Skye Sullivan would be his downfall. Weston needed to protect himself, to back the hell away from her.
Before it was too late.
***
Trace shut the bedroom door.
He could smell Skye’s scent on his skin. Sweet vanilla. He could feel her silken flesh beneath his fingers.
He wanted to go back in that room, to wrap his arms around her and hold her through the night.
But first, he had to take care of some unfinished business. Business that would not be allowed to touch Skye.
He hurried down the hallway. Grabbed his phone. In seconds, he had Reese on the line. “Where is he?” Trace demanded.
Lightning flashed outside of his windows. The storm had come up so suddenly.
“He’s about to hop the train. I tried to get the guy to stay at a motel.” Disgust and anger thickened Reese’s voice. “But the fool took a punch at me.”
Trace’s back teeth clenched. “Keep your eyes on him until I can meet up with you. I’m leaving now.” He glanced toward the hall. Skye’s soft heart would be a problem. Because she looked at Ben Sharpe, and she saw her own mother.
But Skye’s mother had been dangerous.
And so was Ben.
You won’t get near Skye again.
Reese was still talking, giving Trace intel about the train and Ben’s location.
Trace left the penthouse. The elevator descended quickly to the parking garage.
Once upon a time—a lifetime ago—he’d saved Ben Sharpe’s life.
Once upon a time…
***
Thunder crashed.
Skye jerked up in bed, her heart racing.
She was alone.
“Trace?”
He didn’t answer her call.
She rose, grabbed for her robe.
She still had on the diamonds. They still felt too cold.
Her fingers closed around the bedroom doorknob. She twisted it, and the door opened with a creak of sound. “Trace?” She tip-toed down the hallway.
He didn’t answer. Lightning flashed just outside of the windows, long jagged streaks of light.
Trace wasn’t there.
Skye stopped in the den, then she turned to the big-picture window, and she watched the storm rage.
***
Another alley.
Ben ran forward, his boots hitting the rain puddles and sending mud flying around him.
He’s tracking me. The bastard is coming after me.
He had to run faster.
His breath sawed from his lungs. For an instant, the buildings around him vanished.
When the thunder rolled, he heard it as gunfire.
Another place, another time.
He looked down, and the mud was gone. The pot-hole filled alley was gone.
He saw snow. Blood. Death.
“You shouldn’t have come here.”
The voice whispered from the darkness.
His head jerked up. He reached for the knife at his belt.
Gone.
Weston had taken the weapon. He hadn’t given it back.
Ben reached for his ankle sheath.
Fuck me, gone! He’d left Weston’s place without his weapons. Stupid, stupid mistake.
Ben straightened. “I-I was trying to help—”
A blade shoved into his chest. “You should have stayed away.”
Rain pelted down on Ben.
And his blood dripped into the mud around him.
Chapter Three
“Where were you last night?”
Trace glanced up at the soft question. Skye stood just inside the kitchen, staring at him with her deep green eyes. She had on yoga pants and a loose top.
She looked sexy as sin.
“Trace?” She lifted a dark brow.
He put down his coffee. “You want something for breakfast? I have a chef on call here, and I can get—”
“I want to know where you were last night.” She walked toward him. Skye had a soft, graceful stride. She’d been made to dance. And even though she didn’t want the stages of New York anymore—
“Trace.”
He smiled at her, enjoying the bite in her voice. “I had business to take care of.”
“Business…like with that man, Ben?”
Yes. “He won’t be bothering you again.”
“He never bothered me. What bothered me was you. Or, more specifically, you not telling me about your past.”
And he wouldn’t tell her. Trace forced a careless shrug. “The past is dead and buried. I told you before, I only care about our future.”
Her lips tightened. The woman had gorgeous lips. Full and red, and so wonderfully soft. He could kiss her for hours.
For a moment, he thought she’d argue with him. Skye braced her delicate shoulders and she said, “I’m going back to my dance studio today.”
He blinked. Ah, tricky lady. She’d thrown him off. But he nodded. “Of course, Reese can drive you and stand guard while—”
“No.” Her voice was flat and adamant. “I can get to the studio by myself, and I don’t need any sort of guard.”
His hands braced against the table. “After what happened to you—”
“The man who was stalking me is dead. I don’t have to worry about him anymore.” Her slightly pointed chin kicked up into the air a notch. “I don’t need a guard, Trace. What I need is to be able to lead my life on my own terms.”
He’d suspected this was coming. He’d dreaded this confrontation for days. “What about the press?”
Her laughter held a bitter edge. “We ran away from them. Wasn’t that the point of our trip to the Keys? To hide out there until the reporters moved on to the next juicy story.”
A prima ballerina who’d been abducted and held captive for days by her ex-lover definitely counted as a juicy story. Her face had been splashed on all the papers in the country, and her story had been broadcast again and again on the TV news shows.
“I have to get back to normal. I need normal.” Then she shook her head. “And I need my dancing.”
She always had. Dancing had gotten Skye through some of the darkest moments in her life. Dancing had also taken her from his life.
“I want you to keep a guard with you,” he began.
Skye opened her mouth to argue.
“Please,” Trace said, the word grating from him. “At least for the first few days, just until we make sure the reporters aren’t going to swarm like locusts on you.” He closed the space between them. Caught her wrist in his hand. Such a fragile wrist. The black bruises from the handcuffs no longer marked her.