Trace of Fever
““Not a word, Priss. I mean it.”
She opened her mouth, but after giving his frown due attention, she retreated. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
He gave her a disbelieving look.
She let out a breath. “Yeah. That question sounded preposterous even to me. For God’s sake, I’ve just been forced into the most revealing outfits for your entertainment, and for Murray’s eventual enjoyment, so all kinds of things are wrong.”
“It’s fucked three ways to Sunday, I agree.”
She scowled, and again started to speak, only to have Trace interrupt her.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, he said, “We’re being followed.”
She didn’t look. She obviously knew better, which sharpened his curiosity about her.
Slowly, barely, she leaned toward the window to use the side-view mirror. “Who do you think it is?”
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