sexually with his friends?”

It sounded horrible, even to her. “She had to tell me then, to make me understand why I couldn’t sneak off to parties or football games. And she had to know if any man looked at me too long, if anyone ever took my picture. She needed me to understand the risk, to know what could happen if anyone had ever found out about me, that I could be Murray’s daughter I mean.”

Though he didn’t look convinced, Trace kissed the top of her head. “I’ll kill him for you.”

He sounded so sincere, and so accepting of her dysfunctional childhood, that a smile bloomed in Priss’s heart. “Thank you.” She drew him down to her for a longer kiss, one he gladly accepted. “That’s sweet of you, but no.”