Mine to Keep (7 page)

“The asshole attacked me!” Parker’s trembling hand slid over his nose.  “He pounded my face, again and again. The jerk is crazy. Fuckin’ insane!”

“And why did he attack?”

“I
told
you last time, when you came sniffin’ around—”

“Tell me again.”  He kept his voice flat.

“Because that slut Skye was playin’ us both! He caught us together and freaked the hell out.”

“Playing you both,” Alex repeated.

“Don’t buy her innocent act.” Now disgust thickened Parker’s voice. “It’s bullshit. She wanted me, and she came after me.”

Alex cocked his head. “If Trace had just arrived at the house, then how was Skye playing him? How did she—”

“I think he knew her from before. He had to.”  Parker’s breath blew out on a hard sigh. “The way he looked at her. The way he acted…it was like she was already his. I should’ve read the signs. I should’ve stayed away from that cock tease.” 

“But you didn’t,” Alex murmured.

“And he nearly beat me to death.”  Fury was there. Reddening Parker’s cheeks and snapping in his words. “Trace  deserves payback,
that’s
what he deserves.”

“Why did he stop?”

Parker shook his head.  His hair was thick and matted, and it sagged over his eyes.

“Why didn’t he kill you, Parker?  Why did Trace Weston let you live?”

Parker seemed to think about that.  Thinking didn’t exactly look easy for the guy. “Because…because Skye told him to stop.”  The memory was there. Alex could see it on Parker’s face. He also saw the flash of rage that followed that memory. “He always has been her dog, tied on her leash.” 

Alex hated talking to the jackass, but Parker Jacobs was the one person who was actually linked to Skye and Weston. He knew their past—and he was willing to talk about it. 

Now, with calculation, Alex threw out, “Both Trace and Skye told me that you were a liar. That you fed me a story of bull about what really happened that night.” 

Parker glared up at him. “What happened…I kissed his precious Skye. He went psycho, and I wound up in the hospital.”  Once more, his fingers slid over his nose, as if checking the old wound. “When it comes to Skye, Trace isn’t exactly the controlled kind of guy. Some women are like that, you know. They can push a man too far.”

“Did Skye push you too far?”

And there it was. The faster breathing. The gaze that darted nervously around the room.

“Did she push you,” Alex asked softly, “and you decided that you just had to take what she was offering?”

“I was just
kissing
her—”

And Alex took a stab in the dark. “Then why’d she cry out for help?”

Parker jumped to his feet once more. “Because she wanted to set me up! She was a cock tease, I told you! She wanted me to kiss her, but when things got rough, she started crying and begging me to stop. I had to put my hand over her mouth, but it was too late. Trace had heard and—”

Parker grabbed him and shoved the guy against the nearest wall. “So that’s what the truth sounds like from you.” 

When Skye had been stalked, Alex had questioned the guy. Cleared him because the man had plenty of people to back up his alibis. And Parker had been too happy to tell him about Weston’s dark side.

No wonder Weston attacked you.  You were hurting Skye.

Alex had come to realize that Weston didn’t let
anyone
hurt Skye. The last man who had—the bastard who’d kidnapped her—Weston had sent him to hell.

Alex’s muscles were hard with his own fury. “You were hurting Skye, and Trace stopped you.”

“He tried to beat me to death!”  Parker heaved against him.

Alex just tightened his grip. “Yet you’re still breathing.”

“Only because of Skye.  She pulled off her attack dog, that bitch—”

“Sounds to me like you should be grateful to her, instead of calling her a bitch.”  He stared into the man’s eyes, and Alex saw his own past.

His sister…she’d been hurt. She’d trusted the wrong man and—

“Trace Weston is psychotic.” Spittle flew from Parker’s mouth. “He’s a ticking time bomb, and that man’s gonna explode.”

Alex sucked in a deep breath. Then another. And he forced himself to back away from Parker. “When was the last time you saw either Trace Weston or Skye Sullivan?”

“I haven’t seen them in years.” Parker’s thumb jerked toward the TV set. “Except on the screen. Their faces have been splashed plenty there.”

Yes, they had. 

Alex had one more question for the asshole. “What do you know about Trace Weston’s time in the military?” 

