had a hood over his head, and he was partially hidden by the shadows.
Her heartbeat kicked up. Her left hand pushed against the hard marble column of the balcony as she leaned forward, trying to get a better glimpse of the figure.
The glass tipped in her right hand and began to fall.
Long, masculine fingers caught the glass, and only a few drops of champagne dripped to the ground.
Skye looked into Noah’s eyes.
“It’s all right,” he said softly, “I’ve got it.”
“I-I—” Skye shook her head, unnerved by the intensity that seemed to cloak him. Trace carried that same, dark intensity, but she didn’t fear the danger that clung to him.
Noah York was another matter.
“I saw someone,” Skye finally said, pointing over the balcony. “Down there, in the shadows.”
Noah followed her stare. “What was this person doing?”
“It was a man. I-I think. He was…staring up. Looking toward me.”
Silence.
She squinted as she stared out at the fountains, but Skye couldn’t see any sign of the watcher now. “He was there.”
“I never said he wasn’t.” Noah put the champagne on the balcony and pulled out a phone. With his eyes on her, he said, “Dale, Jonah, do a perimeter sweep near the south-side fountains. Make sure that no uninvited guests slipped past security.” He pushed the phone back into the inner pocket of his tux. “Some reporters can be very determined.”
Reporters. Right. Her breath panted out too quickly. It had just been a reporter out there, waiting for a scoop. She had to stop looking at the shadows and seeing danger.
“Excuse me,” Skye murmured, embarrassed now. “I’d better get back inside and—”
“Trace won’t be much longer.” Noah leaned back against the broad column and crossed his arms over his chest. “Why don’t we take a few minutes to talk?”
Once more, she glanced back down toward the fountains. Now she saw two men—both wearing suits—heading toward the shadows.
“Those are two of my men,” Noah said, not sounding particularly concerned. “If anyone else is down there, I’ll know shortly.”
There was just something about him that reminded her so much of Trace. Guessing, she said, “The two of you served together, in the military.”
“I did a stint in the military, yes.”
That was a vague answer.
Her eyes narrowed as she studied him.
“I’m very sorry for what you had to endure, Skye.”
She swallowed to ease her suddenly dry throat. “Plenty of people endure worse all the time. I’m just lucky I survived.”
Silence, then, “I don’t think luck had much to do with it, but I agree, you are a survivor.”
The candle light fell on his face, half revealing, half concealing. “How much do you know about me?” Skye asked him.
“I know that we share a similar past. You, Trace, and I—life wasn’t always easy for us when we were younger, but we didn’t let our pasts stop us. A past should never get in the way of your future.”
“Your parents—”
“Unlike you and Trace, I never knew them. Not my real parents, anyway.”
She stared back at him.
He laughed softly, but the sound held no humor. “This is the point where most women would say, ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘Their loss.’”
Skye rolled her shoulders. “But like you said, we share a similar past.”
His head inclined. “So you don’t know if I deserve sympathy or envy.”
“You’re an unusual man, Noah.”
“And you, Skye Sullivan, are not at all what I expected.” He paused. “I wish that I’d had the pleasure of seeing you dance on stage. According to Trace, you’re quite phenomenal.”
“I was,” Skye said. “Once upon a time…” She forced a smile. “But life is about change, isn’t it? Moving forward.” Always, forward.
He stepped away from the column. Stalked closer to her. “Do you love Trace?” Noah asked her.
“Of course.” She didn’t know how to not love him.
“Like I said, he’s one lucky bastard.”
She glanced toward the ballroom then, as a shiver of awareness slid down her spine. The band had started to play again—and Trace stood inside the open doorway.
How long had he been there? Listening? Watching?
She slipped around Noah and went to Trace’s side. “I think I’m ready to leave.” Seeing the reporter had rattled her, and she’d overdone at her studio earlier that day. Her legs were aching.
No, admit it—you just want to escape.
There were too many people in the ballroom. Too many eyes.
“Whatever you want,” Trace told her. His arm wrapped around her shoulders.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Skye,” Noah called out to her.
She glanced back. “And it was very interesting to meet you.”
He laughed. This time, there seemed to be real humor in that laughter.
“See you soon, Trace,” Noah said. “Very soon.”
They moved easily through the cluster of people in the ballroom. The dress that had felt so beautiful against Skye’s skin suddenly seemed too revealing.
She looked to the left and found gazes on her.
To the right—she saw two women whispering and glancing her way.
Too exposed.
She didn’t want all of the attention. She’d thought she could hold it together but—
Trace stopped. Right there, in the middle of the ballroom. He turned and pulled her into his arms. He stared down at her. “You are the most beautiful woman here. If eyes are on you, it’s because no one can look away. If people are talking, then it’s because they don’t understand how an asshole like me got lucky enough to be with someone as perfect as you.”
Her body trembled.
“There isn’t anything to fear. You’re safe.”
