But the memories of fear and death were gone. Pleasure surrounded her.
Because Trace surrounded her.
In that moment, Skye could almost convince herself that she was safe.
Almost.
The thunder of her heartbeat slowly eased its mad drumming. She became aware of other sounds then. The rush of waves, the pounding of the water against the shore.
The scent of the ocean.
She wasn’t in Chicago. Not New York. They’d escaped together, and Trace had taken her down to the Florida Keys.
She wasn’t supposed to be cold there. She wasn’t supposed to be afraid.
His lips feathered over her cheek. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Skye shook her head.
“He’s dead. I won’t ever let anyone hurt you again.”
Her lashes lifted, and she found herself staring up into Trace’s eyes once more. She’d always felt like Trace could see straight into her soul.
Past the pretenses that she gave to others.
Right to her core.
Trace Weston. His face was hard, strong. Slashing cheekbones. A square, tight jaw. Lips that were cut in the faintest of cruel lines.
One look, and a smart woman knew he was dangerous.
Skye knew, and she didn’t care.
He’d killed for her. She probably should have been afraid of him. She wasn’t.
Because, deep down, Skye knew the truth.
I’d kill for him, too.
With each day that passed, she was discovering a new darkness within herself.
Maybe that was why she’d always been drawn to Trace. They were the same.
He slowly withdrew from her. Stood. He stared down at her, his legs brushing against the side of the bed. “You have to talk to someone.”
No, she didn’t. What she had to do was shove the memories into the deepest, darkest part of her mind.
And move the hell on.
That was what she’d done before, when her parents had died. Burying the pain and the dark memories—that was the way she survived. Her coping mechanisms had gotten her through life.
One stumbling step at a time.
“The nightmares aren’t stopping.” His hands clenched into powerful fists as he stared down at her. “You need to—”
“I have what I need,” she said, and she rose from the bed, too. Skye pulled the sheet with her, letting it cover her body. Trace had never cared for modesty. She shouldn’t either, but Skye still found herself pulling the sheet closer. “Talking to some shrink isn’t going to magically fix me.”
“Skye…”
A loud, insistent ringing cut through his words.
Saved by the bell.
Skye glanced to the right. Trace’s phone waited on the small nightstand.
“It can damn well wait,” he muttered. “You should—”
But she’d leaned forward to see the screen. “It’s Reese. You’d better talk to him.” Because Reese Stokes was Trace’s right-hand man. A bodyguard, a friend—one of the few confidants that Trace actually had in the world.
“Go ahead,” Skye urged him. “It could be important.” She headed for the bathroom. Took the silken robe that waited on the hook behind the door. “I’ll be outside.”
The ringing stopped just as she opened the balcony door.
When she heard Trace answer the call, Skye stepped outside. The pounding of the surf was louder. The salty scent of the ocean filled her nose.
A private island.
Trace didn’t do things half-way. Since the guy was a freaking billionaire now, he could have anything or anyone that he wanted…with just a snap of his fingers.
The wind blew her robe back against her, molding the silk to her body.
Skye headed for the churning waves. The light of the moon glinted off the water, making it look almost black.
She walked toward that beckoning darkness.
One foot, in front of the other.
These days, that was the only way she could get through life.
The waves hit her feet, and they washed away the foot prints that she’d left behind.
***
“Reese, this had better be damn important,” Trace Weston snarled as his fingers tightened around the phone.
He’d jerked on a pair of jeans and then followed Skye out onto the balcony. He stood now, watching her as she walked along the shore. The waves crashed against her feet.
Skye. His beautiful, lost Skye.
The nightmares weren’t stopping, and the pain in her green eyes seemed to be getting worse with each passing day.
The trip to the Keys had been designed to heal her wounds.
Not make them worse.
“Boss, you’re not going to believe who dropped by for a little visit today.” Reese’s voice flowed easily over the line.
Trace kept his eyes on Skye. Was she going into the water?
“Ben Sharpe was here, looking for you.”
A hard breath blew from Trace. The name was from his past, a blood-soaked past that he’d tried to bury. “What the hell did he want?”
“The guy said he had a message. One that he could only give to you.”
Figured.
“But, there was…there was something about his eyes…” Now hesitation had entered Reese’s voice, and that in itself was damn unusual. “The man’s been unstable for years, hell, I know that, but this was different.”
Trace didn’t take his eyes off Skye. Her scent was on him. She’d marked him in ways that went far beneath the skin.
“He was afraid,” Reese added. “Terrified.”
“Everyone is afraid of something,” Trace murmured. He’d learned to fear recently. Before, he tried to fool himself into thinking that he was invulnerable.
Then a bastard had tried to take Skye from him.
No one takes her.
She’d waded into the water. She looked so small out there.
And her robe was getting soaked.
“He came to the penthouse,” Reese told him, “not the security agency.”
Weston Securities wasn’t just an agency. It was the biggest private security firm in the United States. Trace had built it with blood and sweat. And with the aid of secrets. So many deadly secrets.
“Tell me you have a man on him,” Trace said. Because Reese would understand how important—and volatile—Ben could be.
Reese had been in hell with Trace. They’d both survived.
As had Ben…
Well, Ben had mostly survived.