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.
Especially since he planned to take her to New York within just a few hours. “The plane’s ready?” Trace asked Reese. He’d opted to leave the Jag at home and have Reese do the driving today. He had plans that he needed to make, and he could multi-task better with Reese at the wheel.
“Yes, sir. The pilot’s on stand-by.”
“Good.” He’d wait until Skye finished her work, then they’d leave.
No one else might have believed her story, but he wasn’t like the others. If Skye said that she’d been forced off that road…
I want to find out what happened in New York.
And he couldn’t go to the city on his own. Skye was too uncertain of him now. He’d asked for her trust, and she’d hesitated.
No, he had to keep her close.
But he also had to be very, very careful. In New York, it would be easy for him to stumble. For her to discover more about his life.
About the last ten years.
There were some things that she’d truly be better off not knowing.
***
“I need a list of your lovers,” Trace told Skye when she returned to his car that evening. He’d just pulled up, seemingly at the perfect time, but she knew one of his agents must have contacted him and told Trace that she was calling it a night.
Exhaustion pulled at her, but his growled demand…
I need a list of your lovers.
“This isn’t show and tell,” she mumbled as she felt her cheeks flush. “I’m not asking for—”
“The detective—Griffin—was right. The man after you could be an ex. Someone who had you once, and doesn’t want to let go.”
She glanced out of the window. The city passed her in a blur. “It could be an ex, or it could just be some nut-job who saw me on the street. Maybe someone who even saw me dance. Sometimes, people get dancers confused with the characters we play.” She’d been plenty of people, over the years. A sleeping beauty. A wicked witch. A swan. A—
“The list of your lovers will be the starting point for us. You’ll find that my resources are much stronger than the detective’s. I can find these men, clear them—or—”
“They aren’t guilty.”
The car eased to a stop. Then turned right. Reese was up in the front. She inched forward. This wasn’t the way back to Trace’s penthouse. Not unless Reese was taking a different route home.