Skye nodded. She had to stop jumping at shadows. Straightening her spine, she met his stare directly. “We’re both safe.”
He nodded.
They walked slowly from the ballroom. She kept her shoulders squared all the way. Kept her chin up. When they exited the hotel and the cameras flashed once again, she didn’t flinch.
Skye just smiled.
Then she was in the back of the limo. They were cruising away from the hotel. Trace’s arms were around her.
The fear leaked away.
***
Noah York watched the limo pull away.
Trace Weston…the man was in deep.
And they were all in danger.
He pulled out his phone. Dialed a number that he should have forgotten years ago. Even at the late hour, his call was answered on the second ring.
“We have a problem,” Noah said. A deadly one. “And we need to act.”
***
Trace brushed back Skye’s hair. Her head was on his shoulder, and his arm was around her, holding her. Holding her was the most natural thing in the world for him.
She fit against his body. In bed. Out.
When he wasn’t with her, he felt empty. Hell, he’d been lost all of those years that they’d been apart.
He wasn’t planning to ever be lost again.
“The two of you were together during your time in the military.”
Trace didn’t let his body stiffen when he heard her soft words. “Is that what Noah told you?” He’d asked the man to stay quiet.
Trace hadn’t worried when Skye had gone out on the balcony. He’d had a guard watching her. Actually, he had a guard always watching her…just as a precaution.
But when he’d seen Noah head toward her, he hadn’t been able to get back to her soon enough.
Then he’d heard Noah ask Skye if she loved him.
“The two of you…you sort of remind me of each other,” Skye said.
That response surprised him. “What do you mean?”
“I feel like
you’ve both spent too much time staring into the darkness.” Her left hand entwined with his.
The limo slowed. Trace figured they must be at a red light because they hadn’t traveled far enough to be close to his penthouse, not yet. “I’m not looking at the dark any longer,” he told her.
Her head turned. A soft light came from the back of the limo, giving him a perfect view of her face.
She started to smile.
The limo accelerated.
Trace bent his head toward hers.
The impact caught him off-guard. Metal screamed, glass shattered, and Trace felt his body flying forward. He grabbed for Skye, holding her as tightly as he could as the limo shuddered—and seemed to rip apart.
They hit the floor, and he did his best to shield her, but Trace still heard Skye cry out. Glass cut into him as the right side of the vehicle surged toward him.
Not Skye. Not Skye…
The scream of metal seemed to go on and on and—
Silence.
“Trace?” Soft hands feathered over his face. “Trace, are you okay?”
He heaved his body up. Glass rained off his back. Something wet dripped into his eye. Blood.
Rage built within him, but he kept a chain on the beast. He knew better than to let his fury out, especially with Skye so close. His hands slid over her, checking for injuries, making absolutely sure that she was safe and whole.
“Trace!” Her voice held definite bite now as she grabbed his hands. “Stop it and tell me—are you okay?”
Nothing that a few stitches wouldn’t cure. “Yes, baby, I am.” And so was she. He had to remember that.
“Mr. Weston!” The frantic shout reached him. “Mr. Weston! I’m coming to get you out!”
Trace lifted his head. He glanced over and saw that the right side of the vehicle was a tangled mess. The door was twisted. The windows shattered.
But a groan of sound heralded the opening of the door on the left-hand side of the vehicle.
The driver—a young guy named Matt Norris—peered in and, with a shaking voice, he asked, “Please, sir, please, tell me you’re okay—”
“We’re okay.” It was Skye who responded.
Trace helped her to slide out, and he followed right behind her. As soon as they were clear of the wreckage, he grabbed Matt. His fingers fisted on the man’s jacket. “What the fuck just happened?”
“Please, it’s not my fault! I-I waited for the light to change, but the other car came out of n-nowhere!”
Trace’s head turned to study the scene. They were in the middle of an intersection. It was close to midnight, and the dark road was eerily silent. Glass littered the ground. Chunks of metal from the crash were scattered across the street.
A blue BMW had smashed right into the side of the limo. The driver’s side door hung open, swaying slightly.
“Where’s the driver?” Skye asked.
“H-he ran off,” Matt said. “I called out for him to stop, but he kept going.”
A siren echoed in the distance. Trace shoved Matt away from him.
“He must’ve been drunk,” Matt told them. “He ran cause…cause he knew the cops would realize it, right? They’d be able to tell that he’d been drinking.”
Fury tightened Trace’s body.
Another car braked near the scene. A man poked his head out. “Dear God, is everyone all right?”
Trace stared at the wreckage. A hit and run. A drunk driver?
“Trace…” Skye’s hand wrapped around his shoulder. “You lied to me.”
He flinched. “Skye, I—”
She wiped the blood from his face. “You are hurt. You need stitches.”
“It could’ve been worse,” he told her, and the words were true. So terrifyingly true. Because what if she’d been hurt?
