Free Trace of Fever by Lori Foster

first off, hands to yourself. Got it?”
    He said nothing, but she saw the corner of his mouth tilt up in the slightest of smiles.
    “Secondly, did you happen to notice that my brows and lashes are a darker brown without a hint of red?”
    “Meaning?”
    “Meaning I’m not like some redheads who are…” Her face heated. “Red all over.”
    “Yeah?” He glanced at her lap meaningfully. “Do tell.”
    Priss punched him in the shoulder. “I don’t like what you’re thinking.”
    “You don’t know what I’m thinking.” And with another provoking grin, “Do you?”
    Like she’d say it out loud? No way. Priss crossed her arms. “If you were hinting that you think I dye my hair, I don’t. Everything on me is natural.”
    “We’ll see.”
    “No, we will not see a damn thing!”
    Under his breath, Trace said, “I damn near saw today. If I’d moved a foot closer for a better look—”
    “Stop it!” Priss felt heat throbbing in her face, and she hated it. “And that reminds me. I want you to delete that damned picture.”
    “Not a chance. Seeing you in that getup was a trophy moment for me.” He pulled into a lot, put the car in Park and looked around. Forestalling her anger, he said, “You weren’t kidding. This place really is a dive.”
    Well, hell. She hadn’t even noticed that she was back at her run-down apartment. It unnerved her that he’d distracted her enough to make her unaware of her surroundings. That could be deadly.
    Sooner or later, she’d take him off guard, and then she’d get his phone and smash it. If he had emailed the picture to himself, well, at least she’d have some payback. Until then… “What now?”
    “Now we go in, get some of your stuff and make it look like you’re staying at the hotel. If anyone checks on you there, and you aren’t around, you can always claim you were out late hitting bars or something.”
    “Barhopping doesn’t work with my cover.”
    His jaw tightened. “I’ll think of something. But from here on out, you’re in survival mode. Got it?”
    “No.” Nothing and no one would keep her from doing what needed to be done. Priss tried to open her door, but it still didn’t budge. “Unlock it.”
    Instead he pulled her around to face him. He started to blast her, but something funny happened. Instead of reading her the riot act, he stared into her eyes, then down at her mouth. His entire demeanor changed. He looked just as tense, but now for different, hotter reasons.
    He still stared intently at her mouth when Priss heard the lock click open. She glanced down and saw that Trace had reached back for the door, all without breaking that disturbing, electrifying visual contact with her.
    She met his gaze again, and softened. Damn, but resisting Trace wouldn’t be easy, not if he kept looking at her like that. “You’re coming in, too?”
    “Yes.” Suddenly, almost violently, he turned away from her and left the car. Still a gentleman, he strode around to her side and opened her door. “Let’s get this night over with.”
    Well. That sounded insulting. Priss would have let herself out, except that she had to extract the room key from a hidden pocket in the design of her purse.
    “Fine.” She moved out of the car to stand beside him. “But when we go in, watch where you step.”
    “Why?” Taking her arm, he started for the entrance, again surveying the area all around them. “You have land mines hidden around?”
    Priss ignored him. “It’s this way.” She took the lead, steering him toward the side entrance. Nearby police sirens screamed, competing with music from the bar next door. “I’m on the second floor.”
    They passed a hooker fondling a man against the brick facing of the building. Priss stepped over and around a broken bottle. Tires squealed and someone shouted profanities.
    Distaste left a sour expression on Trace’s face. “This dive needs to be condemned.”
    “Maybe, but it’s shady enough that no one asked me