Cars honked around them.
“You picked the place,” she pointed out. “Now tell me why.”
Trace was tall, easily hitting over six foot three, and his body seemed to dominate hers as he curled his hands over her arms. “Because I want you close. Always, right beside me.”
And that was where she wanted to be. His answer was also the one that she’d needed to hear.
“Then you can have my things brought over,” she told him as she turned away and headed for the building’s gleaming entrance. The doorman hurried to meet her.
“I already did,” Trace said. His words followed her.
Froze her.
Skye glanced back at him. “Confident, were you?”
His head tilted as he seemed to assess her. Then, taking his time, Trace headed toward her. His hand lifted, and his fingers slid over her cheek. “When it comes to you,” his voice dropped. “Yeah, I am. Because you were either going to spend the night with me, or I was going to move in with you in that little apartment over your dance studio. Either way, we were going to be sleeping in the same bed tonight.”
Blunt, wasn’t he? But, that was Trace. Dominant, fierce. Always in control. Always—
“Weston!”
Trace moved in a flash at that shout. He caught Skye and pushed her behind him. She saw Reese moving quickly, too. Reese had a gun in his hand in less than two seconds’ time, and he lunged toward Trace.
No, not toward Trace. Toward the man who was rushing down the street and heading straight for Trace.
“Weston!” The guy cried out again.
His hair was long, brushing his shoulders, disheveled, and a dark beard lined his jaw. The man was tall, with broad shoulders. He ran toward them, his gaze intent on Trace.
“Ben,” she heard Trace growl.
Reese lifted his weapon. “You need to stop right there, Sharpe.”
The guy staggered to a stop. His jeans were dirty, torn. His shirt was black and ripped at the side. He ignored Reese and the weapon Reese had pointed at him. The man’s eyes focused on Trace with a feverish intensity. “I owe you,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “I’m here to pay.”
Skye’s heart raced in her chest.
“Reese,” Trace’s voice snapped out, “I want you to take Skye inside.”
The doorman peeked out at them, eyes wide. Henry. Skye had met him a few times before Trace had whisked her to the Keys. Henry was a nice guy, but totally not equipped to deal with the situation out there.
“Take her inside and stay with her every moment,” Trace ordered.
Reese glanced back at him, hesitating. “You sure, boss?”
Skye wasn’t sure what in the hell was going on. She reached for Trace. “What’s going on?” Who was this guy—this Ben?
At her words, the man’s gaze jerked to her face and his stare locked on her.
“She’s the one,” the stranger whispered. He shook his head, “Weston, she’s going to destroy you.”
What?
Trace caught Skye’s hand in his. “Go to the penthouse. Unpack. I’ll be there soon.”
Reese hurried to her side. “Come on, Skye.”
She was just supposed to leave Trace there?
“No!” The cry came from the other man as he leapt toward Trace. His fingers grabbed Trace’s shirt. “It’s not safe out here. He’s watching.”
A chill skated down Skye’s spine. She’d been stalked before. Hunted. She knew just what it was like to feel as if someone was out there, watching.
Every minute.
She studied the man again. This time, she clearly saw the fear in his brown eyes. “I think we should all go upstairs,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t show her own fear.
But she wasn’t just going to walk away and leave Trace alone in that street. Something was wrong, very wrong, and she didn’t want to abandon him.
Trace’s jaw locked, but, after a brief moment, he gave a hard jerk of his head.
They all headed for the gleaming doors. The doorman’s eyes were huge as he studied them all. “Uh…Mr. Weston?”
“Have all the bags brought up.” Trace had an unbreakable grip on Skye’s arm. He barely spared the doorman a glance but he did push a very nice tip toward him.
“Y-yes, sir.”
Maybe the tip would help Henry get over the fact that he’d just seen Reese draw his gun.
The doorman’s gaze flickered to Skye. “Good to see you, Ms. Sullivan.”
“Hi, Henry,” she whispered back.
They all loaded into Trace’s private elevator. It seemed to fly up to the penthouse. She tried to glance over at the man Trace had called Ben, but Trace had put his body in front of hers. Shielding her or blocking her view—she wasn’t exactly sure what his intent was.
The ride was over quickly, and the group strode toward the penthouse door. Trace led her inside, but then, before the others could follow, he spun back around. “I’ll be needing your knives, Ben.”
Wait, knives? Plural?
The man bent and pulled a knife from his right boot. Then his left. He put them in Trace’s open palm.
“All of them,” Trace snapped.
Ben pulled another knife from his waist. The sheath had blended perfectly with his belt, and Skye would’ve never even noticed the weapon.
“You remembered,” Ben said, giving a little nod. “Can’t stop being a soldier, can you?”
Reese took the knives and shoved them all inside a drawer in the den.
Skye stood there, uncertain, as the others filed into the den.
“He can’t watch us up here,” Ben said as he glanced over at the large windows that overlooked the city. “Fuck me…” he marched toward the glass on the right. “You’re a damn rich bastard now, aren’t you?”
Trace’s fingers brushed against Skye’s jaw and she jumped. She hadn’t heard him move toward her. Sometimes, he did that—moving so soundlessly that she didn’t know he was there until he touched her.
“It was a long flight,” Trace said, his gaze searching hers. “We’re all secure up here. You should go rest, baby. I know the trip back wasn’t easy for you.”
Because she was still afraid of flying. No, it wasn’t so much fear as the fact that she just hated it.
While there might have been a hint of sympathy in Trace’s eyes, she knew he wasn’t just trying to get her in the bedroom because she was tired.
Trace wanted to get rid of her. Too bad. She wasn’t in the mood to be dismissed. If Trace was in some kind of danger, she wanted to know about it.