“Nothin’. I was hoping the guy would get his ass blown to hell.”  Parker rolled back his shoulders. “Instead, he came home to a freakin’ fortune.”

Yes, he had.

Ben Sharpe had been in the military, too. When he’d been found dead, the man had still been wearing his dog tags.

He suffered PTSD.
That had been Weston’s line.

Just what had happened to Sharpe during his days in the military?

Weston and his secrets…the man was going to drown in them. 

Alex marched for the door.

“But at least the bitch got hers, didn’t she?” Now there was smug pleasure in Parker’s voice. “That doc took her and held her in that basement. I bet he did all kinds of things to her…
all kinds
…”

Alex slowly turned back to stare at Parker.  “You’re a sick fuck.”

Parker smiled.  “You didn’t say that the first time we met, Detective Griffin
.
Back then, you were so eager to find out dirt on Trace. You keep digging, and you’ll find plenty.”

He was already staring at dirt. “Skye should’ve pressed charges against you when you tried to rape her.”

Parker flinched.

Sonofabitch—that’s exactly what he had done.

Alex’s hands fisted so hard they ached.

But Parker…he recovered fast and his smile grew.

Alex knew he was staring right into the eyes of a monster.

***

She danced until her muscles trembled. Until her calves clenched and the balls of her feet knotted.

Then Skye danced some more.

Sweat gleamed on her body. Her hair was in a bun, but loose tendrils had escaped—they were slick and clung against the side of her face.

The music kept pounding. 

She flew up onto her toes. Grabbed the barre. Stretched—

And saw Trace’s reflection behind her.

He stood there, just watching her.  For an instant, Skye faltered.

He’d left over eight hours ago.  Left after making her ache—and leaving her unfulfilled.  Reese had been keeping guard from the other room. Her music had driven him away.

And the music had covered Trace’s entrance.

“Don’t stop.” She didn’t hear those words from him, but she saw his lips move and form them.

Her breath eased from her. Skye lifted her hands over her head, stretching. Her left leg came up, moving easily, fluidly, despite the injury that had sent her running from dance.

An injury that had changed her life.

She’d been in a car accident one rainy night after a performance. For hours, she’d been trapped in that car. Her leg had been savaged.

But she’d recovered.  One painful step at a time.

She’d walked again. She’d danced.  

She turned then, fully facing Trace. Her eyes locked on his face.
My spotting place.
He would be her constant as she danced.  It was a trick most dancers used.  Focusing on one object to maintain control and balance during turns.

He is my constant.

Skye straightened her shoulders, balanced, focused on him—and she turned. Once. Twice.

Her gaze locked on his.  

Again.   

His face.

She spun, moving fast and furiously so that her body would almost appear to be a blur, and he was what she saw. He was her only focus.

Always.  

He was—

Trace caught her, stopping her spin.  Bringing her close against him.

“I-I thought you wanted me to dance,” she whispered as her breath blew out in a frantic gasp.

He smiled at her. “I never understood how you could spin that fast, that much, without getting dizzy.”

“It’s easy,” her voice was soft, breathless. “I just look at you.”

His pupils expanded, the darkness covering more of that amazing blue.

“You’re my center. My focus. For every spin, a ballerina needs a focus.”

But she wasn’t just talking about dancing. 

They both knew it.

She glanced down at their bodies. She was covered in sweat and his suit, well, she didn’t even want to know how much it cost. Hurriedly, Skye backed away from him. “I-I need to shower real fast and get changed. Give me just a minute.”

The music had died away. The end of her routine. The spin was the end.

Her steps were soundless as she walked across the floor.

“You don’t limp.”

Her stride faltered.

“I’ve been watching you carefully for weeks now, and I never see you limp.” 

“I-I hadn’t been doing much dancing during those weeks, either. After today, my muscles will feel it.” Particularly the muscles in her left calf.  Her left leg would always be weaker.  Her constant reminder of the life that was gone now.

But I don’t miss the bright stages or the crowds.
 The stage hadn’t actually ever mattered to her.  Neither had the crowds. It was the dancing that she loved.   

“You left New York because you didn’t think you could dance as well again. Not after the crash.”

