The nightmares had come back last night. She’d been trapped in that basement once more, and Skye had woken up gasping. Even the walls of the penthouse had seemed to close in on her.
She needed freedom.
Not a constant guard, even if that guard was her friend.
“My classes start tomorrow,” she said. Excitement slipped through the words. She had full classes—every single one. Sure, some of those students might just be coming because they were curious about the prima ballerina who’d been splashed across all the papers.
But they’d see the truth soon enough. The classes weren’t about sensationalism. Skye meant business. The studio was about the dance. About what she could teach her students.
And I’ll teach them plenty.
She narrowed her eyes on Reese. “I don’t want my students nervous, so the bodyguard bit is ending.”
His brows lifted.
“Not that I don’t love you, but I think your time can be better spent on activities that are a little more…dangerous.” She used the word deliberately because Reese did enjoy his danger. “Now I’m going outside—alone—to get a few minutes of fresh air.”
She’d taken four steps when Reese called out, “I love you, too, Skye…and that’s why I’m playing guard duty. The last thing I want is for you to get hurt.”
A lump rose in her throat, but she kept going. Reese had gotten underneath her skin. In the weeks that she’d known him, he’d become her friend. She didn’t have a lot of friends.
He and Trace made her feel less alone in the world.
She grabbed her bag and then headed onto the sidewalk in front of her building. The air was warm, but not hot. Summer would be there soon enough.
Skye stared up at the sky. Blue, bright blue, like Trace’s eyes.
A car horn honked in the distance. It was lunch time, so, of course, the street was busy.
Tomorrow, she’d open her dance studio. Her students would come.
Her gaze drifted around the street.
Tomorrow…
A man with a hood covering his head stood across the street. Half-hidden by the shadows as he stood under the awning of another office.
He lifted an object.
Snapped a picture.
Her breath sawed out. A reporter. Again.
She couldn’t have the reporters bothering her students.
And I can’t hide forever. Straightening her shoulders, Skye headed for the cross-walk.
***
Trace clicked the file and watched the image load onto his screen.
“The city needs to invest in some better quality equipment,” Noah muttered as he leaned over Trace’s shoulder. “Because that image is crap.”
Yes, it was. Trace leaned forward. He hit the button to advance the footage.
The limo was there, waiting at the light.
And, just down the road, the BMW waited, too.
Waited.
When the limo accelerated, the BMW raced toward it.
“Shit, he’s aiming for you,” Noah said.
Yes, yes, he damn well was.
The phone on Trace’s desk rang. He picked it up, still staring at the footage. “Weston.”
“Mr. Weston, it’s Joseph Hadden. I’m at the police station…”
There was a buzz of activity in the background. Joseph Hadden was one of Trace’s agents. A guy on the rise who always got the job done. Trace had sent him down to the PD because he wanted to know exactly what was happening with the investigation.
Trace paused the video. The screen froze on the image of the BMW slamming into the side of the limo.
“They brought in the owner of the BMW,” Joseph told him. “But that guy swears he hasn’t driven the ride in months. He’s claiming that someone must have stolen it. Says he didn’t even notice it was gone until the cops started asking questions.”
Eyes narrowing, Trace hit the button to advance the video.
Glass shattered. Metal bent.
And the driver of the BMW jumped out. He didn’t immediately run. He stopped. Stared at the wreckage.
It was too dark to see his face clearly, but Trace could see his body. Tall. Narrow.
“What does the owner look like?” Trace asked, fighting to keep all emotion from his voice.
“Alan Brenthouse is sixty-four, he uses a cane and—”
“And he’s not the asshole who ran us down.” Trace rewound the video. “Stay down there. Keep digging.” He slammed down the phone.
Hit play once more.
The BMW waited.
The limo advanced when the light turned green.
The BMW raced forward.
The crash was brutal. Hard. Deliberate.
The driver got out. Stared at the limo.
“He tried to kill you,” Noah said.
Yes, he had. “He should’ve tried harder.” Because now, bastard, I’m coming after you.
***
The reporter spun on his heel. He yanked down his camera and hurried away from her.
Oh, no, he was not just going to run.
“Stop!” Skye called out as she hurried behind him.
He still had his hood up. Maybe it was the one who’d been there to catch her picture last time. Clyde. That had been his name. “Clyde!”
The reporter kept going. He turned, darting down an alley.
She pumped her legs, going faster—
Another man suddenly appeared before her. Tall, with wide shoulders, and dark blond hair. His green eyes glinted down at her. “I don’t think you want to do that.”
She stumbled to a stop. And, instantly, her hand dove into her bag. Skye had brought the bag along for a reason. She wrapped her fingers around her pepper spray that she kept in her bag. “You need to step away from me!” Who was he? Why would—
“It’s been a while since I was on guard duty for you, Skye, but I doubt the rules have changed much.” His lips hitched up into a faint smile as he gazed down at her. “Trace would never want you following some stranger into a dark alley.”
It’s been a while since I was on guard duty for you…
She backed up a step. The street was busy. Plenty of people were around. I’m safe. I’m safe. The mantra repeated through her mind.
The blond shrugged his broad shoulders. “Especially not if Sharpe was right…well, Trace sure as hell wouldn’t want you following strange men.”
“Look, buddy, I don’t know who you are—”
“Drake Archer.”
“—but I was following a reporter,” she finished angrily.
“That wasn’t a reporter. That was a man who seemed far, far too interested in you.” His head tilted as his gaze swept over her. “He was so interested in you that I was able to get a good, up-close look at him.”
In that instant, the sunlight that poured down on her seemed hotter.
Skye still had her grip on the pepper spray.
