She’d come back to him. Walked straight into his building. Into his life.
He’d seen her image on the security screen. One look, and everything had changed.
She’s back.
This time, things would end differently for them. He’d never had his fill of Skye.
This time, she needs me.
They stepped outside of his building. The sounds of the city instantly filled his ears—horns, voices, the backfire of engines. Skye eased away from him, heading for the cab at the corner of the street.
He caught her arm and pulled her right back against him. “We’ll take my car.” He’d already called for his driver. The sleek, black ride was waiting to the right. The driver—who doubled as one of Trace’s guards—held the back door open for them.
“We’ll be heading to Skye’s apartment,” Trace murmured to Reese Stokes.
Skye hesitated, then quickly rattled off the address.
Reese nodded. Reese had been with Trace for over five years now, and Trace trusted the man implicitly.
Skye slid into the vehicle first, and when she did, her skirt lifted, revealing a silken expanse of leg covered in nylon.
Once upon a time, Skye had enjoyed wearing thigh-highs. He’d bought them for her. Because he’d loved the feel of them against her skin.
She disappeared into the car.
Eyes narrowing, memories swirling through his mind, Trace followed her. The door shut, sealing them inside. The privacy shield was already in place, completely blocking them from Reese’s scrutiny.
The car pulled away from the curb.
“I thought one of your agents would handle this. I mean, you’re the boss.” Her words came a little too quickly. She’d always done that. Spoken fast when she was nervous.
It’s good that I still make her nervous.
“I’m sure you don’t have time to spend on me.”
On the contrary. He slid back into the seat next to her, making sure that their shoulders brushed. “You’re not going back to New York.”
Her head jerked toward him. Her eyes—deep, dark green—met his. There was gold in her eyes, buried in the green. When she was aroused, the gold burned hotter.
And when she was aroused, her cheeks flushed, her f**k-me lips trembled, and a moan would slip from her lips.
Skye Sullivan. Porcelain perfect. So delicate that he’d once worried his passion might bruise her.
He still worried because the things he wanted from her…
I’m not a boy any longer.
He’d already held back with her for too long.
Her dark hair fell down her shoulders, long and silken. When she danced, she kept her hair pinned up, making her cheekbones look even sharper.
When she danced…
She made him ache.
“There’s nothing for me in New York any longer.” Her voice was stilted. Not Skye. Skye spoke with humor and life. But when she’d come into his office, finally come back to him, there had been fear in her voice—and in her eyes. “I was in an…accident.”
“I know.” The story had been all over the news. The prima ballerina who’d been trapped in the wreckage of her car on a storm filled night. She’d danced for thousands, she’d lit up the stages in New York.
And she’d barely survived that crash.
He forced air into his lungs. Don’t think about it. She’s here.
“I’ve had physical therapy on my leg.” Said with grim pride as her chin—slightly pointed—came into the air. “I can dance, just not like…not like before.” She gave a little shake of her head. “The stage won’t be for me any longer.”
“That’s why you came home?”
Home. The only home he’d ever had—it had been with her.
Two foster kids. Tossed through the system again and again. He’d met her when he was seventeen. She’d been fifteen.
“That’s why I came back to Chicago,” she agreed, voice husky. “I’m saving money to open a studio. I’ll teach here. I can still do that.”
Her dancing had gotten her out of poverty. Into the bright lights of studios and stages in New York. Her dancing had given her a new life.
And taken her from his.
“The money is a problem.” She wasn’t looking at him anymore. He wanted her eyes on his.
He leaned toward her. Caught her hand.
That made her gaze fly right back to his. “I’ll find a way to pay you,” she told him. “I can do it, just give me some time.”
His going rate—for his newest junior agents, not for his personal services because he didn’t go into the field any longer—was three hundred an hour. “We’ll work it out.”
He had plenty of plans for her.
His fingers threaded through hers. His hand swallowed hers. His skin was rough and dark, tanned from the time he spent in the sun. Her hand was pale, almost fragile. So very breakable.
Hadn’t he always thought that about her? From the first moment he’d seen her, when he’d rushed into that room, hearing her scared cries…
Don’t, please don’t!
She’d been his to save then.
His.
“What are you thinking about?” Skye whispered.
“The way it used to be.”
Her lashes were long. Her dark green eyes were so sexy. Her breath slipped out a little too quickly. “I wasn’t sure you’d even remember me.”
Only every damn minute. There were some things a man could never forget.
“You should have come to me sooner.” He hated to think of her out there, afraid.
Alone.
“The last time we spoke,” her voice seemed to stroke right over him, “you told me to get the hell out of your life. Coming back wasn’t easy.”
The car slowed.
His jaw had locked. You’re not getting away so easily this time.
“I think we’re here,” she said and tugged on her hand.
He didn’t release her. “You said you didn’t have a lover.” Good. He didn’t want to think of her with some other bastard.
Her gaze held his.
“You will, Skye.”
She shook her head. “Trace…”
His name was a husky murmur from her. Denial and need all tied together.
Her lips were too close. She smelled too good. Sweet vanilla. Good enough to damn well eat.
He took her mouth. Not gently. Not softly. Because he’d never been that kind of guy. Trace knew he wasn’t the tender lover type.
He’d fought for every single thing that he had. He’d keep fighting.