Trace of Fever by Lori Foster Page A

crawled across the azure sky.
    His thoughts rioted, heated. Would Trace do as told? How long would it be before he had her naked, under him?
    What would Priscilla think of that? Would she try to run? Was she terrorized?
    Was she his daughter?
    “I don’t fucking believe you!”
    Helene’s strident, angry tone shattered his musings. Turning his head to find her in the doorway, Murray scowled just enough to show his displeasure. “You should have knocked.”
    “Since when?”
    “Since you felt you had the right to curse me.” He turned his chair, tipped his head to study her. Then he patted his lap. “Come.”
    Like a good lapdog, she obeyed, but grudgingly. Once she’d seated herself on his thighs, Murray cupped her generous and firm breast. The best money could buy, he thought.
    But Priscilla’s tits had looked real.
    He squeezed. “Now, what did you have to say?”
    Lifting her chin in defiance, she stared at him. Helene wasn’t a woman to quail; that was something he found so enticing about her. No matter the roughness of his mood, his sexuality didn’t scare her.
    Nothing scared Helene. Yet.
    She shook back her long hair so that her breasts were better displayed. “You ordered Trace to fuck that little tart?”
    “This is your business, why?” Through the thin material of her blouse, Murray felt her nipple stiffen. He smiled.
    “You’ve never done that before. When interested, you use the women yourself, and then you sell them off.”
    “True.” And because she accepted the acts as a part of his business, she choked down her jealousy. But with Priscilla, she knew it would be different. He stated the number one reason why. “No other woman, however, has claimed to be my daughter.”
    Fury brought color to her face.
    Anticipating her reaction, Murray said, “You didn’t expect me to give her a trial run, did you?”
    Helene had the good sense not to push him. “I doubt she’s your spawn, but until you know, why not just save her?”
    “Envious of the attention she’s getting?”
    Helene’s eyes sparked.
    Leaving her breast, Murray reached beneath her skirt. He watched her eyes as he cupped his hand, none too gently, over her heated sex. “You have an uncommon interest in Trace Miller, no?”
    Some of her confidence waned. She licked her lips, and Murray saw the moment she decided to challenge him with the truth.
    “Yes, I do.”
    That admission was accompanied by a rush of moisture against his palm. Damn, but her bold sexuality never failed to stir him. “You want him for yourself?”
    Again she measured her response, and chose to be audacious. “I have a new drug that I’d like to try on him.”
    A new drug? Fascinating. Since she’d joined him, Helene had come up with many variants of aphrodisiacs and hallucinogens that alternately made the women compliant, blindly aroused and occasionally comatose. Only on the rarest occasion had her concoctions ever caused death. “It works on men?”
    “I believe so, yes.” She quickly added, “I would only experiment with Trace, and only with your authorization.”
    Murray worked his thick fingers beneath the minuscule crotch of her lace panties. “You know your place, Helene,” he said approvingly.
    “By your side. Or under you. Or over you.” She stifled a sharp moan. “Wherever you want me, Murray. You know that.”
    “Yes, wherever.” Her capitulation to his every twisted desire gave her priority over others; there was nothing Helene wouldn’t do for him. That type of loyalty covered a lot of ground, sexually…and otherwise.
    “Murray,” she whispered, her heavy eyes closing, her smooth face flushing with desire.
    Murray considered things. He hadn’t gotten to where he was by making hasty decisions. “You know, Helene, I might let you have your playtime with Trace. Might, ” he emphasized when Helene’s lips parted on an anxious moan. Right now, Trace had shown himself to be an unparalleled employee; sharp, intelligent,