“Caucasian male, late twenties, a nose that looked like someone broke the hell out of it, blond hair—hair in need of a serious cut, and brown eyes. He was about six foot two, and as thin as he was long.”Her breath came a little faster. “Seems you did get plenty of time to study him.”
“Plenty of time,” he agreed. “Seeing as how he was outside of your place for the last hour.”
Her gaze darted back across the street. “Just how long were you outside of my place?” Her stare returned to him.
He shrugged. “Long enough. Trace is slacking. He needs to be more careful.”
She could only shake her head and back away. Her stomach had clenched with fear. “Look, Mister—”
“I told you, my name’s Drake Archer.”
“And that name means nothing to me, okay?”
Now he blinked. “Trace didn’t mention me? And to think, the guy was once my friend. But I guess the friends you make in battle and blood don’t always want to claim you later.”
Skye stopped her retreat. “You served with Trace?”
“Trace. Noah. Ben.” He gave a little salute. “Once we were unstoppable.” He took a slow, gliding step toward her. “We were really damn good at killing. Too good. But from that little group of ours, I have to confess, your lover was the best. No one could be quite so efficient when it came to killing.”
“Skye!”
Reese’s voice thundered behind her.
“Ah, so there’s the guard. A bit late, isn’t he?” Drake shook his head. The sunlight gleamed off his hair. “I mean, if I’d wanted, I could’ve killed you by now.”
This guy terrified her.
“Archer.” Fury burned in Reese’s voice. “You get away from her.”
Drake tossed a smile Reese’s way. “While you were sleeping on the job, I was keeping our girl safe. Just like the good old days, right?” He turned away.
Oh, hell, no.
Skye grabbed his arm. “Just which good old days are you talking about?” Ice had encased her skin, and she made herself say, “Back in New York?”
He nodded.
The ice grew thicker.
Reese swore.
“When I was dancing…” Skye continued. “You were sent to watch me then?”
Another slow nod. “You were important. Guess you could say that Trace has always had a bit of an obsession…”
No, no, no. This wasn’t happening.
“We should go back,” Reese said. He was trying to pull Skye away from Drake.
She wasn’t in the mood to be pulled. “How long did you watch me?”
His eyes heated. “Until old Trace felt like I might be getting too attached.”
This wasn’t happening.
“I’m guessing he pulled off all the guards—that must’ve been when you were hurt in that crash. Bet that drives him crazy. If he’d just kept the crew in place—”
She spun away from him. “Taxi!” Skye yelled.
Reese tried to block her path. “Skye, just slow down. Listen—”
But she’d already heard plenty.
A taxi braked in front of her. She jumped in the back. “Take me to Weston Securities. Now.” Because she had to see Trace.
And she had to stare into his eyes.
How long has he been lying to me?
The ice around her thickened.
The taxi roared away from the curb.
***
Trace’s phone rang again. Only this time, it was his personal cell. Not the desk phone.
He picked it up. “Weston.”
“Trouble, boss, big damn trouble.” Reese’s voice was shaking.
Trace surged to his feet. “Skye? Is she all right? Is she—”
“She’s coming in hot, boss. Hot and pissed. Drake Archer was here. He got to her. Told her about his time in New York.”
Trace squeezed his eyes closed. A frantic pounding began behind his temples.
“She knows.”
“How long did they talk?” Trace gritted out the question.
“Just a few minutes.”
Too long, but surely not long enough for Drake to reveal everything? “Where is he now?” The last thing he needed was for that guy to be loose in the city.
“He took off, jumped on a motorcycle and got the hell out of here.”
But Trace would be seeing him again. He was sure of it. “Make sure her studio is secure, then cut out for the night. I’ll take care of Skye.” He hoped. Trace dropped the phone onto the desk.
“Problem?” Noah asked him.
“Yeah, I’ve got a problem.” He was surprised that his voice came out sounding so calm. He stalked to the window and stared out at the city. “Your friend Drake just got to Skye. I don’t know how much he told her—”
“Secrets have a way of coming out.”
Trace whirled to face him. “You don’t get it! Skye is my one thing—the only thing—that is any good in my world. Everything else is built on death and blood. She matters. She makes me feel like I matter.”
Noah’s eyes widened. “She’s not just going to desert you, man. The woman loves you.”
“Does she?” And this was the part that tore him up. That made him unable to sleep late at night. “Or does Skye love the guy that she remembers? The one who actually saved her when we were kids?”
He turned back to stare out at the city. Once, he’d been down in the streets. Penniless, desperate. His clothes had been torn, his pockets empty. He’d fought his way out of that poverty.
Now he had the world at his feet.
He put his hands on the cold glass.
And I could be about to lose everything.
Chapter Seven
No one got in her way. The suits at Weston Securities took one look at her, and they backed up.
She knew that Trace had probably told them she was coming. By the time the cab turned the corner, Reese would’ve been on the phone with Trace.
Alerting the boss.
“Uh, he’s waiting for you, Ms. Sullivan,” the man to her right said as he indicated the private elevator in the lobby. “You can go right on up.”
Jaw locking, she did. With every floor that she ascended, her heart seemed to race faster.
She didn’t want to believe that man—the stranger on the street. But Reese’s reaction to the guy’s claims had scared her.
I want Drake to be lying.
She wanted anyone to be lying. Anyone, but Trace.
The elevator gave a soft ding. The doors opened.
Noah stood before her.
Noah?
He winced when he saw her. “Maybe you can think about going easy on him?”
Was Noah insane? Were they all?
“Find out his reasons, okay?”
She stalked from the elevator. “Did you watch me, too?”