Skye glanced down at her leg.  Her tights covered the scars there.  Her leg had needed surgery—so many surgeries—to recover.  She’d been in therapy for months. 

The scars were still there.  They always would be. And her dancing…

“I’m not dancing for the stage anymore. That’s over. I’m dancing for
me.
”  She’d said good-bye to her life in New York. She’d come back to Chicago to start over.

And she’d found Trace.

Her head lifted and she glanced toward the now-repaired mirror. She could see Trace’s reflection. He stared at her and said, “I think you’re the most amazing dancer that I’ve ever seen. When I watch you, I forget everything else. You…make me forget.”

She wrapped her hands around her stomach. “I should…I’ll be just a moment.” Then she fled. 

Skye stripped and hurried into the shower area. The water blasted onto her, and she glanced down at her body once more. Without the clothes, the tights, there was no hiding.

Her gaze hit her left leg.  The scars weren’t an angry red any longer. Pale, white. Twisting on her skin.

Before the accident, her dancing had lit up the stage. Prima ballerina. She’d worked toward that goal for years.

After the crash…she’d had nothing. All of her money had been used to pay the medical bills, and the first time she’d tried to dance—

I fell. Again and again, I fell.

Her hand flew out, and she jerked off the water.  She shivered, standing there, dripping wet, with the past around her. 

Maybe Trace was right. Maybe looking at the past was wrong.

She grabbed a towel. Dried off. Dressed as quickly as she could.  Jeans. A loose top.  Sandals. She hurried back to Trace. “I’m done,” Skye called out. “We can—”

He wasn’t in the studio.  The lights were on, but there was no sign of Trace.

She made her way to the front of the building. Skye found him, sitting in one of the new chairs that had been brought over. His gaze was directed out of the window, staring at the night.

“If I came out here,” he said, not glancing her way, “I figured I’d be less likely to jump you in the shower.”

Her lips curved at that. “I wouldn’t have minded a little jumping.”

She saw his hands tighten along the arms of the chair. “My…self-control isn’t what it needs to be tonight. Not for you.”

They’d better not be back to that.

He rose then and offered her his arm. “I want to get you home.”

Home.
She liked the way he said it. Did Trace realize that the only home she’d really had, since she’d been fifteen—well, it had been with him? Trace was her home.

They left the studio. The streetlights were on, spilling light onto the pavement. There was no sign of Reese, but Trace’s dark Jag waited near the corner of the street.

He led her to the passenger side door.  Started to open it, then stopped.

She looked up, wondering what was wrong, and Skye saw that he was staring across the street. Trace was looking at the figure that stood—waiting, watching—just beneath the street light.

A baseball cap was on the man’s head.  His shoulders were hunched, so Skye couldn’t see him clearly. He had on jeans, and, even though the weather had warmed, he wore a light coat.

“Get in the car,” Trace ordered her.  In a flash, he’d yanked the door open. Pushed her into the seat.

And then he rushed across the street.

What the hell?
Skye jumped from the car and ran after him. “Trace, stop!” 

The man in the baseball cap was lifting something from his coat. Something small and dark. 

A gun. Dear God, what if it’s a gun?

“Trace!” Skye yelled.

He leapt up onto the curb. Grabbed the man’s hand. Light flashed. The guy screamed. His baseball cap slipped to the ground.

“Let me go!” The streetlight fell on his face.

An angled jaw. A hawkish nose. High forehead.

A stranger. Skye had no idea who this man was.

“You can’t attack me, man!” The fellow snarled. “I’m Press! I’ve got rights, you can’t—”

The flash of light
. Skye glanced down and saw the shattered remains of the camera on the ground.

“This-this is assault,” the guy sputtered. “You
can’t
do this to me—”

“I just did.” Trace’s voice was cold and hard.  “Want to know what I’ll do next?” His hand shoved into the man’s pocket, and Trace yanked out a wallet. He flipped it open, thumbing through the contents.

“Stop!
What. The Hell!”

She saw that Trace had found the guy’s ID.

“I’ll call your boss, Clyde Jones. I’ll get your ass fired.” Trace tossed the wallet back at the man. “Because what kind of
Press
hides in the shadows, stalking a woman?  What were you going to do if she’d come out alone?”