The siren was coming closer. Someone, somewhere had called for help. Maybe one of the folks in the apartments down the road. Lights gleamed from those buildings.
Or maybe the call had even come from the SOB who’d hit them and fled.
His gaze tracked around the scene. Lifted. He stared at the red lights.
And at the cameras mounted near them.
A grim smile curved Trace’s lips.
I’ll find you, asshole.
Because no one hurt him and just walked away.
***
“What the hell happened to you?” Noah demanded as he stepped into Trace’s office. Then his lips twisted. “Wait, let me guess, a fight with the little ballerina?”
Trace glared at him. He’d gotten the stitches only because Skye insisted. The cut was high on his forehead, deep and, yeah, he knew it would scar. He didn’t care.
He rolled his shoulders, trying to push away the tension he felt, and said, “On the way home last night, some asshole drove right into the side of my limo.”
That wiped the grin right off Noah’s face. “You’re not kidding.”
When had he ever?
Trace motioned to the empty chair near his desk. “He left the scene, ran away on foot.” But the guy wasn’t escaping. Trace had already pulled some strings, and he’d be getting that video footage from the crash scene any minute. He’d see the man who’d walked—ran—away.
“You think it’s related to Sharpe’s death?” Now Noah’s voice was cautious.
Exhaling slowly, Trace decided to put all of his cards on the table. “I don’t know what the hell to think of Sharpe’s case. I got the autopsy report.” He nodded toward the manila file that sat on the corner of his desk. Getting a copy of that report had been easy enough. Just a matter of pulling more strings. “It wasn’t a robbery. Sharpe was homeless. He had nothing to take.”
Noah grabbed the file. His fingers flipped through the pages. “A knife thrust straight to the heart…and a slice right across his jugular.”
Trace nodded. “There were no signs that Sharpe even had the chance to fight back.” That worried him. “Sharpe was crazy, but he was a fighter. He wouldn’t just stand there and let some SOB kill him.” And, shit, he’d been the one to send Ben away from the penthouse—without weapons. Yet even without his knives, Ben knew a dozen ways to defend against an attack. Provided, of course, that he’d had the chance to use his skills.
Noah glanced up. “He didn’t have the time to fight, that’s what you’re thinking.”
“You could get the drop on someone like that,” Trace pointed out. “You could get close enough to kill without making a sound. By the time the victim realized it, the knife would be in his heart.” Because it was true. Noah might pretend to be the elegant businessman, but that façade was a lie.
It was the same lie that Trace presented to the world.
“And so could you,” Noah retorted, voice hardening. “We had the same training. Same missions.”
Trace tapped his fingers on the desk. “I didn’t kill him.”
Noah shrugged. “Neither did I. So we just need to figure out who the hell did.”
“Sharpe said the past was coming back.” This was the part that Trace needed to reveal. “That Skye was going to be my destruction.”
Now Noah’s face showed his concern. “A woman nearly destroyed us before.”
An innocent face…to hide deadly intentions. “They both died.”
They…
The woman who’d tried to betray his team. And her lover.
“It sure as hell seemed like they did,” Noah agreed as he tossed the folder aside.
“Then why was Sharpe so afraid?”
Noah held his gaze. His lips tightened, then he said, “There’s something I should tell you.”
This wasn’t going to be good. The man’s tone told him that.
“Last night, right after you left, I called Drake.”
Trace tensed.
“If the past is coming back, he needs to know, too,” Noah snapped. “Look, the threat isn’t just to you. If someone is striking at us—”
“Is Drake in the city?”
Noah nodded.
Great. Drake Archer wasn’t exactly a safe fellow to have around.
And Drake and Trace hadn’t ended their partnership on the best of terms. Mostly because Drake had been spiraling, and Trace hadn’t been able to help him.
Drake didn’t want help. He wanted to implode.
A knock sounded at Trace’s door. He glanced over, frowning. “Come in…”
The door opened, and his assistant, Sara, poked her head inside. “The video footage should appear in your Inbox within the next five minutes.”
Good. Grim satisfaction filled him. He might not have a handle on Sharpe’s killer, not yet, but he would be taking down this asshole.
***
“So just how much longer are you going to be playing guard duty?” Skye asked Reese as she slanted a glance at him.
Reese gave her a smile. “Last night’s crash put the boss on edge.”
Right. Like she’d missed the frantic intensity that filled Trace.
But she was tired of being in his cage.
This morning, she’d started to feel as if she were suffocating.
“That was an accident,” she said, shrugging. “Despite what Trace wants, he can’t protect me from everything. The world is too unpredictable for that.”
Reese reached for his coffee. Two PM, and she knew that he was hitting his fourth cup of the day. “You know Trace. Control matters to him.”
It mattered to her, too. And she was done with the cage.
The nightmares had come back last night. She’d been trapped in that basement