Sure, at her peak in New York, she’d been able to afford some of the finer things, but she was sure realizing that Trace had flown way out of her league.
The boy she’d remembered was long gone.
She wasn’t sure if she knew the man before her at all.
“Skye…”
She gulped some more orange juice. In the bright light of day, she could almost pretend that the nightmare from last night hadn’t actually happened.
Almost. The ache in her head confirmed that it had been a very scary reality.
“I was in an accident,” she said carefully. The chef had bustled into the other room. “My car went off the road. I was—I was trapped.” Rain. Fear. Pain.
“For twelve hours.”
Those words had her gaze jerking to his. “Y-yes. I was pinned in the car for twelve hours.” The story had been splashed all over the news. The prima ballerina who’d lost everything in a tragic accident.
Only it hadn’t been an accident. She was sure of that.
His jaw clenched. “There’s more you aren’t telling me. More than what was in the papers.”
He hadn’t pushed her last night. He’d held her in his arms, talked softly to her, and made absolutely certain that she stayed awake.
Now he was back to grilling her.
“You think the man was stalking you in New York…” Trace began, frowning.
“I-I believed he was, yes. Someone was getting into my dressing room.” Tell him. Tell him. “And I thought…the night of my accident, I thought I was being followed.”
Very slowly, he put down his knife. His blue eyes glittered at her. “You’re just telling me this…now?”
“Back in New York, I told the cops. The doctors. No one believed me.”
“I believe you.”
She pushed away her food. “I don’t remember everything about that night. I was driving away from the city. I was—” Thinking about the past. She cleared her throat. “I’d just left a gas station. There was a car…it seemed to follow my every turn…” The fear was easy enough to recall. “The other car’s headlights were in my mirror. Flashing on and off, low beams, then high.” Blinding her.
His hands gripped the edge of the table.
“I think the other car hit me.” This was the part she couldn’t remember, not for certain. “The headlights had lit up my whole car. I screamed—and my vehicle flew through the air.” She could only recall bits and pieces after that. Fast images. Pain.
More screams.
Skye shook her head. “But the cops said there was no sign that any other vehicle was involved. They thought I must have just lost control on the wet roads.”
Her appetite was gone. Even the fluffy pancakes couldn’t tempt her then.
“You should have called me.”
Anger stirred within her at his words. “The story made the papers, Trace. I might not be part of the mega wealthy set…” She gestured around the kitchen, “like you. But I was a pretty well-known dancer.” She’d made prima ballerina status by the time she was twenty-two. Dancing had been her life. “Maybe…maybe you should have called.” How many times had she lain in that bed, wishing that she would hear from him?
She rose and eased away from the table. From him. “I have to get back to the studio. It’s opening in two days, and I’ll need to get it cleaned up.” She couldn’t have her new students stepping on broken glass.
“It’s already done.”
Skye looked back at him. He’d risen. “The mirror was replaced,” he said, “the glass cleaned away, and you will not be having any more circuit breaker trouble.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“I wasn’t family, so they wouldn’t f**king let me in that hospital.”
Her head shook, an immediate denial because he couldn’t be saying—
“But I found a way to you.” Trace’s voice was grim and hard. “I had to make sure you were going to be all right.”
He was lying. He had to be. “You weren’t there. You weren’t in New York.”
His gaze held hers, and she couldn’t look away as he said, “They had you in ICU. Your doctor was a guy named Mitch Loxley.”
Like it would be hard for anyone to figure out her doctor’s name. It would be especially easy for Trace and his limitless resources.
“The window near your bed looked out over the hospital courtyard. The sun came through that window, rising up fast and hard, and it would hit on your face every morning. I made sure the nurses kept your blinds down because I didn’t want the light to hurt you.”
Her throat had dried up. A fist seemed to squeeze her heart. “When I opened my eyes, you weren’t there.”
His thick eyelashes flickered. “I didn’t think you’d want me to be.”
Her hands were fists. Her nails sank into her palms. “I don’t understand you, Trace.”
He smiled then, a cold, hard grin. “I know.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Everything.”
She backed away. “I-I have to get to the studio.” She hadn’t counted on this. On him. It was all too fast. Too much.
“I’ll take you there.”
“Fine…just…I need to go, now.”
He came toward her. Always so sure of himself. So certain. “You don’t need to be afraid of me. I’m the one who’ll keep you safe.”
She didn’t know what he was. “When I went to your office the other day, I thought you might just blow me off.”
His eyes narrowed at that, and she saw the spark of anger lighten his gaze. “You underestimate yourself…and your value to me.”
“I don’t understand you,” she whispered once more.
He bent his head. His lips feathered over hers in the briefest of caresses. “You will.”
***
Two guards went into the dance studio with Skye. Trace insisted on that surveillance. She wanted to get inside, she wanted to get her place ready, then she could do just that. But she would have his men with her every moment.
Trace sat in the back of his car, his gaze on the building. Maybe he shouldn’t have told Skye about his trips to the hospital in New York.
But the truth would have come out, soon enough.